EQMM, November 2009 Read online

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  Cover Illustration by Peter Papadopolous

  CONTENTS

  Fiction: WHITE by Clark Howard

  Reviews: THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen

  Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider

  Novelette: THE CANDY-FACTORY GIRLS by Tessa de Loo

  Novelette: FAMOUS LAST WORDS by Doug Allyn

  Department of First Stories: A FELLOW OF INFINITE JEST by Nina Mansfield

  Novelette: THE CASE OF THE PISS-POOR GOLD by Lee Goldberg

  Novelette: HOMEWORK by Phil Lovesey

  Black Mask: WHAMMER JAMMER by Mark Arsenault

  Novelette: REARRANGEMENTS by Marjorie Eccles

  Novelette: WHO KILLED FRANKIE ALMOND? by Michael Z. Lewin

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  Fiction: WHITE by Clark Howard

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  Art by Mark Evan Walker

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  "For his lasting contribution to our craft,” the Short Mystery Fiction Society recently selected Clark Howard as the first winner of the Edward D. Hoch Memorial Golden Derringer Award for Lifetime Achievement. Clark Howard's honors in the field of the mystery story are many, but this award, which bears the name of his friend of thirty years, the late Ed Hoch, is (he told us) especially meaningful to him. The award will be presented at the Bouchercon Convention in Indianapolis in October.

  Joe Kell was nervous, and he was sweating, sitting in front of the desk of Ben Axton, owner of Axton Hunting Expeditions, the largest big-game hunting firm in the Alaskan Interior.

  Axton, a big bull of a man with a silver walrus moustache, got right to business as soon as Kell sat down. Rustling through some papers on his desk, he selected one and perused it. “Kell, I have a report on you here. I see that you're still registered with the Department of Wildlife as a private game warden."

  "Yes, I am. Been licensed for twenty-two years,” Kell said. Although nervous, his voice was slow and even.

  "You know why I sent for you?"

  "Trespass problems, I reckon."

  "Not yet,” Axton said. “But I expect to have. Here, read this—” He handed a letter to Kell. It was an Inmate Release Notification form from the Anvil Mountain Correctional Center, advising that inmate Roy Sand was being released from custody on December third.

  "That's tomorrow,” Kell said, handing back the letter.

  "Exactly.” Ben Axton leaned forward. “Let me tell you about Roy Sand. His family used to own a dairy farm down near Nulato. Father, uncle, older boy worked it. Father and uncle got killed in a car wreck, and the older boy, name of Roger, took over. Had his younger brother, this Roy, growing up to help him. Long story short, they couldn't make a go of it, fell way behind in mortgage payments, and the bank here in Nome foreclosed on the property. Soon as that happened, I stepped in and bought the place. The land butted up to one of the boundaries of my private game reserve. It was a natural move for me."

  "I understand."

  "After the eviction, the older brother took his family—wife, two little girls, baby boy that was born retarded or something, I heard—and moved over to Kobuk, where he got a job working at another dairy farm. But the younger brother, Roy, went completely hog wild. Said that I'd stole their land, because I was on the board at the bank. He went out onto my reserve with a rifle and started killing mygame: four elk, four moose, six musk oxen. Skinned ‘em all and gave the meat and hides to a bunch of damned lazy Inuits outside town. The sheriff managed to stop him, but since as he was just a kid, just lost his home and all, the judge felt sorry for him and gave him three months in the county jail. Now I ask you, is that lenient or what?"

  "That is sure enough lenient,” Kell agreed.

  "Right.” Acton slammed a fist down on his desk. “Now, you'd think that time in jail would've taught the boy a lesson. But just as soon as he was released, he did the same damned thing all over again: got a rifle and this time he killed twenty-four of my game animals. Gave all the meat and hides to the Inuits, just like before. When he got caught this time, the judge gave him four years in Wildwood Reformatory. He served thirty months and they let him out on good behavior. Now you won't believe this—"

  "He came at you again,” Joe Kell said.

  "Like a crazy man,” Ben Axton emphasized. “By then he was full-grown. He got himself a partner—some Inuit buck, we never did learn who—and they got an old pickup truck and started driving all over my game range, shooting everything in sight. The slaughter went on for a week. The Inuit community had enough meat for the whole damned winter. This time he sold the hides to a skins bootlegger down in Minto."

  "Sheriff catch him again?” Kell asked.

  "Hell, no. The governor finally had to send some National Guardsmen in to catch him. The Inuit got away, but Roy Sand was tried and sentenced to seven years. He got sent up north to Anvil Mountain prison. Now, after he's done four-and-a-half years, they're turning him loose. Again."

  "And you think—"

  "I don't think nothing, Kell. I know!" Ben Axton clenched both fists on the desk. “That crazy son of a bitch is going after my game again just as sure as God made little green apples—and I want him stopped!" Calming down, Axton sat back and lowered his voice some. “I brought you up here because you're the kind of man I need to stop him, Kell"

  "What kind of man is that?” Joe Kell asked quietly.

  Axton's expression turned sly. “A man who knows the tundra and the wild like he knows his own face in a mirror, but who hasn't had a decent job in three years. A man who's had a problem with the bottle now and again. A man whose marriage might be on the rocks. A man who's in debt up to his throat—"

  "All right, I get the picture,” Kell raised a hand to stop Axton's litany. “Appears you checked up on more than my private game-warden license. So just lay it out. What do you want me to do?"

  "Catch him on my land,” Axton replied flatly. “With a rifle in his hands."

  "And?"

  "Shoot him."

  "For how much?"

  "Twenty thousand, cash. Half down."

  Pursing his lips, Kell reflected. He thought about his debts, increasing like flood water. He thought about Doris, his wife, whom he suspected was having an affair with someone. He thought about future game-warden jobs he might ge
t with a good reference from Ben Axton of Axton Hunting Expeditions.

  In the end, he did not have to think long.

  "Deal,” he said, the word spoken like the crack of a judge's gavel.

  * * * *

  Roy Sand got out of his seat as the Northern Lights bus pulled into Kobuk. He took his paper-wrapped bundle of belongings from the overhead rack and was the first one off. Etta's Cafe, on Yukon Street, served as the bus stop. Roy was relieved to see that there were no familiar faces in the booths lining the front windows. It was always embarrassing to him, seeing people again after just being let out of prison. Turning up the collar of his denim release jacket, he started quickly down Yukon Street toward a country road that led to where his brother Roger and his family lived. As he passed a boarded-up storefront, a voice spoke quietly to him from the doorway. “Hey, Roy, chimo—"

  Turning, Roy saw the dark, smiling features of Tootega, an Inuit native with whom he had been friends since the reformatory. Tootega had pronounced the Inuit word chee-mo, and was moving his left hand in a circle over the heart area of his chest in greeting.

  "Hey, Toot, chimo,” Roy said back, moving his own left hand in the same fashion. Stepping into the doorway, he stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend, the formality of a handshake or a hug unnecessary. “How'd you know I was getting back today?"

  "Your brother's wife told one of her Inuit friends, and she told me.” Glancing cautiously up and down the street, Tootega pulled an unlabeled pint bottle from his hip pocket and handed it to Roy. Unscrewing the cap, Roy took a quick swallow, shuddering as the raisin-colored homemade liquor seared a path to his stomach.

  "Damn. That's good hooch."

  "Ought to be. Made it myself."

  Roy handed the bottle back to his friend and watched as the Inuit took two long swallows straight. “They ever find out it was you with me on that week-long rampage out on Axton's range?” he asked.

  "No, man, they didn't even look for me,” Tootega said. “It was you they wanted."

  "Well,” Roy said quietly, “they sure enough got me."

  "We'll do better next time, man."

  "Won't be no next time, Toot.” Roy looked down at his bulky prison-release shoes. “Since I was sixteen, I been locked up all but about two months. But this last stretch done it, Toot. I can't take no more of the pen. Being in there is like being half dead. It ain't worth it.” For the first time now, Roy noticed that his friend was wearing an unlined windbreaker and that the knees of his jeans were threadbare. Tootega clearly was down on his luck. But Roy could not allow that to change his mind. “I'm sorry, man. I guess you been counting on us getting some skins money."

  "Yeah, I have,” Tootega admitted. He forced a smile. “But, hey, don't let it worry you. I'll get along. It's no big deal. Forget it."

  In the reformatory, they had been like brothers, but at that moment they could not let their eyes meet. The silence between them was like a scream without noise.

  "Listen, I got to go, man. I'll see you around."

  "Yeah, sure,” Tootega said as Roy hurried away.

  * * * *

  Joe Kell heard the phone at the other end of the line ring four times, then his wife, Doris, said, “Hello—"

  "Hey, it's me. I got a job, honey."

  There was a hollow silence on the long-distance line, as if there was a tunnel between them.

  "Doris? You there, honey?"

  "I'm here, Joe.” Her voice was flat, without feeling. “Where are you?"

  "In a little motel in Farley, Alaska. I got a job, Doris."

  "Why'd you leave the rehab center, Joe?” she asked, ignoring news of the job.

  "Because I was cured, honey,” he replied cheerfully. “No need to stay in rehab after I'm cured. I'm off the bottle, Doris. For good."

  "What kind of job have you got?” she asked at last.

  "Range warden. For a big hunting-expedition company up in Nome. Some young kid been poaching game. I get twenty thousand soon's I catch him."

  Catch him? It was a rogue thought in the back of his mind. That wasn't what he'd been hired to do. Not just catch him.

  Kell pushed the troublesome thought out of his mind, “Shouldn't take me more'n a couple weeks, then I'm coming home. Sure be glad to get back to that Arizona sunshine. Hey, we'll have us a high ol’ Christmas this year!"

  "There's lots of bills need paying first,” Doris said. “I've been paying some of them myself. I've got a job now, Joe."

  "A job?” Doris had never worked a day in her life. “Doing what? Where at?"

  "Well, I'm working for Henry Edwards. In his office."

  Kell frowned. Henry Edwards was their insurance agent. A couple of times when he'd been at their trailer home, Joe had noticed him glancing furtively at his wife's ample bosom.

  "I had to do something, Joe,” Doris said defensively. “Creditors was coming around every day. Henry—Mr. Edwards—worked out a payment plan with all of them so they wouldn't pester me anymore. And he gave me a job. He's been very nice, very helpful."

  Bet he has, Kell thought.

  "As for you being off the bottle, I'm happy for you, Joe. I just hope you stay off this time. But as for you coming home, I'll be honest with you, Joe, I'd have to think about that. There's lots of bad memories these past few years."

  "I see.” Kell felt his jaw tighten. “Well, where does that leave me, Doris?"

  "You call me in a few days, Joe. Let me think on this. I really want us to be friends, no matter what."

  Those last words were like a kick in the stomach to him. “Okay, I'll do that, Doris. I'll call you from wherever I am in a few days."

  "All right then, Joe. Goodbye."

  After he hung up, Joe Kell thought it was a good thing there wasn't a bottle handy.

  * * * *

  Roy Sand was hiking along packed snow toward the ranch house his brother Roger rented when his two nieces came running out to meet him. Roy stared at them, happily incredulous. Emily was sixteen now, Edith fourteen. They had been just little kids when he was sent up the last time; now they were young girls, both obviously developing under the sweaters and jeans they wore.

  "I can't hardly believe you two,” Roy said as they kissed him, hugged him, and hung all over him. “You're both so tall.” He hadn't seen them in four years; Darlene, Roger's wife, refused to let Roger take the girls to visit him in prison. “I won't have my daughters being gawked at by a visiting room full of convicts,” she had declared.

  On the way to the house, each of them clinging to one of his arms, the girls were full of questions.

  "How was prison this time, Uncle Roy?"

  "Not too bad,” he lied. “Guess I'm getting better at it."

  "Did you get thrown in the hole this time?"

  "Once,” he admitted. “Fighting on the yard. Other guy started it."

  Darlene was waiting on the porch. She was heavier in the hips, had a double chin starting, and her eyes had not grown any softer. She did not smile. She never smiled at Roy.

  "Hello, Roy."

  "Darlene.” Nodding, he awkwardly kissed her on the cheek, mostly for the benefit of his nieces. Looking past her shoulder, he saw in the doorway behind her his only nephew, Danny, who was ten and autistic. “Hey, pardner,” Roy said happily, stepping past the boy's mother and sitting down on his heels in front of him. “You ‘member your Uncle Roy?"

  The boy stared at him, wholly disinterested, then turned and walked away.

  "He's like that with most ever'body,” Darlene said.

  Roy stood. “Where's Rog?"

  "Shutting up the milking sheds for the night."

  Roy turned to Emily. “Get my box of things, will you, honey?"

  Danny was standing in front of the family's J. C. Penney stereo, seemingly entranced by the music that was playing. “It's the only thing in the world he cares about,” Darlene said. “He'll stand for hours like that."

  "Before he discovered music,” Edith said, “the only fun he got ou
t of life was beating his head against the wall."

  Darlene threw her younger daughter an irritated look. “There's a school for autistic children in Anchorage now. It's called the Markinson Institute. We took him down there last spring for what they call an evaluation. Did Roger tell you about it?"

  "No.” Roger's visits every month or so had been awkward at best. Roy and his older brother were eight years apart in age, and a million light years in disposition. Roger was even-tempered, Roy a hothead; Roger, with a family, had to look to the future, Roy could not forget the past; Roger followed every rule, every law, to the letter, but Roy had some dark inner compulsion to examine everything for fairness. The brothers loved each other, but no longer understood, or even tried to understand, what lay behind their differences.

  "The Markinson Institute said Danny could be helped,” Darlene continued. Emily returned to the room with a large cardboard box. “Em, you explain it."

  "Danny has what they call ‘infantile autism,'” the older daughter told her uncle clinically.

  "His sensory perception is distorted. That causes difficulties in his speech, learning, and behavior patterns. Markinson Institute employs a psychiatrist, a psychologist, a neurologist, a speech therapist, and a staff of trained behavioral counselors. It takes children from all over Alaska, even some from Canada, and teaches them on an individual basis how to utilize their distorted perceptions. With Danny, they would begin by teaching him music. The Markinson evaluation said that he could probably become an accomplished pianist in a matter of weeks."

  Roy stared incredulously at his niece, hardly believing the mature explanation that had come out of her. Darlene shrugged at his surprise. “They've moved her up two grades already. There's a full scholarship at the University of Alaska waiting for her next fall. She'll only be seventeen. Too young to be away from home—"

  "Don't start, Mother,” said Emily.

  Roy studied Emily's pretty young face for a moment, then shook his head in wonder. “I'll be damned,” he said softly, to himself. Looking over at Edith, he asked, “What about you, little bit? You brilliant too?"