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  ELLERY QUEEN MYSTERY MAGAZINE

  July 2007

  Vol. 130, No. 1. Whole No. 791

  Dell Magazines

  475 Park Avenue South

  New York, NY 10016

  Edition Copyright © 2007 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications

  Ellery Queen is a registered trademark of the Estate of Ellery Queen. All rights reserved worldwide.

  All stories in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine are fiction. Any similarities are coincidental.

  ISSN 0013-6328 published monthly except for double-issues of March/April and September/October.

  Cover illustration by Rafael DeSoto.

  CONTENTS

  FICTION

  Dead as a Dog BY DOUG ALLYN

  A Bridge Too Far BY ZOË SHARP

  No Wick for the Rested BY MONICA QUILL

  A Darkening of Flies BY BRIAN MUIR

  Serious Money BY JOHN MORGAN WILSON

  The Saga of Sidney Paar BY JON L. BREEN

  Over the Edge BY JAMES H. COBB

  Ms. Mitty BY BRENDA JOZIATIS

  The Problem of Suicide Cottage BY EDWARD D. HOCH

  Camouflage BY ALANNA KNIGHT

  REVIEWS

  Blog Bytes BY ED GORMAN

  The Jury Box BY JON L. BREEN

  DEPARTMENT OF FIRST STORIES & PASSPORT TO CRIME

  Skin Deep BY RENÉE YIM

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  CONTENTS

  DEAD AS A DOG by Doug Allyn

  A BRIDGE TOO FAR by Zoë Sharp

  NO WICK FOR THE RESTED BY Monica Quill

  A DARKENING OF FLIES by Brian Muir

  BLOG BYTES by Ed Gorman

  SERIOUS MONEY by John Morgan Wilson

  THE SAGA OF SIDNEY PAAR by Jon L. Breen

  OVER THE EDGE by James H. Cobb

  DEPARTMENT OF FIRST STORIES: SKIN DEEP by Renée Yim

  MS. MITTY by Brenda Joziatis

  THE PROBLEM OF SUICIDE COTTAGE by Edward D. Hoch

  THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen

  CAMOUFLAGE by Alanna Knight

  NEXT ISSUE...

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  DEAD AS A DOG by Doug Allyn

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  Art by Mark Evans

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  Doug Allyn returns to EQMM this month with a strong new protagonist and a tale that is characteristically atmospheric, suspenseful, and moving. The Michigan author never sets out to create series characters, but he's so good at getting inside his fictional creations that they live in readers’ minds and demand a callback. It's those unforgettable characters that have earned the Michigan author eight first-place finishes in the EQMM Readers Award voting.

  "A girl asked me about killing Hitler today,” I said.

  Janie gave me a taut smile but it was all she could manage. The hospice aide who was massaging Janie's calves glanced up at me with arched eyebrows.

  "I teach Political Science at Hancock State,” I explained. “We're covering assassinations this week. Martin Luther King, JFK, Sadat. How destructive to society their deaths were. But if a student asks me about killing Hitler or Stalin, I know it's going to be a good class."

  "So you teach ‘em what? That whacking some folks ain't such a bad idea?” the aide asked drily. She was an older black woman with a soft Afro, liquid eyes, strong hands. Her nametag read Norma. I wondered how she could work every day in a place where most patients were dying. Like Janie. My wife. My life.

  "I try to impart a given number of facts,” I said. “And beyond that, I hope they learn to think for themselves."

  "Wish I'd had your class,” Norma smiled. “If I'd thought a little harder, would've skipped nursing school, found me a rich man to marry instead."

  "And miss all this excitement?” Janie murmured.

  And we laughed. Partly because it was funny, mostly because it's amazing that a woman in her condition can joke at all.

  My wife is dying. A glioblastoma, a cancerous tumor, is wrapped around her spinal cord. Inoperable. Terminal. And very aggressive. It's early October now. They tell me she won't see Christmas.

  So I laughed, though it wasn't much of a joke. There aren't many smiles in my life these days.

  After my morning hospice visit, I headed home for lunch. I wasn't hungry but Sparky would be.

  Our suburban house is larger than we need. We'd planned to fill it with more children, so it sits on a large, five-acre lot, bordering a forest. When we first looked the place over, I think the land was more important than the house to Janie.

  She loved the outdoors, a four-season girl. Skier, cross-country runner, backpacker. Anything to be out in the wind. I do those things too, but only to be with her. The flame of Janie's vitality could melt a snowman's heart. But it's burning low now. And I'm not sure I can go on without her. Or want to.

  But I don't have a choice. We have twins, Seth and Josh, seven and a half years old. Fraternal twins, not identical. Seth is more like me, dark and slender. Josh, more like his mother, blond, square-faced, a blocky little body bursting with energy.

  The boys are staying with my in-laws for the duration. A blessing, though I miss them terribly. With Janie's illness and the teaching schedule that maintains our health insurance, I have all I can handle.

  Silence greeted me as I walked into the foyer. Usually Sparky, Janie's bull terrier, charges the door when I come home, barking, a barrel-chested black and white pirate of a pup. The noisy greeting lasts until he sees I'm alone. Then he gives me a dutiful tail-wag and goes on about his business.

  Not today. Tossing my jacket on an easy chair, I walked through the house. “Sparky?"

  Nothing. Probably outside. He has his own dog-door exit into our fenced backyard. I walked through to the den and scanned the yard through the picture window. Still no Sparky. The yard was empty ... Damn! The back gate was open.

  Double damn. I'd noticed him jumping at it the other day, meant to tie it shut ... Grabbing my binoculars off the window ledge, I quickly scanned the field beyond the fence. And felt a flood of relief as I spotted the little terrier lounging in the grass just outside the gate.

  I opened the back door. “Sparky! Lunch!"

  He raised his head, then laid it back down. “Sparky! Come on!” This time he didn't move at all.

  Odd. Concerned now, I started across the lawn toward the gate. But halfway there I broke into a run. Even at that distance I could see the blood.

  * * * *

  "Arnie?"

  I glanced up. Dr. David Westbrook, our veterinarian, rested a hand on my shoulder. And I could read the bad news in his face. “How is he?"

  "I'm sorry, Arnie. He's gone. Too much blood loss."

  "What happened to him?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me,” he said, glancing around his busy waiting room. “Could you step back here, please?"

  I followed him into the sterile operating room. Sparky was laid out on a stainless-steel table. The wound in his guts had been cleaned up a bit, but it was still a vile, savage hole.

  "My God, Dave, what would cause something like that?” I whispered.

  "A hunting arrow, I think. Where did you find him?"

  "In
the field behind our house. He got loose, may have been running in the woods—"

  "And deer season opened three days ago,” he finished for me.

  "It's not open season on family dogs, and we own that land. You think a hunter shot him?"

  "I'm not sure. I've seen arrow wounds before, but never one quite like this. Some high-tech broadheads pop open like switchblades when they strike. This one apparently blew clean through, more like a rifle."

  "Then why do you think it was an arrow?"

  "See these blue smudges around the wound? It's chalk dust from a tracking string."

  "Chalk dust? I don't understand."

  "Some bow-hunters attach a string to their arrows, dusted with chalk. When the arrow strikes and the animal bolts, the string drags on the ground, leaving a trail they can follow. But I've never seen blue dust before. Most hunters use Day-Glo orange chalk, easier to spot."

  "My God. Day-Glo dust? Switchblade arrows? I thought hunting was supposed to get you back to nature."

  "I know, it seems cruel. But the truth is, once the animal's been hit, anything that kills them quicker is more humane in the end. Not that there's anything humane about the sonofabitch who did this. We have a crematorium here. If you like, I can take care of the remains for you."

  I just stared at him.

  "The remains,” he repeated, not unkindly. “If you—never mind. I know a thing like this is a helluva shock, Arnie. Go home, take a break. You can call me if you decide to—"

  "Thanks, David, but I'll take him home with me."

  "Are you sure?"

  "No. Right now I'm not sure about anything.” But as I drove back to town, I had a small parcel in the trunk of my car. The final remains of our beloved dog. Which left me with two impossible questions.

  One, how could anyone do a thing like that? Kill a harmless pet?

  And two, what on earth was I going to tell Janie?

  The second problem had an easier answer than the first. I lied, flat-out. Perhaps the first time I've ever lied to my wife about anything serious.

  A risky thing to do. Ordinarily, Janie can read me like a neon billboard. And her first question is always, “How are the boys? And Sparky?"

  "He misses you,” I said. And she missed the fib. Perhaps because her eyes were closed. She was in a lot of pain. Some days it takes all of her concentration to keep it at bay.

  I didn't stay long. When the pain gets this intense, they have to sedate her to prevent seizures. The intervals between attacks keep getting shorter.

  But God help me, just this once, I was almost grateful for it.

  * * * *

  Driving through the village on my way home, I passed Algoma Sporting Goods. On impulse, I parked in front and went inside. A big store, family owned, in an older building, barnboard walls with a high, embossed-metal ceiling.

  The front of the store was mostly filled with school gear: baseball gloves, cleats, basketball jerseys. I bought a Nerf football for my boys here once. But halfway back, the games change from high-school sports to woodland slaughter.

  No Nerf gear back here. The clothing is heavy canvas, color-camouflaged to resemble the northern Michigan forest. The entire back wall is a gigantic display of firearms, rifles, and shotguns, three tiers of them, floor to ceiling. Every caliber from a Boy Scout beginner's twenty-two popgun to a monster .458 Winchester Magnum, capable of killing an Alaskan grizzly at three hundred yards. Even if the bear's hiding behind a tree.

  But it was the display beside it that caught my eye. Modern hunting bows of enormous complexity, equipped with offset pulleys and wheels and counterweights and telescopic sights, arrows of aluminum, titanium, and fiberglass composites. Robin Hood wouldn't have recognized a damned thing on that wall.

  "Can I help you?” A redneck salesman materialized at my left shoulder. Paunchy with a scruffy beard, wearing a faded flannel shirt. This definitely wasn't the Gap.

  "Do you carry chalk dust for tracking strings?"

  "Sure, right over here,” he said, moving behind the counter. “What's your poison, pal, Day-Glo orange or neon yellow?"

  "How about blue?"

  "Blue? Sorry, we don't carry it. I expect you can get blue dust down the street at the hardware store, though."

  "Do you know anyone who uses blue chalk?"

  He blinked, confused by the question. And glanced over my shoulder, as if the answer might be behind me. “Blue? Naw, not offhand. You ain't a bow hunter, are ya, mister?"

  "No."

  "Didn't think so. ‘Scuse me, I got other customers.” He beat a hasty retreat, jumpy as a kid with a crib sheet up his sleeve. I turned to see what he'd looked at ... and froze. The wall behind me held a stunning display as surreal as a Star Wars set.

  Crossbows. But not the ancient arbalests of the Middle Ages. More like weird weapons from Middle Earth. Ultra-modern killing machines. Hollow plastic stocks, geared cranking mechanisms, bipods and rifle scopes. Names like Revolution XS, Quad 400, and Talon Super Max.

  They didn't fire standard arrows, they shot bolts of steel, with replaceable broadhead tips, some with serrated bleeder blades sharp enough to transfix an elk.

  Or gut a small dog.

  * * * *

  At home, I actually paused in the doorway a moment, waiting for Sparky's welcoming racket. Which was crazy. He was in the box under my arm. And he'd never welcome anyone again. But as bad as I felt about it, I couldn't let my guard down now.

  With Janie in the hospice and the boys staying with my in-laws, we didn't need the added stress of a slaughtered dog. Better to tell everyone Sparky just ... ran away. It was thin, but I could probably sell it. But to make it work, I had to conceal the evidence.

  Grabbing a spade from the garden shed, I carried Sparky out of our backyard into the grassy field beyond our fence. The greenbelt stretches the full width of the subdivision, nearly a quarter-mile, room for the kids from a dozen families to play together. The homes are all similar, faux New England saltboxes with vinyl siding, set on two-acre lots that end at the edge of the field. Our lot is a bit larger, a full five acres that extends well into the deep woods beyond.

  Halfway across the field, some juniper bushes shielded me from view. It would have to do. Gently setting the box down, I began to dig. In the soft, moist earth, it didn't take long. The hole, two feet square, four feet deep, seemed much too small to contain the spirit of our rambunctious little dog. For a moment I could see Janie running across this very field with Sparky in hot pursuit...

  I slammed the slide projector of my memory shut. Hard. I can't afford to think too much about Janie. If I start to cry, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop. Janie's always been the strong one, irrepressible. But it's my turn to carry the weight now. She needs my strength, and so do the boys. Somehow I have to manage this. So mostly, I try to shut myself down. To keep from feeling anything at all.

  But burying Sparky in that empty field, alone, was one of the hardest things I've ever done.

  Placing him gently in his little grave, I recited the Lord's Prayer. Couldn't think of anything else. Then I carefully covered him over.

  The turned earth looked too raw, too visible. I was gathering scraps of underbrush to camouflage it when I noticed the blood.

  Glistening crimson dewdrops, darkening to maroon now as they congealed in the autumn air. Sparky must have dragged himself past this spot earlier. Bleeding. And dying. In agony. Trying to get home.

  In the late afternoon sun, the blood trail gleamed like a beacon in the grass. Showing where he'd passed. And where he'd come from.

  I don't recall consciously making the decision. But when I'd finished concealing Sparky's grave, I turned and marched slowly into the forest, tracking the blood spoor, clutching my spade like a spear.

  It was like stepping back in time. At first, the trees were scattered, mostly aspens at the edge of the wood, new growth that had sprung up after the land had been leveled for the subdivision. But a few yards beyond them, I was already deep in the pri
meval woodlands, poplars and pines towering overhead, their swaying limbs splintering the sunlight, dappling the forest floor, making the blood trail damned difficult to follow.

  But I managed. As I took each careful step, totally focused on the sparse red spatters on the matted leaves, I felt myself slipping into an ancient rhythm. A mindset left over from an earlier age, when men had stalked this land for survival, when losing a blood trail might mean slow death from starvation...

  It faded out. The distance between blood dots had been gradually lengthening until I had to stop at each small spatter and scan the ground ahead for the next one. Twice, I lost the trail and had to circle the last dot until I crossed the next. But not this time. The blood had vanished altogether.

  And as I straightened up and took stock, I realized why. This was the place. I was standing in the killing zone.

  Off to my left, the forest floor was roughed up in the center of a small clearing, leaves scattered, the soil gouged, torn by the paws of a small dog thrashing about in agony. I was certain of the spot. Some of the displaced leaves were smudged with blue chalk marks. And smeared blood.

  I did a slow pirouette, scanning the forest around me. Most hunters favor the dawn hours and late afternoon. Perhaps the man I wanted to meet was watching me even now...

  Then I spotted it. Thirty yards off. A small hut, a shooting blind, hand-built of dun-colored canvas and dead branches. Artfully camouflaged. If I hadn't been looking, I would never have noticed it.

  I approached it warily, gripping my spade fiercely with both hands. But there was no need. The blind was empty. As I peered inside, I realized I was trembling with tension, taut as a bowstring. Or a cocked crossbow. I'd really wanted the bastard to be here.

  But he wasn't. So instead of splitting his skull with my shovel, I took my rage out on his handiwork, ripping his hut apart with my bare hands, hurling the pieces as far into the forest as I could. In two furious minutes I reduced his hunting blind to a few bits of scattered wreckage. A stick here, a shred of canvas there. Nuked. Utterly destroyed.

  Like my world.