Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12 (17 page)

The dog was gaining on us. The road was easier running for Rosie, dragging her
chain. I was looking back at her when Fish stopped so suddenly, I almost bowled
him over. He bent over with his good hand on his knee, coughing and wheezing,
trying to get his breath. Fish was winded and bleeding so badly that even I
could follow the trail he was leaving. He wasn't going to make it. Not like
this.

Rosie barked and growled; she slowed and crouched slightly as she squared up at
me. I knew that I should find a weapon and stand my ground, but I couldn't help
myself. I turned and ran straight down the side of the mountain.

The dog came crashing after me as I started down the hill. I jumped over a
deadfall, nearly going down. The dog tried to go around and the chain
momentarily snagged. I kept running, but the terrain was getting steeper, and I
was doing more falling than running. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw
something move off to my left. At first I thought it was a deer; it startled me
enough that I lost my footing and tumbled headlong down the rocky slope. I
landed hard against a big oak tree.

The dog was almost on me. I knew that I couldn't get away from it now. I picked
up a rock the size of a softball, hoping to crack the demon's skull when it
came.

It wasn't a deer that I had seen. It was the big sorrel mule that I had ridden in
on. I guess I spooked him, running down the side of the mountain. I had looped
the reins around a branch, and Abner had pulled them loose, gaining his freedom.
He had his oversized ears laid back, and when that snarling, snapping pit bull
came by, the big mule struck with the agility of a snake and sunk his teeth into
the nape of the dog's neck. Rosie was a pit-bull bitch that must have weighed
fifty or sixty pounds, but the mule picked her up, twisted his head sideways,
and slapped the dog into the rocky ground in the blink of an eye. I ducked as
the chain whipped around and smacked the trunk of the tree that I was lying
against. I have seen broncs in the rodeos of eastern Oklahoma that would go
straight up and land on all four feet at once: a bone-jarring experience for a
cowboy. Abner went up in the air, arched his back, and landed with all four
hooves on the stunned dog; the air went out of her lungs like a smashed
accordion. The act was so violent that I found myself cringing for the dog. The
mule grabbed an ear in his teeth and shook the dog once more, but there was no
fight left. The dog was quite dead.

Abner let go and backed away quietly. He looked at me, perhaps waiting for my
approval. I spoke to him softly and put a hand out to gather the reins. He
calmly reached over and stripped the leaves from a sapling and began munching,
seemingly content. I patted his neck and praised him as I led him back up to the
trail.

Fish hadn't moved. He was sobbing as he held the weight of his damaged arm with
the good one. He jerked his head up when he heard us coming. The terror in his
eyes morphed into anger when he saw that it was me.

"I'm bleedin' to death, you bastard!"

"You're lucky she went after me," I said. "Now shut up and hold still." I took
out my knife and cut one of the leather tie-downs from the saddle. The dog had
severed an artery on Fish's arm. I tied the leather above his elbow as a
tourniquet, but he had already lost a lot of blood and was looking pale.

Fish was too weak to walk, so I helped him up onto the saddle. I was hoping that
he could hang on until I could get him down to the highway. I was leading Abner,
but also counting on the mule to find the way down. The logging road turned back
up the ridge.

"Abner, I hope you know the way out. I sure as hell don't."

The mule turned and I followed, continuing up the logging road. I walked beside
him, holding Fish in the saddle. The man was bent over the saddle horn, barely
able to hold on. We came to a small patch of cedars that I thought I recognized
from the trip in. The mule pushed his way through the limbs into a small
clearing. It was the end of the road. Fish groaned and started to slide from the
saddle. I caught him and helped him to the ground.

The forest canopy was replaced by angry, black clouds. The thunder was rumbling
again, and the first few drops of rain began to patter on the cedars and the
clumps of grass that struggled to survive in the rocky ground. The sky opened up
and the rain began to fall as if dumped from a bucket. The sound of it drowned
out all the other senses, and I was beginning to relax, thinking we had escaped.

This was when the four-wheeler burst through the trees and skidded to a halt.
Tiny stood up on the machine and leveled his carbine even as I pulled Fish to
his feet. Abner, spooked by the machine, brayed and ran off through the cedars.
Bullets twanged through the branches as I shoved Fish through the evergreens and
out of sight of our pursuer. I couldn't see where we were going as I pushed Fish
forward. He began shoving back, clawing at me and screaming. Tiny was running
after us now, I could hear him grunting with effort and growling like some kind
of animal. Fish was pushing back on me.

I felt Fish's full weight on the handful of undershirt that I was gripping. I
tried to pull him up as I realized that the ground was falling out beneath us.
We had broken through the cedars only to find a bluff. The rain was beating down
now, but I could hear the river below us. It must have been at least forty feet
down, and I had no idea how deep the water was, but I gave Fish a mighty shove,
and together we dropped into the void.

I let go of my prisoner during our descent. I found myself flailing my arms,
trying to keep upright. It seemed like an eternity in the air. I plunged into
the cold water of the stream, a churning, frothy torrent. The water was dark as
I clawed my way back to the surface, gasping for precious air.

I broke the surface and heard a cough next to me. I turned to see Fish
disappearing beneath the foam. I grabbed at him and managed to snag his long
hair. I was vaguely aware of a shadow descending upon us. A mighty
kathump!
seemed to shake the river itself, as Tiny's massive bulk
slapped into the rocks next to the stream. I caught a glimpse of the big man's
empty stare, his face flattened against the rocks of the riverbank, as the
current swept us away. It was not a pleasant sight.

 
I don't remember much after that. I guess I managed to keep Fish's
head above water until some kayakers spotted us near the state highway bridge.
Two tanned and athletic-looking fellows dragged us out of the rushing water. My
teeth were chattering with the cold. Fish didn't even have enough energy to
shiver. One of the kayakers had a signal on his cell and was calling 911.

"Am I gonna make it?" Fish asked. His speech was slurred and his face had a
ghastly pallor.

"You better," I said. I would hate to face Miss Etta Mae if I got her nephew
killed. "By the way, Delbert, can you swim at all?"

"Not a lick," he said, weakly.

"A Fish that can't swim." I just shook my head.

 
Delbert Fish testified at his trial that Seymour "Tiny" Buckman had
beaten and raped the girl. The DNA evidence agreed with him. I guess Miss Etta
Mae was right that Delbert Fish was not guilty of that crime. She was willing to
ignore his culpability on a host of other infractions that sent him back into
the Arkansas penal system. She volunteered for a bible study through Prison
Fellowship, so she could work with Delbert. I don't know if Fish ever repented,
but I took the two hundred that Etta Mae offered. It didn't seem like much for
what I did, but I got the ten grand in reward money. Besides, the woman had
spanked me for something I didn't even do at a vacation bible school one time. I
figured she owed me that much.

The Arkansas state police seemed to appreciate the fact that I had burned down a
major methamphetamine lab. They rounded up most of a biker gang that had been
distributing the stuff in the four-state area. I went back to the site of the
old still to retrieve my .45 semiauto. My dad had bought the gun for sixteen
dollars after he got out of the service, and it had sentimental value. The old
fellow who owned the store closed it up for a day and took me fishing. That
little creek had more smallmouth, and bigger ones, than I had ever seen before.
It's a wonder that
Field and Stream
hasn't done a feature on it yet.
After a couple of write-ups in the local papers, I got another call from one of
those big-time private-detective agencies. It was tempting, I must admit. But
how much does a man really need to be happy? I think I'll just flag down the
drink-cart gal for another Budweiser, finish the back nine, and meet Karen, my
on-again-off-again girlfriend, at the Nineteenth Hole. I think it's
all-you-can-eat crab legs tonight.

Copyright © 2012 by Jim Davis. Black Mask Magazine title, logo, and mask
device

copyright © 2012 by Keith Alan Deutsch. Licensed by written permission.

 
EQMM
has published several short stories by Rubem
Fonseca over the years. As we have noted on past occasions, the author is one of
Brazil's best-known literary figures, a writer whose work is considered
groundbreaking for its gritty and realistic depiction of life in the cities of
his native country. What we have not mentioned before is that the author was
once a policeman in Rio de Janeiro, where he rose to the rank of police
commissioner.
 

 
Translated from the Portuguese by Clifford E.
Landers

 
Then Elza told me: "When I see myself in the mirror I feel like
dying. I look at photographs of when I was twenty, you remember me when I was
twenty, don't you? And I think, how did this happen? I forget that, like someone
said, time is the worst poison of all. I should have died when I was twenty, it
doesn't matter how, run over, murdered, a brick falling on my head. If I'd known
I was going to end up like this, look at me, just look at me, go ahead and look
at me, if I'd known I was going to end up like this, I would've killed myself.
But would it do any good? Do you believe in the soul?"

"Soul?"

"Anima,
in Latin. In theology, the incorporeal, nonmaterial, invisible
substance created by God in his image; the source and engine of every human
act."

"Of course."

"And the soul also ages, doesn't it?"

"I don't know. If there's life after death, it's a noncorporeal existence . .
."

"I read in a book by a philosopher that the soul ages too."

"Ages?"

"Yes. But I don't know what he meant by that. When I saw myself in the mirror I
thought, When I die is my soul going to have this decadent, horrible look?"

"If the soul has a noncorporeal existence—" I began to say, but Elza
interrupted, crying convulsively, saying between sobs, "I should have killed
myself when I was twenty, when I was twenty . . ."

I remembered her at twenty. A beautiful woman. Now, sitting with me at the bar,
was an ugly, fat woman, aged and depressed. Yes, Elza should have killed
herself, or else someone should have had the kindness to do it for her, an
unequaled gesture of generosity and nobility.

I went home and got two slices of moldy bread from the refrigerator and placed
them in a small toaster oven, planning to make a sandwich. But then I realized I
didn't have anything to put between the slices of toast. Go out and buy
something at the corner supermarket? I didn't feel like eating; those slices of
toasted bread were enough. I wanted to think. A human being's beauty is a joy
that's short-lived; its enchantment and quality don't increase, they disappear.
Elza was right: For a woman as beautiful as she was at twenty, old age is worse
than death.

Elza is my patient. I'm a doctor, a general practitioner. Before getting my
medical degree I studied chemistry, but I changed majors a year before
graduating. I wanted a profession in which I could help people, so I chose
medicine. If patients call me late at night to complain about a problem, I
respond completely willingly and if necessary go to their home. But for a long
time now I've been contemplating a gesture of generosity, a truly transcendental
kindness, something sublime never before achieved. I lie awake nights thinking
about it. I needed to show my generosity in a different way, not merely by
attending to people who can't pay for the consultation, or by giving alms, but
by something quite different . . . uniquely sublime.

I live alone and when I leave the office I go straight home. For dinner I have
some soup that the maid leaves for me. I like being alone; by the time I arrive,
the maid has already been gone for a long time, and when I leave early for the
office she hasn't gotten in yet. I can't even recall what she looks like, don't
know if she's white, black, or biracial, or Chinese, or a dwarf. I do know I pay
her a good salary and make no demands.

Now I'm at home, thinking. What if Elza is right and the soul also ages? It's
better to die young. I remembered my nieces. They're three very pretty young
women. Lisete, eighteen years old. Norma, the same age, and Sabrina, nineteen.
It would be better for them to die while they're still beautiful. And I could
help them. Yes, I could.

I thought about what poison to use. I'm not going to use guns or knives, poison
is the best option. I first thought about strychnine, a very quickly absorbed
drug. As soon as it enters the bloodstream, strychnine immediately affects the
central nervous system. The problem is that it causes convulsions, spasms, and
the facial distortion known as risus sardonicus. Cyanide? Cyanide blocks the
blood's oxygenation ability, paralyzing the respiratory center in the brain and
provoking a rapid loss of consciousness. The problem is that cyanide also causes
convulsions and unpleasant symptoms like dilation of the pupils. So I also ruled
out cyanide. Poisoning by bacteria? But it would have to be typhoid, anthrax,
diphtheria, the difficulty of which would be the inoculation. I know there was a
murderer who used bacteria in a nasal spray, but the victim was his wife. It's
easy to get the woman we live with to use a nasal spray. Bacteria were also
ruled out. Arsenic? How was it I only now thought of a poison known since
antiquity, much used in Imperial Rome, the poison the Borgias used in the
Renaissance? The problem is that it produces vomiting and diarrhea in the
victim, something quite unseemly. So I ruled out arsenic. Aconite? Aconite is a
vegetable alkaloid obtained from the root and purple leaves of the aconitum, a
genre of poisonous plants of the ranunculus family, found in temperate regions.
Aconite can be introduced through the skin and is highly toxic. It causes
nausea and vomiting, another poison with unpleasant side effects.

How is it I know about so many poisons? Don't forget, I studied chemistry and I
practice medicine.

There's nothing better for killing a person than a strong dose of some narcotic.
But how to administer it?

Then I remembered ricin, a toxic alkaloid extracted from the seeds and leaves of
the castor oil bean. In the right dose, a needle prick with a small portion of
the substance is enough for the victim to present symptoms of a cold the
following day and quickly succumb. But I needed a good lab with a
high-temperature oven, as well as a specialist, a chemist with knowledge of
advanced technology.

I had such a person, a friend of mine by the name of Gustavo. Perhaps the most
sophisticated chemist in the country. I looked him up and told him what I
needed.

"But it's illegal to manufacture that substance," Gustavo said. "I could go to
jail, or lose my license."

"I'll pay anything you want."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"An experiment," I said. "Afterwards, when you give me the material, I'll tell
you everything."

Gustavo took a month to prepare the ricin.

It was a weekend when I arrived at his laboratory. Luck was on my side.

The first thing Gustavo told me was how much money he wanted. An absurd sum. I
gave him a check for that amount.

"Here it is," he told me, handing me a box inside which were small ampoules and a
hypodermic needle. "One light scratch from the needle and the person will die
within twenty-four hours. And no one will ever discover the cause."

I took the needle, inserted it into one of the ampoules and, when Gustavo was
distracted, stuck his arm with it. He was startled. I pulled from my pocket the
.45 I'd brought with me and hit him over the head, hard, causing him to lose
consciousness. Then I tied and gagged him with duct tape. I took my check and
Gustavo's wallet, along with a few objects, so that when his helpers showed up
on Monday they would suspect robbery.

I returned home radiant. I was going to be able to exercise generosity in its
sublime fullness, which would make me into a different person.

The papers carried news of Gustavo's death, saying that he had been robbed. The
coroner said he had probably died of heart failure after being tied and gagged
with duct table.

 
Lisete came to my office. She's extremely careful about her health
and has periodic, unnecessary examinations. I think she's a bit of a
hypochondriac.

I imagine her aged, a wrinkled, ugly old woman, senile. Every woman nowadays is
going to live long years until turning into a repugnant dotard. I couldn't allow
that to happen. Without her noticing, that's how light the needle prick was, I
inoculated her with ricin.

"You're in excellent health, Lisete. You don't need any kind of examination."

"Not even a blood test?" she asked.

"Not even a blood test. You can go home with your mind at ease."

The next day, in the morning, they called to say that Lisete had passed away in
her sleep.

"But she was here yesterday. Her health was perfect," I said, concealing my
exaltation. "I'm going to stop by her house."

I hung up the phone. My delight, my joy, my happiness at having done good was so
great that I began to cry. But I quickly regained my composure. I had to plan my
actions very carefully. Norma would have to be benefitted later; two of my
nieces dying mysteriously could create suspicion. I would have to choose the
places where I would act. And also choose other beautiful young women. There are
so many, the poor things.

I had to plan, plan, plan. Doing good is harder and more laborious than doing
evil.

Copyright © 2012 by Rubem Fonseca;

translation Copyright © 2012 by Clifford E. Landers