Crime Writers Page 4

  'Is this a dare too?' he asked.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Like Dan stealing his father's pick-up and racing round the tracks.'

  She didn't answer.

  'You do know Dan could have killed himself?'

  She began to struggle into her coat. Although the grin seemed fixed to her face, there were tears on her cheeks. She tried to push past him, but he stood with his back against the door, pressing it shut. He took her by the shoulders, felt the bones under her thick coat, remembered other bones, another woman. He whispered into her ear, as she had whispered to him on the jetty, and his voice was seductive too. 'Just how far would you have been prepared to go, Beth? What exactly did they dare you to do?'

  'Nothing,' she said. 'It was just a game.' She scrambled out of his grasp and he let her go, feeling suddenly ashamed. The last of the sun caught her hair as she ran away down the track.

  That night he dreamed of her again. In the morning her school desk was empty.

  'Does anyone know where Beth is, today?' he said, looking around the classroom. They stared back at him, challenging him to ask more. Whatever game was being played, they were all in on it.

  'Her mother phoned in to say she's sick.' It was Peter, the boy who knew about tractors. He was thick set and sullen and Mark had come to the conclusion that he knew little about anything else.

  'Who told you that?'

  Peter shrugged, not caring whether or not he was believed.

  While the children were eating their lunch, Mark went to the Larson house. Sally-Ann would be working in the booking office on the airstrip and Beth's father was in Anchorage. On his way there he wondered why he was going. Was he looking for an excuse to see Beth on her own? He decided he was worried about her, though what on earth did he think could have happened to the girl?

  He found her outside. She was in an open sided barn splitting logs with an axe. Mark watched her from the yard. The axe was heavy, and she struggled to lift it, but her aim was exact and the blow was powerful. He thought how strong she must be, stronger than him. The wood split with one go and the splinters scattered, bouncing on the concrete floor. He could smell the resin from where he stood.

  'I thought you were sick,' he said. He waited until she was resting. He didn't want to scare her while she had the axe in the air. It would have been easy to cause an accident.

  She didn't bother replying.

  'Tell me about these games,' he said.

  'Why?' Her voice was bitter. 'Do you want to play too?'

  'I want to understand.'

  'It's winter,' she said. 'Boring. We have to do something.'

  'It has to stop. Someone will get hurt. Tell them. If it doesn't stop, I go to the principal. And to your parents.'

  She turned angrily to face him, allowing the axe to crash to the floor.

  'People have already been hurt,' she said. 'They won't stop.'

  But the next day she was back in school and he thought he'd handled the situation well. She'd have passed on the message to her friends. There would be no more foolishness.

  He stayed at school late that evening for a staff meeting, and then to prepare a lesson for the following day. He was the last to leave the building and it was already dark, though there was enough of a moon for him to follow the road. Past the gas station, Jerry's was the only house. There had been a slight thaw and he'd been aware all day of the sound of melting snow dripping from roofs and trees. Now it had started to freeze again but he felt as if he was being followed by the same persistent sound. He stopped once and still it seemed to be there, coming from the trees on either side of the road. When he shone his torch there were strings of icicles on each branch, quite frozen. It began to unnerve him and he wondered if it wasn't water after all, but the scratching of animals in the forest. There were brown bears. Everyone had stories about them, stealing food from outhouses, staring in through windows. They were only dangerous, people said, if they were cornered. He had never quite believed that. He walked more quickly. The sounds came nearer, gathering around him, closing him in.

  Close to the turn off to Jerry's house, panic made him stumble. As he pulled himself to his feet, he swung the torch behind him and saw two figures on the road. They were wrapped in coats and hoods so he couldn't tell who they were. Each had a stave in one hand, a piece of wood as thick and solid as Beth's axe handle. They banged the sticks in rhythm on the frozen path.

  'Hi!' he called, relieved at first to have company. 'Who is it?' But before he had finished speaking he had realised that they weren't there to help him. He turned to continue on his way, but another moving shape had appeared on the road ahead of him, blocking his path. For a moment the scarf he was wearing slipped and Mark recognised Peter, the tractor driver.

  More figures approached, moving through the forest. He circled, shining the torch crazily around him, catching glimpses of them, hooded like ghosts. The noise they made didn't come from the natural sound of footsteps or crackling undergrowth. Each held a stick which he knocked against tree trunk or branch, disturbing the snow lying there and shattering icicles. It formed a strange percussion, at once hollow and brittle, which grew louder and louder. Mark jumped from the road into the trees and started running, sucking in the icy air in huge, howling gasps.

  Roots tangled about his legs. The ground was uneven. There were frozen pools and outcrops of rock. Branches whipped into his face and upper body. And always he was aware of the noise around him and behind him. At last, when he was too exhausted to continue he curled into a ball behind a pile of dead undergrowth. His muscles twitched from the exertion and he was still wheezing, but he forced himself to stay silent. He listened.

  The dull thud of wood against bark had stopped. There were footsteps but they seemed to be dying away. Desultory scraps of conversation grew more distant. Someone laughed. It seemed that the game was over. It was too cold and uncomfortable for them. They'd had their amusement. They'd go home to a wholesome supper, an evening of television or computer games. And in the morning they'd sit at their desks daring him to speak of what had happened. He'd over reacted of course, which was just what they'd wanted. He'd made a fool of himself. He had believed that they meant to hurt him. He wasn't sure he could forgive them. Especially, he thought, Beth had betrayed him. She would have to pay for his humiliation.

  Although it had seemed as if he'd been running for miles, he saw, when he could think more clearly, that he wasn't far from home. There was a faint light at the end of a clearing which must be their house. If he'd not panicked he could easily have made it back to safety before the children caught him up. Jerry would be cooking. He'd promised potato pancakes with apple sauce. It was the night, Mark thought, to open that bottle of Scotch he'd brought with him. What a sight he must look, all scratched and bruised. He began rehearsing a story of the incident in his head. How could he explain it? As a joke at his own expense, perhaps. The rookie Brit teacher spooked by a bunch of kids.

  They were all waiting for him in the house. He didn't realise until he'd pushed open the door and by then it was too late. Peter came round behind him and wedged it shut. They were sat on the floor round the walls, the sticks and baseball bats propped beside them. They had all kept very quiet, like the guests at a surprise party. He wondered if there had been the same nervous giggling. Now nobody laughed. They looked up at him and stared.

  'Come on, kids,' he said. 'This is a joke, right?'

  'Not a joke,' Beth replied sternly. 'A dare.'

  'You should go. Jerry will be here any minute.'

  'I'm here already,' Jerry said. He slipped out from the bedroom. He looked as he always did when he got in from work. Relaxed and gentle. He wore a plaid shirt and jeans and held a can of beer in his hand. 'It's my dare. I mean, I get bored in winter too.'

  'You dared them to frighten me off?'

  'Oh no,' he said. 'They dared me. To get rid of you. Without too much fuss. Before you could tell anyone about our games.' He looked around at the stari
ng children. 'What shall it be, guys? A boating accident like last time? Or something more imaginative?'

  The children picked up the sticks and began to batter them, the same rhythm over and over again, against the wooden floor.

  END

  Entrapped

  by

  Harlan Coben

  ‘My husband is missing,’ I said.

  I waited for Sgt. Harding's reaction, but he seemed preoccupied with the half-eaten croissant in his right hand. He was fiftyish, I guessed. His suit looked as if it'd been stored in a laundry hamper since the Watergate hearings. So, actually, did he.

  With a sign, Harding put down the croissant and picked up a pencil. He flashed me a smile with teeth the yellow of a No. 2 Ticonderoga. ‘Well now!’

  I tried my best not to swoon.

  ‘How long has your husband been missing. Mrs...?’

  ‘Kimball,’ I said. ‘Jennifer Kimball. My husband's name is Edward, and he's been missing for two days.’

  He wrote all this down, barely looking at the notepad.

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Three Markham Lane.’

  ‘Markham Lane?’ he repeated. ‘Isn't that where those ritzy new mansions were just built?’

  I nodded, adjusting the gold bracelet on my wrist - a gift from Edward - and crossed my legs. Harding's eyes brightened and followed, slithering along my flesh like earthworms. ‘My husband and I just moved to New Jersey last week,’ I explained. ‘From Arizona, outside Pheonix.’

  He looked surprised. ‘You from this area originally, honey?’

  Aside from perhaps babe or sweet-buns, there are few things I enjoy more than being called honey by a charismatic hunk who possesses that rare combination of boss threads and top-drawer dental hygiene. ‘Why on earth would you need - ’

  ‘Look, Mrs Kimball I'm on your side.’ He spoke in that patronizing tone some men get around me. “I want to find out what happened too, okay? But put yourself in my position. You move out here from Phoenix, and a day or two later your husband disappears. I have to consider the possibility that there may have been a lover's tiff or - ’

  ‘There was no “lover's tiff,” ’ I interrupted. ‘My husband is missing. His car is gone.’

  ‘What kind of car?’

  ‘1997 blue Mercedes 500,” I said. “Burgundy interior. Brand-new.”

  He gave a low whistle. “Five Hundred, huh? Jersey plates or Arizona?’

  “New Jersey. AYB 783.’

  He jotted it down. ‘What does your husband do, Mrs Kimball?’

  ‘Edward is an international trader,’ I said vaguely. ‘but he hasn't had time to rent an office here yet.’

  ‘Does he have any friends or family in the area?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Do you have a photograph of him?’

  I reached into my purse with fumbling fingers and plucked out a small photograph of Edward.

  ‘Nice-looking man,’ Harding commented.

  I said nothing.

  ‘How long you been married?’ he asked

  ‘Six months.’

  His phone rang. ‘Harding,’ he answered. ‘what?...Oh good…Fine.’ He replaced the receiver and rose. ‘Well, Mrs Kimball, we'll do a little checking and see what we come up with.’

  I was dismissed.

  I confess to having expensive taste. So sue me. My car - my cuddly baby - is a Jag, a powerful, sexy machine. Edward wanted me to get a Mercedes like his - more reliable, he claimed - but I was not to be dissuaded.

  I drove up our circular driveway and parked by the front door. But when I put my key in the lock, the door was already unlocked.

  Strange.

  I eased it open. If I had been trying to do it quietly, I had failed miserably. The door squeaked like a dog toy. I stepped inside, my heels clacking loudly against the marble floor. Then I looked around. Nothing. I meant that almost literally. Very few of our personal belongings had been delivered yet. The large foyer was almost bare.

  Then I heard footsteps coming from the other room. I shivered and backed toward the door, preparing to sprint.

  ‘Jen? Is that you?’

  He burst into the foyer, smiling at me. ‘Hi, hon. Where were you?’ He was about six feet tall with wavy dark hair. Fairly run-of-the-mill in the looks department - not bad, not great. He was also a complete stranger. I had never laid eyes on the man in my entire life.

  Logic would probably have dictated that I run, but fleeing had never been my style. ‘Who are you?’ I snapped.

  The man looked at me puzzled. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘I am two seconds away from screaming,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Are you feeling okay, Jen?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  His puzzled look gave way to a weary smile. ‘Okay, Jen, let's have it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why are you still mad? I thought we had this all straightened out.’

  ‘I'm calling the police.’

  He watched me walk toward the phone but did nothing to stop me. ‘You're serious.’

  ‘Of course, I'm serious. Who are you?’

  He looked at me with what appeared to be genuine concern. ‘Jen, I think you'd better sit down.’

  Should I run? To hell with it. I would call Sgt. Harding and see how this guy reacted. I picked up the phone keeping my eyes on him. He continued to watch with a mix of confusion and concern on his face. I started to dial when I glanced down at the table and gasped.

  ‘Honey, what is it?’

  I barely heard him. My hand reached down and picked up a silver key chain - Edward's key chain.

  ‘They're my keys, Jen,’ the man said.

  I whirled toward him. ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘Will you stop it already? Stop pretending you don't know your own husband.’

  My husband?

  I dropped the key chain and dashed outside. So much for my no-fleeing style. The imposter followed, calling my name in a gentle, pleading voice. I veered left and headed toward the garage. When I peered inside, I felt something in my brain stretch taut.

  A 1997 blue Mercedes 500. Brand-new. I checked out the license plate. New Jersey. AYB 783.

  The man came up behind me. ‘It's just my car.’

  I spun toward him. ‘I don't know who you are or what you're trying to pull - ’

  ‘Pull? What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘How did you get his car?’

  ‘Whose car?’

  ‘Edward's!’

  ‘Please stop it, Jen. You're scaring me.’

  ‘I'm calling the police.’

  He shook his head in what appeared to be resignation. ‘Fine. Call them. Maybe they can tell me what alien scrambled my wife's brain.’

  I strode back into the house, the man a few paces behind me. I kept glancing back, wondering when he was going to attack, preparing for his imminent pounce. But none came. Surely, he'd never allow me to make the call. Once I spoke to the police, the jig, as they say, would be up.

  I picked up the phone, my hand trembling as though the receiver were a jackhammer. The man moved closer to me. I stepped away, and to my surprise he raised both hands in a surrender salute and backed off. ‘Whatever I did, Jen, I'm sorry. You have to believe me.’

  The phone was answered on the other end: ‘Livingston Police.’

  ‘Sergeant Harding, please. This is Jennifer Kimball.’

  ‘Hold on a moment.’ I heard the phone ring again.

  Then: ‘Harding.’

  ‘Sergeant Harding, this is Jennifer Kimball.’

  ‘Well hello, Mrs Kimball. Find your husband?’

  I felt oddly like a tattletale who just yelled for the teacher; I expected the bully to run away, now that an adult was coming. But the phony Edward kept as still as a Rodin.

  ‘No,” I said slowly. “But a strange man broke into my house.’

  ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘He's standing right in front of me. He says he's
Edward.’

  ‘Your husband? I don't get it.’

  ‘Neither do I, Sergeant. He has Edward's keys and Edward's car, and he claims he is my husband.’

  Pause. ‘Well what is he doing?’

  ‘Doing?’

  ‘Is he trying to escape?’

  ‘No.’ I imagined how crazy this must have sounded to Harding, so I could not really blame him in the least. But of course, I did anyway.

  ‘Mrs Kimball, would you mind putting him on the phone?’

  ‘If you want.’

  I handed the phone to the mystery man. ‘He wants to speak with you.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, taking it. ‘Okay, joke's over now,’ he said into the receiver. ‘Who is this?’

  I could barely hear the tinny sound of Harding's voice; the impostor's words, however, were quite clear: ‘What police force? Oh come on now. The joke has gone too far.’ Pause. ‘Fine, I'll put you on hold.’ He pushed down the hold button and pressed to activate the other phone line.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  The imposter's face remained set. ‘Your friend on the phone,’ he began while dialling, ‘claims that he is Sergeant Ronald Harding of the Livingston Police. I'm calling the police department myself to end this little charade once and for all.’

  I was stunned. How far was the guy going to take this?

  He said nothing while waiting for the connection to go through. Then; ‘I would like to speak with Sergeant Harding.’ Pause. ‘What? So you are a police officer. My God. I apologise, Sergeant, but something very odd…Yes, of course I'm Edward Kimball. No I do not know what this is all about. My wife left this morning and…she said I was what?’ He turned and looked at me tenderly. I returned his tenderness with my best hell-spawned glare. ‘Sergeant, I don't know what is going on here…Yes, we had a little fight but…Fine, that's a good idea.’ He handed me the receiver. ‘Jen, he wants to speak to you.’