The Hidden: Mysterious Tales of Suspense

By Brendan DuBois

"I read everything Brendan DuBois writes. Science fiction, fantasy, mystery, it doesn't matter. He's one of the best." --- Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Hugo award-winning author

"...Brendan DuBois is one of the two or three finest short story writers of my time." --- mystery editor and author Ed Gorman

“It is impossible for me to overpraise Brendan DuBois.” --- Otto Penzler, The Mysterious Bookshop

* * *

From award-winning author mystery author Brendan DuBois comes this unique collection of "hidden" or hard-to-find short stories. Since 1985, DuBois has published more than 130 short stories, and in this anthology, he brings together stories that are hard to find for the reader or collector that have been published in non-tradtional markets.

These eleven stories include:

"The Final Ballot" --- Beth Mooney is a single mom living in New Hampshire, just a few weeks before the New Hampshire presidential primary. Her daughter is attacked by the son of a prominent Georgia senator who may win his party's nomination. With pressure from all sides, can Beth find justice for her hurt daughter?

"A Trace of a Trace" --- Samuel Kosten is a lobsterman who thinks he's committed the perfect crime, by murdering his girlfriend and disposing of her body in a thorough and complete fashion. But he failed to plan for a dogged out-of-state CSI investigator who knows that important evidence must exist somehow, somewhere.

"A Snowy Night" --- Cassie Burns is a young girl, in love with a man who turns out to be a killer. Now it's late at night, at a remote cabin in Maine, standing in a snow-covered yard, wearing no footwear, no coat, no hat, just a thin nightgown, and she's slowly freezing to death, trying to figure out a way to survive...

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brendan DuBois of New Hampshire is the award-winning author of 130 short stories and sixteen novels including his latest, “Deadly Cove,” part of the Lewis Cole mystery series (Pegasus Books). His short fiction has appeared in Playboy, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and numerous anthologies including “The Best American Mystery Stories of the Century,” published in 2000 by Houghton-Mifflin, as well as the “The Best American Noir of the Century,” published in 2010. His stories have twice won him the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, and have also earned him three Edgar Allan Poe Award nominations from the Mystery Writers of America. He is also a “Jeopardy!” gameshow champion. Visit his website at www.BrendanDuBois.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brendan DuBois
• Release date: Jan 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311019899

Book preview

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 by Brendan DuBois.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

All Rights Reserved.

The Hidden:

Mysterious Tales of Suspense

By

Brendan DuBois

Forward

Welcome to this, a collection of my short fiction that I consider hidden. Please let me explain. When I sold my first short story to Ellery Queen’s Magazine back in 1985 (!), it was the start of a long and wonderful relationship both with Ellery Queen and its sister publication, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. For the first few years of my writing career, these two magazines --- the oldest and most prominent in the mystery field --- was where I exclusively sold my short stories.

But as years went by and my writing output increased, I soon was excited to find my short fiction appearing in other venues, beginning with original short story anthologies published by Tekno Books and the incredible Marty Greenberg, who, alas, died some years ago.

Yet for those mystery readers out there with subscriptions to Ellery Queen or Alfred Hitchcock, it meant that they might have missed the publication of some of my works. No big deal at first, but now that my published short fiction amount has reached more than 135 (insert another exclamation point here), I decided it was time to reward my patient fans with this special collection of short fiction featuring stories that didn’t appear in my usual haunts.

In addition, in reviewing these stories prior to publication, I see that only three take place in my beloved home state of New Hampshire: the others take place in Maine, Massachusetts, Florida and Texas. Pretty fun, eh? While I’m a proud New Hampshire-based author, I also don’t want to be pigeonholed. And in that quest, a couple of the stories are told from a woman’s point of view, a couple are not straight mysteries, and one is an honest-to-God Western, the only Western short fiction I’ve ever written.

With this anthology as with others of mine, I’ll give an introduction to how and why each story was written, followed by a few closing words and a history of its publication.

So prepare for these hidden stories to be revealed.

Introduction

Among the many joys of being a mystery and suspense author is getting to meet your fellow writers at events such as the annual Edgar Allan Poe Awards, the yearly world mystery convention --- known as Bouchercon --- and other events. I’ve found along the way that about 99.9% of my fellow writers, men and women who are experts on death, dismemberment and decay, are among the most delightful people you’ll ever meet.

One such person is Gary Phillips, an L.A.-based noir author who’s about the size of an NFL linebacker, but who has a smile and laugh that can charm an auditorium. He’s really the epitome of what would be called a cool cat, and he invited me in 2012 to take part in an e-book anthology called Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes. What a title, and what an invitation.

I decided to do a story --- and a rather short one at that --- about the aftermath of a Bernie Madoff-type scandal with a twist of an ending.

1. Sentence of a Lifetime

When the Cessna CJ3 executive jet finally took off from the small runway on Crabstone Cay, Henry Wallace took a deep breath as he watched it climb into the warm blue sky. He had made it. Practically the entire American law enforcement apparatus --- FBI, Secret Service, and U.S. Marshal’s Service --- had been after him ever since he had skipped out of a Manhattan court hearing yesterday morning. But now he could finally relax. Above all, Henry loved learning new things, and now he was learning how to be a fugitive from justice

The island was small, with a luxury hotel at one end and a collection of cabanas nearby for the hotel’s workers, and this private landing strip. There was a private beach and brush and trees and not much else. Everything here belonged to Henry, and as an extra bonus, it was also part of an obscure Caribbean island chain that had no extradition treaty with the United States.

Beside him, his long-time bodyguard, driver and trusted keeper of secrets, spoke up. Looks like a beautiful day, Mister Wallace, Courtney Knox said. He was powerful, squat, with thick hands that had once carried weapons for the U.S. Navy’s elite SEALs before Courtney decided to make a career change that meant lots more money and less opportunities to get blown up.

First day of the rest of our lives, Courtney, he said. Let’s get going. I’m starving.

At the side of the runway a black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows was parked, engine idling, with Henry’s luggage piled at the side. Henry got into the rear and waited as Courtney loaded the trunk. At the bar before him was a freshly opened bottle of Champagne, a Krug Clos du Mesnil. He poured himself a flute of the Champagne, took a sip. Delightful.

Courtney ducked in. Here, sir. Something to read while we get to the hotel.

His bodyguard passed over a copy of Time magazine, with Henry’s face on the cover. The headline said, The next Bernie Madoff?

Henry snorted and tossed the magazine aside. Bernie Madoff was a piker.

During the short drive to the hotel past the bright flowers and plants, Henry sighed with contentment. Not bad for a kid who had grown up in a scrappy small town on Cape Cod. Hell, transporting this Town Car to this spit of land cost almost as much as the car itself, but Henry wanted it here, and got it here. Simple as that. And that had been his entire life philosophy. See what he wanted, and take it. From the very start, no physical labor for Henry, like his dad, running a landscaping business, or his high school pals, going to service station jobs or hardware stores. From learning deal making on Wall Street, to working in the bowels of some financial service companies, and then running his own successful hedge fund…. it had been a very profitable run, without once getting his hands dirty or sore.

The Town Car purred up to the entrance of the ten-story luxury hotel, made of light pink concrete, as Henry put the Champagne flute down. A good run, he thought, except for the nitwits from all over the country who had decided to invest in him and who were now broke.

Dinner was at a restaurant at the top of the hotel, adjacent to his penthouse suite. He sat by a curved window with a view of the Caribbean, the round green shapes of the nearby islands and sailboats at play. For dinner he had rock lobster tails sautéed in garlic and butter, with a side of blue cheese risotto and a green salad, with a bottle of a rare Château Pétrus to wash it all down. Courtney sat across from him and ate a cheeseburger with hand cut fries.

When the dishes had been cleared away, Henry looked over the empty restaurant with pleasure. Only his friends ever came here, and with the latest news, they were staying away. So what. Once things quieted down and the FBI decided to chase the next big time white-collar criminal, his friends would come back.

This morning, the Manhattan D.A. said I deserved a life sentence at the Federal Supermax prison, Henry said reflectively. But instead, my sentence is going to be here. Good Lord, look at that view. Isn’t it the best?

Very true, sir, Courtney said.

I’ll never get tired of it… but after a while, once the heat is off, we’ll be able to travel abroad. Switzerland for skiing. Argentina for barbecue. Thailand for Thai food. And he laughed at the last sentence, though Courtney didn’t join in. Instead, Courtney held up the magazine Henry had earlier tossed away with contempt. Have you read this yet, sir?

No, of course not.

Courtney said, I’ve read it a couple of times. It says you bilked billions of dollars from investors, from charities to colleges to families.

Henry shrugged. You know what really happened, what’s not in that story? People got greedy. And I provided what people thought was an opportunity to make lots of money, with annual returns that consistently beat Wall Street averages. If any of one of them had done a bit of research, they wouldn’t have come to me. They would have gone someplace else safer.

So you don’t feel guilty?

For what? For giving greedy people what they deserve? Not on your life. He reached over, plucked the magazine out of Courtney’s hand. He read aloud the headline: ’The new Bernie Madoff?’ Not hardly. Bernie thought he could get away with it. Me, I knew I’d always get caught. But thanks to you, I had a plan. The minute investigations started, I flew to this little slice of paradise. My funds are in untraceable accounts in the Cayman Islands, Switzerland, and even Vatican City. I’m set for life.

But didn’t you say earlier you couldn’t touch those funds for years?

That’s right, Henry said. If I start dipping into them now, the FBI and their forensic accountants will be able to connect the dots and seize them all. So it’s just a waiting game now… but lucky for me, this is a wonderful place to wait it out.

Courtney didn’t say a word. Henry pushed his chair back, tossed his napkin on the tablecloth. I think it’s time to retire.

As Henry walked down a paneled hallway from the restaurant, an elevator door was open and his bodyguard said, I need to show you something in the service area, sir.

Henry nodded and followed Courtney into the elevator and about thirty seconds later, he stepped out into the heat and the noise. This was his least favorite place to visit in the hotel, where the food was cooked and the laundry was washed. It was noisy and dirty, and tonight, it was crowded. The basement was filled with islanders in white and black uniforms who worked for him.

And to a man and a woman, each was carrying that issue of Time magazine.

He felt chilled. Hey, what’s going on? Henry asked.

Courtney put a hand on his shoulder. It felt as heavy as stone. Courtney motioned with his free hand, and a young male worker in a waiter’s uniform stepped forward.

This is Andre, Courtney said. His uncle lost his bodega in Dorchester because he invested in one of your companies.

Another gesture, and a woman in a maid’s uniform also came out. This is Maria. Her two sons are being kicked out of college because the charity sponsoring them is now broke.

The hand on his shoulder squeezed harder. Everybody else here… their friends and families have lost everything due to your dealings, because they trusted you. And my own mom… she’s being evicted from her home in Daytona Beach.

Henry started speaking quickly. Look… give me some time… I’ll figure out how to make everybody whole, make it right, I can do it and ---

Courtney shoved him forward, as the workers stepped away. Behind them was a concrete cubbyhole, with a cot, mattress and blanket. Next to the cubbyhole were three large sinks, overflowing with used pots and pans. Say goodbye to the suite and the restaurant, sir. This is where you’re going to live and eat, for the rest of your life. And to earn your living, you can begin by cleaning those dirty dishes.

You can’t be serious! Henry said, feeling desperate. And you can’t get away with it!

I’m all serious, Mister Wallace, Courtney said. "And I can get away with it. I have control of this island, this hotel, its employees, phones, the Telex, and the Internet connection. And since you’ve trusted me all these years, I know the keys and codes to your funds."

Henry thought frantically. I can pay you. I can pay you all! I can pay you ---

Courtney shoved him hard, toward the sinks. But I already have all your money, even if it can’t be touched for a while. Time to get to work, Mister Wallace.

And later that night, in a daze of exhaustion and fear, Henry learned one more thing: washing pots and pans was hard.

# # #

+ Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes, edited by Gary Phillips (2012)

# # #

What I enjoyed about writing this story is how the white collar criminal, who has prepared for every eventuality, failed to plan for one thing: the hired help, as it were. And their revenge is particularly sweet and tasteful, sentencing him not only to a lifetime, but a time of sheer labor and physical drudgery: Mister One Percent, meet Mister 99 Percent.

As with other short stories, sometimes the fun part is going a bit far afield, as I did in the next story, where I write a first person detective story, from the point of view of a woman, and a tough and funny one at that.

2. Call of the Mild

When you are the sole owner and proprietor of K.C. Dunbar, Investigations, of Purmort, New Hampshire, there are certain advantages and disadvantages. One of the biggest advantages is setting your own hours and schedule. Another is that you can dress in jeans and a T-shirt if you’d like. And another is…. well, that brings us to the disadvantages. That your weekly pay depends on what kind of envelopes appears in your post office box. And that your job pretty much depends on the misery of others. And that the telephone is both your best friend and enemy.

Enemy, you say? Sure. When your office consists of a desk, computer, three chairs, and two filing cabinets with strong locks, it tends to be the only thing that breaks up the day. But when you’re a one woman business, the phone is usually your enemy: calls from salesmen wanting me to buy copy toner and paper, salesmen wanting me to buy an intranet system, and salesmen wanting me to buy advertising for some far-off publication I’ve never heard of. And sometimes the phone brings an occasional wrong number, which can be amusing, especially if I’m in a naughty mood and pretend to be a hard-of-hearing senior citizen, trying to understand the intricacies of a cell phone calling plan.

But on rare occasions, the phone can be your friend, can mean business, which it did on this early September afternoon. The phone rang and I nearly jumped out of my chair, and I thankfully tossed aside my checking account statement, which was three dollars and four cents off, for which I had wasted nearly an hour trying to find that elusive three hundred and four pennies.

I picked up the phone, put on my best professional woman voice, Dunbar Investigations.

A man on the other end of the phone laughed. Karen, it sounds like you’re fighting a cold, and that you’re losing.

I laughed in return. Clay Bolger, you’ve just made my day. I reached into the top desk drawer, scrabbled around, looking for a pen –- and ensuring I didn’t accidentally grab my .357 Ruger stainless steel revolver -– and once finding same, retrieved it and flipped a legal pad to a clean page.

Really? Then you’re day must be pretty dull.

And you’ve just brightened it, I said, which was true. Clay was a claims supervisor for Great Northern Insurance Agencies, and just last year, I had finally gotten on their approved list for doing field work. A shock, I know, but most private investigation work isn’t skulking around, solving crimes or corporate malfeasance. Most private investigation work is done at the behest of insurance companies, checking on employment status, property ownership, or insurance claims.

And while it may be boring –- and boring can be good –- insurance companies rarely dicker with the bill and the pay quickly. But God help you if you’re caught padding the bill; then the word gets out to the insurance agency jungle drum system, and you’ll never get any kind of insurance-related work, ever again.

Go ahead, Clay, I said. What do you have?

Workers comp case, he said.

Got it. You got a case number?

Just the slightest pause. No, not yet. But don’t worry, you can go ahead without one. I’ll give it to you later.

My pen hesitated over the pad for just a moment. I’ve never met Clay –- and have only gotten to know him over the months through his slight, mild reedy voice –- but one thing I knew about my faceless employer is that he was a stickler for detail. My very first report for him was a bit on a traffic accident that occurred outside of town last year, and he had returned the report because I hadn’t put the proper accent mark over one of the claimant’s names, which was French-Canadian.

So not to have a case number… it was surprising, though not terribly so. Maybe he hadn’t had his second cup of coffee or something.

All right, I said. Name and particulars?

Reese Bronson, he said. Age of thirty. About six foot tall, has a beard. Worked as a general laborer for Amber Paper Company, up in Towler. Went out last month on worker’s compensation for an alleged back injury. Putting in a claim for permanent disability. Lives at Nineteen Trace Lane in your town. Got word that he might be doing some work on the side.

How much effort do you want?

Eight hours to start, he said, and I smiled, because that’s usually four more hours than he’s used to giving.

Great, I said. Civilization rides again against the barbarians.

That brought another laugh from Clay, for another thing I knew about my ghost employer is that he was a student of history. Once he told me early on In our professional relationship that he and I were on society’s ramparts, fighting the barbarians. And I had said, Barbarians?

Sure, he had replied. One of the first symbols of a civilized society is insurance, to protect you against losses. To pool risk, to cover the least fortunate amongst us. But over the centuries, we have to fight against the barbarians who want to lie, cheat and steal from insurance companies. Once people lose faith in insurance, Karen, then the barbarians will have won.

At the time I had thought that was a bit much, but what the heck, Clay’s particular outpost of civilization always paid promptly and I had learned to go along good-naturedly with his particular obsession.

Now he said, That’s right. We fight the good fight against the forces of darkness. And in this particular fight, you get a bonus if you find something under a week.

Better and better, I thought. It had been a slim summer, and this would be something to nice to top off the end of September.

Any questions? he asked.

Just one, I said.

Shoot,

Clay, you know I do good work. Why don’t you toss more stuff my way?

I heard a sigh on the other end. Karen… procedures and policies. What can I say. We can’t play favorites, and we need to rotate assignments among our listed investigators. You know how it is.

Sure, I said, and maybe I thought I knew it at the time, but later events would prove me oh so very wrong.

The next day I left early, even before the sun came up. I packed up my Ford SUV with the gear I’d need for the day, and my man Roscoe was grumpy that I was leaving him so early. He gave me a look like he thought that during the night, I had lost ten or twenty IQ points, and I bent down to scratch his head.

Don’t worry, bud, I said. Mamma’s gotta go out and earn some cash. Otherwise, you’d have to fend for yourself in the garage, nailing whatever field mice are unlucky enough to get close to you.

Despite the fact he’s about the size and shape of a disgruntled black-and-white raccoon, he purred some and rubbed up against my hand. I scratched his head again and then headed out, to fight the barbarians and fatten my checking account at the same time.

For a private investigator who works in a mostly rural area, my best friends are the maps from the U.S. Geological Survey. Last year, I traveled to our state’s largest city, Manchester, to do a surveillance on a cheating husband and my, was that bliss. Lots of streets, parking lots, alleyways, shopping centers and gas stations where I could hide out while doing my work. But in this part of the state, we’ve got long stretches of one lane country roads, and if I parked on the side while keeping look on a house, eventually somebody will stop by and ask if I needed help, and whatever cover I had would be blown.

But with those handy-dandy government made maps -– one of the few areas where I feel like I’m getting my taxpayer’s value -– not only can I pick out my target residence, but I also can find rises of land, old logging roads and hiking trails that can let me sneak in without being seen.

Which is what I was doing this chilly morning. I found a turn-around near an old cemetery where I parked my Ford SUV –- and left a few copies of Outdoors and

Reviews for The Hidden

[yoniben · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

excellent crime stories