Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/12 Page 9

  He scrambled some more, reached the edge of the wood, rose and faded into the trees. He moved faster now, heading toward where the monk had stood.

  The door of the monastery opened, and the monk swung toward it, raising the rifle.

  Abbot Joseph had run out of time. He sprinted out of the woods toward the monk.

  The monk turned toward him, the rifle pointing.

  The monks from the monastery shouted, their arms waving wildly.

  Then the monk with the rifle turned toward them, back to Abbot Joseph, back again to the monks, before turning around and running toward the woods.

  Abbot Joseph sprang forward, hurled himself toward the retreating monk, and slammed into his back.

  They went down in a heap of robes, Abbot Joseph on top.

  The monk beneath heaved himself upward.

  Abbot Joseph held on, aware that the rifle lay just to the side of them both.

  Beneath him, the monk tossed his body back and forth, trying to roll out from beneath.

  Abbot Joseph clung on, but felt his hands slipping, unable to get a good enough grip to prevent the robe from ripping loose.

  The monk beneath him freed an arm and reached back, grabbing Abbot Joseph's hair. He pulled hard.

  Abbot Joseph grimaced, then breathed out in relief as someone grasped the monk's hand.

  "Let go," Abbot Peter yelled.

  Not sure who was meant, Abbot Joseph hung on.

  The hand let go of his hair.

  Two other monks knelt at Abbot Joseph's side now, holding down the legs and arms of the flailing monk.

  Abbot Joseph let go and slid off, panting.

  Three monks pulled the offending monk upright and around.

  Abbot Joseph stared at the face of the young man from the historical society.

  The monks were gathered in the refectory.

  Abbot Peter came in. "Mr. Scanton will be okay," he said. "The shot went into his shoulder. He will be the hospital for a little while, but no major organs were hit."

  "Thank God," Brother Anselm said.

  "And thank Abbot Joseph," Brother Michael said. "He shouted just a few seconds before the young man shot, distracting him enough to throw off his aim. Otherwise, Mr. Scanton might be . . ." He stopped.

  "All of this," Brother Leo asked, "over a diamond ring?"

  "Over a very valuable diamond ring," Abbot Joseph said. "The young man believed that Scanton had either found it or would find it. But it wasn't the ring itself he wanted. He hated the idea of the ring's being found and providing someone with a pretty fair amount of money. The ring had been the cause of his own grandmother's losing her job, and her suicide. I believe that she passed on her bitterness to her daughter and, through her, to her grandson's troubled and susceptible mind."

  "So," Brother Anselm asked, "it was he who had shot at Brother Leo?"

  Abbot Peter nodded. "The police say that he has confessed to that."

  "I believe," Abbot Joseph said, "that he had become obsessed with the idea of the ring being found and the story being raked up. He feared that Brother Leo would find the ring as he dug up the ground for the flower beds."

  Brother Michael said, "He shot at Brother Leo and then trampled the flower beds."

  "I don't think so," Abbot Joseph said. "Oh, he shot at Brother Leo and Scanton to scare them away. But I don't believe he trampled the beds. He wanted to scare off Brother Leo from his planting anything further. He would have had no reason to destroy the beds. That would only result in more planting. No, he had nothing against the flower beds themselves. Someone else did." Abbot Joseph turned to Brother Geoffrey.

  Brother Geoffrey sat still, his hands folded in front of him. Then he looked up at Brother Leo. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should not have done it. I felt so angry, you see. I wanted the manuscripts to be authentic: to use the lapis and the gold. To be beautiful, truly beautiful."

  The other monks sat in shocked silence.

  "Yes," Abbot Joseph said. "Beauty can be a very effective motivator. For good and for evil. Perhaps, Brother Geoffrey, you can find some way to make it up to Brother Leo. Perhaps you can work on finding, with your experience in printing, the best possible inks for the calligraphy in the manuscripts. I think Brother Leo would like that.

  "Indeed, I would," Brother Leo said. "Perhaps, tomorrow, Brother Geoffrey, you could teach me something about the inks, so that I can understand how they would work with my plant colors."

  Brother Geoffrey rose, walked over to Brother Leo and knelt by him. "You forgive me?"

  "Forgiven," Brother Leo said.

  Copyright © 2012 Marianne Wilski Strong

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  MYSTERY CLASSIC

  FICTION

  TRICK OR TREAT

  KRISTINE KATHRYN RUSCH

  Art by Ron Chironna

  Sometimes in the mundane world, I feel like a fish out of water. But on that Halloween day, driving my Lexus SUV in a part of San Francisco I had never seen before, I felt like a whale covered in bling with a target on his back—and, oh yeah, in need of water Real Soon Now.

  It was my own fault. Over the years, I'd driven all over San Francisco in search of convention hotels—approving, disapproving, looking for bargains, seeing why the hotels really were bargains—and I knew better than to drive a high-end rental in certain parts of the city.

  The problem is that I usually need high-end rentals for their size. I'm six six and four hundred pounds on a good day. After the month I'd had, I was probably four hundred and forty pounds because I'd had to buy new jeans and haul out the XXXXL T-shirts that I'd packed away for emergencies.

  And now things could get worse. The last thing I wanted was some gang to carjack me at an intersection. I had no doubt that they'd toss me out of the SUV (shoehorn me out of the SUV?), but I suspected they just might shoot me when they saw the shirt. It had been a giveaway from the twenty-year anniversary promotion of the movie Alien, and it had a little rubber alien head bursting out of the chest.

  I was wearing the shirt with two conflicting expectations. First, I hoped that the folks at the shelter would think it was a great (if subtle) Halloween costume; and second, I figured Paladin would force me to wear the shelter's service T-shirt whether I arrived in a tux or arrived in my underwear. I had volunteered at shelters on special occasions in the past, and they almost always had special clothing requirements (usually that I had to purchase).

  If I had given this little detour more thought, I would have dressed a lot more sedately and I would have borrowed some book dealer's ratty van. Paladin was asking me to help out at a shelter, for God's sake, which meant by definition that I was heading to a relatively crappy neighborhood.

  But I was preoccupied with my role as Savior of Alternate Pro-Con, which wasn't really the name of the convention or my real title. If you're involved in science-fiction fandom, you know which upstart pro-con I'm talking about, but for the rest of you, here's a bit of a clue.

  There are only a handful of pro-cons every year in the science-fiction community, and only two over Halloween weekend. "Pro-Con" is short- hand for "professional convention," and it is designed for just the professionals in the field, from the writers to the editors. I suppose actors and producers and gaming company employees could come, too, but they almost never do, because what's the point of them showing up to promote things without a fan presence?

  As you can probably tell from my tone, the very name "pro-con" irritates me. For me, all sf conventions are professional venues, since I work when I'm at them. I am what is known of as a Secret Master of Fandom, one of the small group of fans who run science-fiction conventions. That may sound minor to those of you who have never been to an sf convention, but think of it this way: A convention forms for one weekend and, in that weekend, generates millions of dollars in revenue.

  The bigger conventions generate the most revenue. That's the other thing about pro-cons, they really
don't earn much more than the initial fees. Writers don't splurge in the dealers' room, and publishers don't see a need to have a booth. The restaurants and bars do bang-up business, but on a revenue side, a pro-con is generally a bust.

  I know this because I generally handle the finances for dozens of conventions per year. Among my many titles is forensic accountant, but that's not why most cons bring me in.

  They bring me in because I'm what's known of in Pacific Northwest parlance as a rarity: I'm a Microsoft Millionaire who managed to grow the fortune he got when he "retired" from the early days of Microsoft. Most Microsoft Millionaires—who got their millions before Microsoft figured out that paying in stock wasn't a good idea—are now Microsoft Poorionaires (also a Pacific NW term) because they divested the stock and spent the money about twenty years ago.

  Because I still have funds, because I love numbers, and because I really, really love sf conventions, I became the go-to financial guy in the sf world. Ultimately, that made me a SMoF. In the end, though, it's my ability to quietly solve crimes that occur in and around conventions that has made me famous and has given me the moniker almost everyone knows me by: Spade.

  As I mentioned, I don't like pro-cons, and the fact that I was working one of the worst annoyed the hell out of me. No one dressed up at a pro-con—at least, not in an sf costume. (They wore business suits.) There wasn't a dance or a masquerade. No one discussed TV or movies or games, unless they talked about selling to those venues. There was nothing fannish at a pro-con, and fannish was what I liked about conventions.

  Once upon a time, there was only one pro-con on Halloween weekend. But a few years back, some disgruntled pros who couldn't get into the long-running World Fantasy Convention (which limits its attendance) decided that they needed to have their own pro-con on the same weekend.

  These pros cornered some like-minded fans, and that was how Alternate Pro-Con as I'm calling it came about.

  Like WFC, Alternate Pro-Con has a "literary" bent, albeit not restricted just to the fantasy genre. Alternate Pro-Con decided to be ecumenical and include science fiction, not that that boosted attendance much. It just added a few more options for its juried award which it also patterned on the World Fantasy Award.

  I don't think I told Paladin about my hatred of pro-cons and of Alternate Pro-Con in particular, but I'm also not the kind of guy who can hide his emotions easily. And when I arrived in San Francisco, Paladin's home base, I suspect she got the message about my dislike of the entire process pretty damn quick.

  I contacted Paladin just before I arrived. I don't have any special access to her, no secret cell phone number, no address hastily scrawled on the back of her business card. Instead, I have to do what everyone else does: write an e-mail to Paladin@paladinsanfrancisco.com.

  I don't even know her real name. I call her Paladin, just like everyone else does. The only specialized knowledge I have about her comes from my own geekiness: I'm familiar with the fifty-year-old Richard Boone television series Have Gun, Will Travel from which she took her name. I know that because her business card (which I keep in my wallet for emergencies) uses the quotes from the Boone character's card:

  Have Gun

  Will Travel

  Wire Paladin

  San Francisco

  Only her card says "e-mail" instead of "wire."

  It took me longer than expected to get to the shelter, even though I rolled through every single stop sign in the neighborhood. It was a lot farther away from the con than I expected. And then the shelter itself surprised me.

  I had expected an old Victorian house, like so many houses in San Francisco. Something like an expanded Queen Anne, with an extra turret or a palatial (if rundown) former mansion cocked sideways on a hillside.

  This shelter was cocked sideways on a hillside (what wasn't, in San Francisco?), but it wasn't a remodeled old house. It was a still-active church.

  I never pegged Paladin as a churchgoing type.

  The church did have a parking lot right next door, and the parking lot had a wire fence around it, but no guard and no hidden parking place. I declined to drive in, going to the pick-up-and-receiving area in back.

  Like I expected, the church's kitchen door was open, and a junkie sat on the stoop, smoking a cigarette.

  "Ain't nobody can park here," he said as I pulled up.

  My face flushed. I felt like the rich guy that I was, and I was acting like some entitled rich guy, like the stupid pros I complained about at the Alternate Pro-Con. But I wasn't going to let anyone strip my Lexus rental for parts, not on this afternoon anyway.

  "I'm helping with deliveries," I said as I got out of the SUV, and wondered if that was true. Paladin hadn't really told me what I'd be doing. She said the shelter was handling a special event for Halloween and she needed my help with it.

  Special events could be anything from something modeled on Trick-Or-Treat For UNICEF or a special Halloween meal for folks who shouldn't be on the street or a special party for the kids lucky enough to have shelter that night. I had no idea and I had been too self-involved to ask.

  The junkie tossed his still-glowing cigarette into a nearby puddle. Then he stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and extended one hand to me.

  "Reverend Harvey," he said.

  My flush deepened. My bad, thinking this guy was a junkie just because he was beyond thin and smoking on the stoop.

  "My friends call me Spade," I said.

  "Ah," Reverend Harvey said. "Paladin told me to expect you. You want a safe place to park your car."

  I didn't think the flush could get any more painful, but it did. "It's not my car," I said, as if that mattered. "It's a rental."

  "Yeah," Reverend Harvey said. "We're not in the best of neighborhoods, but no one bothers with vehicles connected with the church. You can leave it here for now."

  "Thanks," I muttered. Sometimes I felt really stupid, particularly when dealing with regular people. It didn't matter that I had such a high I.Q. that I was in the point-one percentile. Brain smarts didn't always equal people smarts. I had people smarts for someone active in fandom, but the folks in the mundane world—that's the non-fannish world for those of you in the non-fannish world—had greater people skills than I could ever hope to achieve.

  Then I realized that Reverend Harvey's grammar had improved tremendously. "Ain't nobody can park here" was quite a different sentence from "You want a safe place to park your car." Different in grammar, different in tone, different in education level.

  My flush faded, and it took all of my strength not to give the man a piercing look.

  I knew some people who worked the streets used a different language for each audience, but Reverend Harvey had used two different languages with me. It made me uncomfortable, as if he was playing at something.

  Maybe he was. Or maybe the first time he was trying to get rid of the obnoxious fat white guy, and the second time, he realized that the obnoxious fat white guy had money to tap for the shelter.

  I let out a small breath and reminded myself not to be too cynical. After all, Paladin worked with these people. She knew who they were better than anyone else, and she was the one who told me to come down here.

  I followed Reverend Harvey into a huge church kitchen. The place smelled of garlic and frying hamburger. I saw at least three stoves and two large refrigerators, as well as a door leading into a freezer, and another into a pantry. Those doors had open padlocks hanging from their handles.

  Of course, a church that doubled as a shelter had to protect its most precious commodity: its food. Standing at a long table, a number of people chopped lettuce, onions, tomatoes, and other raw vegetables. Those volunteers wore jeans and a black T-shirt with a cross on the chest and the name of the church emblazoned across the back. I hoped I didn't have to wear one of those to serve a meal here. I wasn't affiliated with any religion outside of fandom itself, and I wanted it to stay that way.

  I didn't see Paladin among them. Reverend Harvey said hello
to a number of people but didn't introduce me. He walked through the kitchen and out the double doors. I followed.

  We entered some kind of gigantic room. I'd call it a recreation space, or a place for church suppers, but that might have been its original function. Now it held cots folded up against the wall, piles of clothing and bedding in the corner, and several volunteers setting up tables and metal folding chairs. A group of people in Halloween costumes gathered near one of the doors, and as I approached, one of them caught my eye.

  It was a slight woman with the posture of a dancer. She wore a glittery fairy tale gown and held a sparkling blue wand. Her long black hair trailed down her back.

  Then she turned around, and I gasped.

  It was Paladin, dressed like a girl. She even wore glitter makeup. The look accented her elfin features, and the hair was tucked behind her naturally pointed ears. That long black hair had to be a wig. I'd seen her just a few months before, and her blonde hair then had been cropped short.

  But the long hair suited her. So did the makeup and the outfit.

  She was breathtakingly beautiful.

  "What, Spade? You never seen a costume before?" she asked. The question—and the attitude—was all Paladin.

  "I expected to see you in a brocade vest and cowboy boots, carrying a Peacemaker," I said.

  "That was last year." She waved her wand and said to the group around her, "Meet me at the stairs in five."

  They nodded. Finally, I spared them a glance, and realized they were mostly kids. They carried buckets with the name of the shelter on it, and another, smaller bucket marked "candy."

  "I thought you might be doing something like Trick-or-Treat for UNICEF," I said.

  "Actually," Reverend Harvey said, "they're going to work a major convention downtown. Lots of city fathers will be there, and we should be able to coax a few donations out of them."

  "What am I supposed to do? Drive?" I asked.

  Paladin looked at Reverend Harvey. "Give us a minute, Reverend, okay?"

  "Surely," Reverend Harvey said, half bowing to her. Then he headed back into the kitchen. I uncharitably wondered if he was going back for another cigarette.