Mystery Tribune / Issue Nº8: Winter 2019

ISSUE NO. 8

MysteryTribune

WINTER 2019

MysteryTribune

P.O. Box 7638, New York, NY 10116 / email info@mysterytribune.com

To subscribe go to mysterytribune.com or call (347) 770-1361

Publisher and Managing Editor

Ehsan Ehsani

Associate Editor

Fanny Kellerman

Contributing Editor(s)

Charles Perry, Nick Kolakowski

Cover Illustration

Marina Pavlikovskaya

Design and Art Direction

Leo Lipsnis

Subscriptions and Advertising

Rachel Kester

IT Manager

Jack Rodriguez

Contributors

Hester Young, SJ Rozan, Hilary Davidson, Ryan David Jahn, Brittany Markert,

Anka Zhuravleva, Don Crinklaw, Erica Wright, Gary Earl Ross, Jonathan Ferrini,

Kevin R. Roller, Charlaine Harris, Olivier Bocquet, Julie Rocheleau, William R. Soldan

Contents

ISSUE NO. 8

WINTER 2019

Editor’s Note

Ehsan Ehsani

Publisher and Managing Editor

Time flies. Really. It seems like it was just few months ago when I sat down with Nick Kolakowski, in a bar near Union Square in New York City, to brainstorm the idea of extending Mystery Tribune's presence into print.

Nick, who has a fine story in this issue, has always been a great supporter of what we do and I am grateful for that. Same goes for many others in mystery community, from Reed Farrel Coleman to Scott Adlerberg; the list is long.

Our second anniversary print and digital edition features short fiction by some of our favorite female authors whose works have excited us for years: Essential reading is SJ Rozan's mind-blowing piece titled Cooking the Hounds. Hester Young, who has written the cover story, takes us to beautiful Hawaii with a plot about people who don't feel beautiful inside. And Hilary Davidson has a wonderful story which should not be missed.

The photography section in this issue contains art of two women with completely different visions: Brittany Markert and Anka Zhuravleva. The analog black and white photography pieces of Brittany seem like scenes from a nightmare or a disturbing ghost story. She uses her art as a means of self-healing to combat depression.

Anka Zhuravleva's work on the other hand, is much more colorful and aesthetically beautiful but a sad emotional undertone is still present.

Our usual round up of notable books by Charles Perry, A review of The Wrath of Fantômas crime comics, and an interview with Charlaine Harris are among the other highlights of this issue.

Once again thanks for your support by subscribing, purchasing or reading Mystery Tribune.

... hasta tres meses.

Fiction

What Burns

Beneath

by Hester Young

The neighborhood was empty except for a few noisy roosters. Shell trudged through the subdivision, unnerved by the total absence of people as she scanned for Connor’s street. Puhi Circle. It was around here somewhere.

She had expected more stragglers, residents holding out until lava appeared on their actual doorstep. Usually in Puna, evacuation orders were like a warning from your mother you just rolled your eyes at and ignored. This was different. Shell passed empty driveway after driveway. Those fissures out on 132 must have spooked everybody off.

It was a shit show out there, even by Shell’s standards. Earthquakes. Roads blocked. Plumes of steam seeping up from cracks in the concrete. She could smell the distant smoke as the slow-moving flow claimed vegetation and whatever else lay in its path. If she’d had anything to lose, she wouldn’t be here now, hunting down a past she’d spent years evading.

But she had nothing.

Literally nothing, after that meth-head stole her car last week. All her worldly possessions had been laid out in the back seat. A pile of old muumuus from Walmart. Some plastic dishes and cutlery. Her pills.

Shell could live without dishes and a change of clothes. Hell, she could even live without the car. But not the pills. Life without pills was no life at all. Life with pills was no life, either, but at least with benzos, you didn’t have to think so much about what a garbage human being you were.

Hands sweaty and heart racing, she paused by a pretty blue house lined with guava trees. Connor’s place was close, all right, but she had needs she could no longer ignore. The blue house was as good a spot as any.

She grabbed a chunk of black cinder from the yard. Funny. Landscapers traveled miles across the island to deliver this ugly volcanic rock. Homeowners paid good money for it—but they sure didn’t like it when nature showed up on their land with fresh product.

Shell glanced around the neighborhood. Still no one. She threw the cinder through a window and kicked away the glass. Once inside, she searched the bedrooms, bathroom, and kitchen for prescription bottles. Nothing. No Xanax or Valium, just a partially used bottle of Nyquil and some extra strength Tylenol. They would have to do. She downed the Nyquil and pocketed the Tylenol. Sat on the kitchen floor until her hands stopped sweating and her heart began to calm.

Now. Time to find Connor.

... the eruption had begun, just a few miles from Connor’s neighborhood. A sign, she’d thought.

She had thought about it for years, showing up at the house, asking the question that had haunted her for so long. Where is he? Where is Jace? But she’d been too chicken shit, too afraid to face him. Instead, she’d drifted around, scoring pills when she could, and hiding from anyone who’d ever loved her. Her mother. Tutu and Papa. All the friends she’d left on O'ahu.

Then the eruption had begun, just a few miles from Connor’s neighborhood. A sign, she’d thought. That nothing could stay hidden forever. That eventually, whatever burned beneath the surface would come bubbling up.

She had nothing to lose. And so here she was.

Shell left the blue house unlocked. Shards of glass glittered in the cinder behind her. She felt a pang of guilt. The bugs would get in, and the rain. She considered going back, trying to clean up, but the Nyquil had spread through her blood and it all seemed like too much work.

Find Connor, she told herself, trying to keep it all straight. Ask him.

She slogged back to the road. Kept her eyes trained for Puhi Circle. She might not find Connor right away. He probably wasn’t home now, what with the volcano. But she could wait. Eruptions didn’t last forever, and she had all the time in the world. Sooner or later, he’d have to return, and she would be there with her questions.

Where is he? Where is our son?

◆

Shell was nineteen, in her first semester at UH, when she met Connor. Back then, she was smart, effortlessly smart, but that was never what people noticed about her. She’d been born too pretty, with the kind of smile that made people want to give her things. Good grades, popularity, boyfriends—she’d never had to work for much.

Enter Connor.

Shell and her friend Pru had been window-shopping at Ala Moana when a pair of guys with military cuts approached them. The shorter, cuter one did all the talking.

I’m Danny, he said. And that tall guy’s my friend Connor. I hope you won’t think I’m a creep for asking, but is there any chance we could take you ladies to lunch?

Shell was a sucker for testosterone, and Danny was jacked, so after a quick conference with Pru, she said yes.

At first, she was too taken with Danny’s blue eyes and dimples to really notice his friend. Yet as Danny’s jokes wore thin over lunch and his immaturity began to grate, Connor aroused her curiosity.

What set Connor apart was his indifference. Though he politely fulfilled his duties as wingman, he took no obvious pleasure in Shell’s company, no matter how she flirted or teased. Shell was not used to being dismissed by males, and Connor’s nonchalance proved irresistible. Suddenly she detected passion in his dark gaze, integrity in his good posture, strength in his slightly off-center nose.

She studied his left arm, which was inked with the name Katie, and ran a finger casually over the tattoo.

Who’s Katie? she asked. Your girlfriend?

Connor tensed at her touch. Sister, he said. Died of leukemia when I was twelve.

Shell gasped and made a sad, apologetic noise, but in point of fact, she was hooked. Connor had suffered. Connor was deep.

She peppered him with questions for the rest of lunch and gradually, a picture emerged. At twenty-eight, he was older than she’d thought. Originally from Montana, he’d enlisted straight out of high school and served in both Iraq and Afghanistan. When she asked what happened on his tours of duty, he said, Not the kind of shit anyone wants to talk about and changed the subject.

"That guy is fucked up," she told Pru admiringly when they went to compare notes in the bathroom.

She gave Connor her number. He never called.

Unwilling to take no for an answer, she tracked down Danny on Instagram, and got Connor’s digits.

Who? Connor asked, the first time she called. Michelle? Yet he agreed to go out with her.

They dated for five months, and though Connor never really became any more talkative, he had other qualities that drew her to him. His toughness, his stoicism, his mysterious traumatic past—these all seemed the pinnacle of masculinity. In bed, he held her so tightly, his fingers left bruises on her back and shoulders. He was embarrassed, remorseful when he saw what he’d done, but Shell didn’t mind. She liked it. It was the only time she ever saw him lose control.

That spring, she missed a period. She’d been on the pill, but Shell was prone to miss a dose here and there, and she wasn’t entirely surprised to discover herself pregnant. This would be it, she figured. The thing that drove Connor to rage or joy.

Instead, his response was subdued.

What do you want to do? he asked. I can give you money, if you don’t want to keep it.

Shell crossed her arms. And what if I do?

Then... I don’t know. He paused. I could marry you, I guess. He rubbed his forehead. You should know, though, I’m really not good with kids.

Shell had no interest in marriage, but she liked babies, how small and sweet and helpless they were. She wrapped her arms around Connor’s neck and snuggled against him.

I wanna have a baby with you, she said.

It was that easy. Shell dropped out of school and got work at a hotel. Connor left the army a few months later and took a private security job. If he was sad or nervous about leaving an institution he’d devoted his entire adult life to, he didn’t say.

They rented a tiny house in Pearl City. Then Jace was born, and the plan was officially complete. They had a baby together.

Until the day they didn’t.

◆

Shell plodded along, her feet dragging. Something noisy was flying overhead. A helicopter. Two helicopters. Tracking the lava flow, probably.

She passed a long, grassy stretch without houses. Unlike O'ahu, which left no lot undeveloped, plots on the Big Island were often empty and overgrown. Mainlanders, Shell thought, glancing at the mess of weeds and invasive trees. Over-zealous haoles enticed by the idea of cheap Hawaiian land. They rushed in, wallets open, but weeks of rain and warnings of rat lungworm chilled their enthusiasm before they got around to any actual construction.

Across the street, Shell spotted a pink house with a vehicle in the carport. An old man in a beach chair sat peering up at the helicopters. He had tan skin and a belly that oozed through the bottom of his t-shirt.

The man squinted at her, and she could guess what he was thinking. That she didn’t belong on Puhi Circle...

She shaded her eyes with one hand and approached him. Couldn’t get away?

The old man shrugged. Where I gone go? Shelter? He made a face.

Shell knew from experience there were plenty of places to sleep on the island if you had a car, but she didn’t say so. Puhi Circle, she said. You know where that is?

The man squinted at her, and she could guess what he was thinking. That she didn’t belong on Puhi Circle, or anywhere else in the subdivision. Her stained clothes, ragged shoes, and greasy hair were a giveaway. In the end, though, he seemed to decide it wasn’t his job to police the neighborhood.

Turn left on Mano, he said. Puhi’s on yuh right.

Thanks.

As she started to walk away, the old man leaned forward in his chair. Hey. You seen the highway?

Shell shook her head. They blocked the road off. I cut across Ohia Estates. She didn’t tell him she’d spent the last four days squatting in someone’s half-constructed house, exhausting a supply of stolen Ativan.

Lava take down any houses over there?

Don’t know. Couldn’t see much from the road, just trees.