The Best American Mystery Stories 2016 (27 page)

Inside the room was one bed, the kind Goujon sleeps on, the head against the window. I squeezed through the window and landed on the bed.

The old woman sat in a chair beside the bed, a metal box full of papers on the table beside her, and she slept. Her eyes were closed, and she growled.

I crept to her. The bags of gold coins Goujon described were lying on the table beside her. I tried to pull one but there were strings on it, and they were wrapped around her wrist.

She growled again. What could I do?

I went back to the bed and stuck my head out the window. I tried to sign my problem, but Goujon didn't understand. Finally he climbed up the pole, badly, and reached the top.

I crawled out the window, hanging on to the sill, and when our heads were as close together as they could get he looked up at me and whispered, “What's wrong?”

Woman asleep. Bags tied to hand.

Goujon took one hand off the pole and almost fell. He pulled something from his pocket and held it up to me. “Razor. You know how to open it?”

Yes.
I had seen him shave.

I reached down to take it. I opened the razor and made sure I knew how to hold it. Then I crept back to the woman. I took hold of the first string and started cutting. The woman kept growling.

I caught the bag so it didn't make a sound. I put it on the floor. Then I started to cut the other string.

I heard a door close. A young woman had come in. Her back was to me and she was doing something to the door.

What could I do?

She turned and saw me. She screamed.

The old woman woke. She saw me and screamed.

Now I was scared. I wanted to scream too.

Before I could back away the old woman hit me in the face. Then she grabbed me by my fur. I tried to push her away, but the razor caught her in the throat. Her eyes went wide and blood squirted out, poured down.

I smelled blood. I was scared. I dropped the razor and jumped back. The old woman fell to the floor.

The daughter screamed louder than ever.

Outside from below the window I heard Goujon shouting, “My God! You devil! What have you done?”

The daughter would not be quiet. I put a hand over her mouth.

She bit me.

I put my hands on her throat. I made her quiet. She fell down.

“Get out of there, Jupiter! Take the coins and come!”

I was scared. I had never done anything so bad before.

I tried to pick up the old woman by her fur, but pieces of it came out. I grabbed her by the middle and rushed up the bed to the window. I held the woman outside so Goujon could see her. Maybe Goujon could help her?

His eyes went wide. “What have you done?” he yelled, frightening me. I lost my grip, and the old woman fell out the window to the yard below.

“My God! What have you done?” Goujon slid down the lightning rod. He ran from the yard. I heard the carriage with the horses pull away.

I lifted the daughter and looked for a place to hide her. The door was locked. I didn't want to throw her out the window.

There was no fire in the fireplace. I hid her in there.

I heard people running up the stairs, banging on the door.

I left the coins on the floor and climbed out the window, and it slammed shut behind me. I climbed up to the roof.

I kept going from roof to roof until I could not hear the screams, or smell the blood.

Before the sun rose I found a forest. There were many trees and a grassy place with a path where people walked. I climbed into a tree and hid.

I had not meant to hurt anyone, but I think those two women were dead. I had killed them like the hunters killed Mama. Like Goujon killed Professor.

Professor whipped me once for hurting one of his helpers. This was worse. What would happen now?

I stayed in the tree all day. People walked by on the path but they never saw me. I don't think they were looking for me.

After dark I went down and searched for food. I found a place where there had been many kinds of food and carts. I found bins where old food was piled and found fruit I could eat. Then I went back to the trees and made a nest.

That's how I lived for many sleeps.

The food was bad. It was making me sick. Professor could make me better but he was dead. Goujon killed him, but maybe he did it to help me.

One night I knew I couldn't stay there anymore. I climbed down and followed the smells back to the place where Goujon lived.

The door would not open, but I knew what to do. I climbed in a window on the top floor. Goujon was in a bed growling like the old woman had done.

That made me sad.

I touched him on the arm. He woke with a jerk and sat up. He was afraid.

“Jupiter! Is that you?”

I touched his hand.

Goujon leapt out of the other side of the bed. “Wait, just wait.” He lit a lamp.

“It is you! I thought you were lost forever. Where have you been?”

Food and water.

“Of course! Where are my manners? Come with me.”

I ate. He drank something that smelled spoiled.

I told him what happened.

“What an amazing adventure, Jupiter. I never would have thought you could survive for so long in this city. I am glad to have you back.”

Are the women in the dead house?

“Yes. You know you killed them, don't you?”

I didn't mean to.

“Yes. But I doubt anyone else would believe it.” He put down his glass. “Listen, Jupiter. There was one man clever enough to realize that only an animal like you could have broken into that house. A strange fellow named Auguste Dupin who lives in a ruined house with his boyfriend, I suppose. You should see the place! Nothing but moldy furniture and books, hundreds of books.

“This Dupin is both a genius and a fool, I think. He tricked me, convinced me that he found you, but he wasn't clever enough to realize that you are an animal who
thinks.
And that's the point, Jupiter. Do you know what they do to murderers in France?”

What is that?

“A murderer? Someone who kills people, like you did. They kill murderers—chop off their heads. Do you want them to chop off your head, Jupiter?”

My hands trembled as I signed
no.

“And I don't want them to cut off mine either. Understand me, Jupiter. If you are a mere animal, then you are not a murderer. But if you are smart enough to help me
steal,
then you are smart enough to
kill,
and they will kill you for it. Do you understand, Jupiter?”

No.

He sighed. “If they see you signing, they will know how smart you are. Then I will be killed as a thief and you as a murderer. But if you don't sign, if you can keep from ever letting anyone see you do it, then they will think you are just a brute, and neither of us will be punished. What do you say, Jupiter? Can you keep the secret?”

Could I? Could I pretend to be as empty and silent as the horses and the dogs?

“Jupiter?”

I didn't answer. I have never answered.

Goujon had no money to send me home. I understood. This is my punishment.

He couldn't sell me as a talking beast, but he sold me to the Jardin des Plantes. There are many animals here.

I live in a box of bars in a big house that is always cold. That is my punishment too.

There are other apes, but they don't like me. Professor made me different and they can tell. So I live in another building, alone.

Goujon came once and talked to me. I didn't answer.

He thinks I am afraid. He thinks I pretend to be an empty beast because they will kill me if they find out I can think.

I am not afraid. But after I killed those women I knew I had to decide.

What am I?

Professor tried to turn me into a man. I am not a man. I will not be part of a man.

So I must be a beast. I have decided.

Beasts do not speak. Beasts do not sign.

Yesterday there were a lot of excited men in front of my cage. They were all facing one man, who was pointing at me and talking. I couldn't understand what they were saying until one of them called him by name:
Dupin.

That was the man Goujon told me about, the one smart enough to realize an
Ourang-Outang
killed the women, but not smart enough to know that I was also smart.

Now he was telling everyone how he figured out that it was me and the men were telling him how clever he was.

He looked at me and I thought, If I sign now and he is so clever, he will know that I am signing, even if he cannot understand the words. Would he tell everyone, or would he be ashamed that he was mistaken?

My fingers itched to sign
You are the fool.

But I am a beast. Beasts are silent. I let him pass me, still thinking that I cannot think.

There are more people outside my box now. They yell at me and make the playing sound. I do nothing.

They look at me and I look back. I look back.

DENNIS MCFADDEN

FROM
Fiction

I
N THE BED
of another woman was by no means unfamiliar ground for your man, but this time there was a twist. This time, he could reasonably argue, it was in the interest of the missus, not merely his own (not that herself would be much persuaded). This time, in the service of their marriage, he'd proved beyond a doubt that their counselor could not be trusted, the same counselor she'd demanded that he accompany her to see if he harbored any hope at all of keeping her roof above his head. He'd demonstrated conclusively that all the rubbish their counselor had been spouting about trust, communication, sharing, that indeed her Ten Golden Rules for a Great Marriage, were nothing but a load of fluff and dander. By Lafferty's way of reasoning, any marriage counselor worth her salt must be honest, trustworthy, and above reproach, attributes he defined to include being above the temptations of the flesh, particularly when the flesh in question is hanging from the bones of one of her very own clients. And so he'd put her to the test. And so she'd failed utterly, the proof beside him here in her bed. Of course, how to frame the proof for Peggy, the missus, without jeopardizing his roof or his life and limb was the challenge with which he was now faced, even in the warm throes of postcoital bliss, those of himself and the counselor in question, Katherine Flanagan, LPC, IACP.

“I suppose I'll regret this,” she said, though something in her tone suggested to Lafferty amusement more than regret.

Lafferty said, “I get that a lot,” and sure enough, she laughed. A handsome lady she was, a lady who, unlike most of them Lafferty had known, seemed to become less exposed and vulnerable the more naked she became. She was plenty naked now. She'd a polished smile like that of a shark, and eyebrows painted like breaking waves. The short part like a scar at the front of her slippery black hair showed a root or two of indeterminate color.

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” she said. “That's my job.”

“And I've noticed, Mrs. Flanagan, you're bloody good at your job.”

“Please. Katie.”

“Katie? I'd have thought Katherine.”

“Katherine, Kathy, Kate, Katie-bar-the-door. Take your pick. I
love
the variety.”

“I think Katherine the Great, given the grandeur of your position.”

“And which position did you find most grand?”

Lafferty considered. “The one hanging by your heels from the trapeze, I think.”

“Sure, the blood rushing to your head enhances the sensuality.”

“
Keep romance alive.
Is that not one of your ten golden rules?”

“It is. And now you've had your lesson, you and Peggy can find your own trapeze, and I'll claim another victory in the war against the disintegration of the traditional marriage as we know it.”

Lafferty ran a finger down her ribs like a keyboard. “What's this?” He'd encountered a scar scarcely visible to the naked eye, a gouge on her side in the shape of a crescent.

“That,” she said. “That's my emergency smile. I take it with me wherever I go.”

“How did it happen?”

“This skinny fella was asking me too many questions one day, and I had to bump him off.”

A moment of musing on Lafferty's part. “And how did that result in a scar?”

“Who said it did?” She smiled, eyes simmering.

“I see. We'll just settle for emergency smile. A scar by any other name. Curiosity is overrated at any rate.”

“There's a good lad,” she said, rewarding your man with a squeeze and a snuggle, though he found the bones of her a bit sharper now than they had been before. Lafferty allowed his God-given tendency to retreat in the face of confrontation, of any class of unpleasantness, to shut his gob for him, though a bit of the curiosity lingered still. The mysterious Katherine Flanagan, whatever else she was, was evidently good at her job all right, her propensity for the odd lapse in judgment notwithstanding. For that he had to allow her a bit of leeway, he supposed, given the nature of his own charms, compounded by the dimple in the middle of his own chin. Her success was apparent in the opulence of the place, the breadth and depth of the bed, the silkiness of the sheets, the shine of mahogany everywhere, the grand sweep of crimson drapery covering the wall of windows overlooking the village of Kilduff down below. The office in the front of the house was furnished in teak and brass and warm, soothing hues. And the bathroom, when he'd gone there earlier, had been like nothing he'd ever encountered before. He'd been almost reluctant, in fact, to defile the place by doing his business there.

It was back to the bathroom his daydreams took him when the woman slipped into a dreamy quiet and he thought he heard a wee snore. For didn't he have to pee again. And he thought about Peggy, his own wife and her niggardly ways, particularly with the hot water, which she seemed to think required the burning of banknotes to heat. And he imagined luxuriating in steamy water and bubbles in the sunken tub of the blue-tiled room just beyond the polished doorknob there across the poshness of carpet. Decadent and delicious to be sure, the perfect complement to a day such as this.