Тимоти Уилльямз - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

“Mr. Mercer? Desmond Mercer?” Desmond inquired politely.

There was a long pause as the man appeared to be actually shrinking with dread.

“Yessir.” His reply was barely audible.

“Did you make this?” Desmond asked pleasantly, holding up a two-story, gingerbread-style birdhouse he had picked up in the yard.

This time, the false Desmond could not even make a reply, but dumbly nodded.

“Well, that explains the side trip to the hardware store.” And with that Desmond heaved it up and brought it crashing down on the head of the man who had stolen everything from him.

The miniature house exploded into dozens of pieces of wood and minute latticework, sending the stunned victim staggering back into his home. The entire house rocked as he slammed against the far wall and slumped to a sitting position, blood streaming from his scalp. Desmond was vaguely aware of the plump, weary-looking wife running in from the kitchen, wailing in fear and outrage.

“Don’t, mister! Don’t!” she cried, straddling her husband’s prostrate form. Beneath her, he groaned and clutched his head, blinded by the blood that ran into his face. Desmond noted, as in a dream, that she wielded a large butcher knife. It did not alarm him.

Instead, he was drawn to a shotgun propped in a corner of the mobile home. Why hadn’t he answered the door with this, Desmond wondered, even as he calmly retrieved it, broke it open to be sure it was loaded, and, satisfied, snapped the breech closed with a loud crack. Outside, air brakes hissed, followed by the unmistakable sound of a school-bus door clacking open. The shouts and laughter of children wafted into the room like evidence of life on another planet. He took a step toward his prey.

“Daddy!” The girls screamed simultaneously and rushed past the shotgun-wielding stranger as if he didn’t exist, to fling themselves over their wounded father.

“Mister, don’t!” the wife warned yet again, making threatening, pitiful swipes at the air.

Desmond took a step closer, bringing the gun to bear. He dimly registered that the two skinny girls might be in the way. “Stand away,” he demanded.

The older of the two — a pale, pouty-looking eleven-year-old — turned to face him, her eyes full of tears and defiance. “You better git outta here and leave my daddy be!” The younger began to cry as if her heart would break, her face buried in her father’s shoulder, oblivious of the blood.

Desmond gazed at the tableau as at a great work of art that he could not fully comprehend — puzzled, troubled, yet mesmerized by its unlikely, inexplicable beauty. He couldn’t look away. “This should have been mine,” he stated sadly to no one in particular.

The other Desmond had begun to recover himself, and managed to stand, shoving the girls behind him in the process. He wiped the blood from his eyes with his sleeve.

“Mister, you’ve got every right, but please don’t hurt my family. They ain’t to blame,” he pleaded thickly while swaying like a man on a pitching deck. “They’re no part o’ this.”

“No,” Desmond corrected him. “They’re every part of this.”

“It was me what done it. Caused everything, I mean. It was the damned bottle. I couldn’t leave it alone, and it cost me... us, that is, everything we had — my job, our house, car... everything. I run off like a coward, which I was... still am, as you can see.” He gestured weakly, as if anyone could see his fault.

“Then you came across me,” Desmond prompted. “In Cumberland.”

“Yessir... I did. I thought you was dead, mister, and that’s God’s own truth. I never woulda done it otherwise. I hope you believe me on that part.”

Desmond made no answer; thinking only that now they would even share a similar scar on their skulls. The new Desmond went on with his confession.

“It weren’t right... but at the time, it was like God’s providence... a second chance.”

“God’s providence,” Desmond repeated, recognizing the phrase.

“I used your money to buy tools for my business; my own I’d done sold off for whiskey and such. When I got back, I told the old lady what I done.” He nodded toward his wife, the knife still in her hand, but now pointing at the floor. “She scolded me good, but I wouldn’t listen. It was a chance, you see, and it was me determined to take it. I made ’em come along.”

Desmond was aware of the soft weeping of both girls now in the quiet room.

“So I got credit cards in your name, and closed out your old one. Did the same with your license and car and moved us here to set up shop,” the new Desmond continued in a rush, as if every word were a relief. “’Course, I guess I knew there’d be a reckoning someday; I was always lookin’ over my shoulder — I just never guessed it would be you.”

The woman spoke up. “Some good come of it, mister. He swore he’d never take another drop, and he ain’t. He was always a good man but for that bottle, and praise God, that at least is behind us. He’s done wonderful well by us since.”

Desmond’s eyes wandered over their meager, shabby possessions and back to the contrite, brave man and the family that was willing to die for him.

“You stole nothing of value from me,” he announced quietly, leaning the shotgun against the wall. “I possessed nothing of value. As to my ‘identity’...” Desmond laughed bitterly. “You’ve already made better use of it than I ever did.”

With that said, he left the bewildered family and drove away. It no longer mattered where.

Copyright (c); 2005 by David Dean.

This new Farber story is set, the author explains, “peripherally in the world of soap opera — oddly, the area of TV in which I have the least experience. My decades in the medium were spent mostly writing movies of the week and long-form pilots... I also have fond memories of my work on comedy and musical shows.” When he wasn’t writing for TV, Mr. Cotler wrote mystery novels, one an Edgar winner and another Edgar nominated.

The voice was strong and clear. Without being particularly loud, it carried unmistakably across the precinct lobby from the duty sergeant’s desk to where Farber was pulling on his windbreaker at the front door.

“That’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” the woman said.

It may have been the statement, it may have been that the speaker was an attractive young woman, or maybe it was that things were slow in Homicide and Farber had too much time on his hands. Whatever the reason, he found himself crossing the lobby with his coat half on, half flapping, while he said, “What’s the stupidest thing you ever heard?” At the inquiring look from her troubled brown eyes he mumbled, “Name’s Farber. I collect stupid things.”

“Not your department, Lieutenant,” the duty sergeant said, warning him off.

“I don’t care whose department it is,” the young woman snapped. Up close, it appeared her perfect nose had been enhanced by cosmetic surgery and her teeth were possibly too good to be true, but the eyes were real and they were appealing. She said, “My roommate’s missing and this man won’t do anything about it. Have you ever heard anything more outrageous?”

“How long is she missing?” Farber said.

“Three hours.”

“That’s why the good sergeant can’t help you. People disappear every day in this city for perfectly innocent reasons — innocent, anyway, in the eyes of the law. Your friend will have to be missing at least forty-eight hours before you can file a report. History tells us it’s probably too soon for you to start worrying.”