Gary Alexander - The Best American Mystery Stories 2010

He thinks of his girl thawing at home, how he will have to soon decide how badly he wants to feel that, to feel her skin so close to his own.

He thinks of the boyfriend he saw through the binoculars and wonders if boyfriend is really the word he needs.

The redhead takes something from the unoccupied man and puts it on her tongue. The man laughs and motions to his friend, who releases his girl and picks up a twelve-pack of beer from the cement. All four of them get into the sports car and drive off together in the direction of the pond, the town beyond. Punter stands still as they pass, knowing they won’t see him, that he is already — has always been — a ghost in their world. Punter coughs, not caring where the blood goes anymore. He checks his watch, I he numbers glowing digital green in the shadows of the trees. He’s not out of time yet, but he can’t think of any way to buy more. He decides.

Once the decision is made, it’s nothing to walk into the empty gas station, to push past the waist-high swinging door to get behind the counter. It’s nothing to grab the gas station clerk — OSWALD, he reads again, before he shakes the name clear of his head — and press the knife through his uniform, into the small of his back. Nothing to ignore the way the clerk squeals as Punter pushes him out from behind the counter.

The clerk says, You don’t have to do this. He says, Anything you want, just take it. I don’t fucking care, man.

It’s nothing to ignore him saying, Please don’t hurt me.

Punter thinks, Not so brave now.

It’s nothing to ignore the words, to keep pushing the clerk toward the back of the gas station, to the hallway behind the coolers. Punter pushes the clerk down to his knees, feels his own feet slipping on the cool tile. He keeps one hand on the knife while the other grips the clerk’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the hollow spaces between muscle and bone.

The clerk says, Why are you doing this?

Punter releases the clerk’s shoulder and smacks him across the face with the blunt edge of his hand. He chokes the words out. The girl. I’m here about the girl.

What girl?

Punter smacks him again, and the clerk swallows hard, blood or teeth. They’re both bleeding now. Punter says, You know. You saw her. You told me.

Her? The clerk’s lips split and begin to leak. He says, I never did anything to that girl. I swear.

Punter thinks of the clerk bragging, about how excited he was to be the center of attention. He growls, grabs a fistful of greasy hair, then yanks hard, exposing the clerk’s stubbled throat, turning his face sideways until one eye faces Punter’s. The clerk’s glasses fall off, clattering to the tile.

The clerk says, Punter. He says, I know you. Your name is Punter. You come in here all the time.

The clerk’s visible eye is wide, terrified with hope, and for one second Punter sees his mother’s eyes, sees the girl’s, sees his hand closing their eyelids for the last time.

The clerk says, I never hurt her, man. I was just the last person to see her alive.

Punter puts the knife to flesh. It’s nothing. He doesn’t have a choice now, and anyway, we’re all the last person to see someone. He snaps his wrist inward, pushes through. That’s nothing either. Or, if it is something, it’s nothing worse than all the rest.

And then dragging the body into the tiny freezer. And then shoving the body between stacks of hot dogs and soft pretzels. And then trying not to step in the cooling puddles of blood. And then picking up the knife and putting it back in its sheath, tucking it into his waistband again. And then the walk home with a bag of ice in each hand. And then realizing the ice doesn’t matter, that it will never he enough. And then the walk turning into a run, his heart pounding and his lungs heaving. And then the feeling he might die. And then the not caring what happens next.

And then.

By the time Punter gets back to the garage, the ice is already melting, the girl’s face jutting from between the cubes. Her eyelids are covered with frost, cheeks slick with thawing pond water. He reaches in and lifts, her face and breasts and thighs giving in to his fingers but her back still frozen to the wrapped venison below. He pulls, trying to ignore the peeling sound her skin makes as it rips away from the paper.

Punter speaks, his voice barely audible. He doesn’t have to speak loud for her to hear him. They’re so close now. Something falls off, but he doesn’t look, doesn’t need to dissect the girl into parts, into flesh and bone, into brains and blood. He kisses her forehead, her skin scaly like a fish, like a mermaid. He says it again. You’re safe now. They are just words but hopefully the right ones.

He sits down with the girl in his arms and his back to the freezer. He rocks her, feels himself getting wet as she continues to thaw all over him. He shivers, then puts his mouth against hers, breathes deeply from the icy blast still frozen in her lungs, lets the air cool the burning in his own throat, the horror of his guts. When he’s ready, he picks her up, cradles her close, and carries her into the house. He takes her into the bedroom and lays her on the bed.

He lies beside her, and then, in a loud, clear voice, he speaks. He tries not to cough, tries to ignore the scratchy catch at the back of his throat. He knows what will happen next, but he also knows that by the time they break down his door, by the time they come in with guns drawn and voices raised, all this will be over. He talks until his voice disappears, until his trapped scream becomes a whisper. He talks until he gets all of it out of him and into her, where none of these people will ever be able to find it.

San Antonio (TX) Gazelle, September 14, 1842:

The attorneys taken hostage by an arm of the Mexican Army three days hence have not reappeared. The town is much perturbed, and there is some talk of mounting a rescue effort.

They straggled back to San Antonio in ones and twos and small groups as they were released from Perote Prison. Some traveled over land, some by boat across the Gulf of Mexico. But each arrived bedraggled, thinner, and with watchful eyes. Some of the men had families to greet their returns, most had friends, all had practices. But it was hard to resume their lives. Nothing they could lay their hands to seemed as worthwhile as just the fact of being free.

For a while, it wasn’t clear everyone was coming back. The Mexicans might well kill a few of their number as an example or because they didn’t have family to ransom them. While the released men woke every morning overjoyed to find light coming through windows, a part of them remained in prison with their friends.

One of the last of the lawyers to return to San Antonio was William “Bill” Harcourt. He had spent more than a year in prison in Mexico, and his hometown appeared very changed; both larger — as he approached from the south on horseback, the buildings appeared a vast intrusion on the landscape — and smaller; when he got to the heart of the city, the buildings were neither as many nor as impressive as he remembered. He stayed at home for five days and nights, he and his wile reliving their meeting, courtship, and honeymoon, accelerated by past knowledge. For that long, not even the nearest neighbors saw them, and it was as if Mrs. Harcourt had vanished along with her husband, rather than that he had returned.

But pleasant as it was to catch up on events and become reacquainted with his wife, staying in the house was too strong a reminder of confinement, so on the sixth day, Bill strolled downtown to his law office. It was a bright day in February and the walk cheered him. Being surrounded by people and buildings and commerce made him feel safe. But as soon as he stepped into the gloom of the offices, he thought, Why do people choose to imprison themselves like this?