The Best American Mystery Stories 2019

Tonya D. Price Payback

from Fiction River

On a warm September morning I had gone out to pick up the Sunday Boston Globe at the end of my driveway when I spotted a big red dog racing toward me, running smack down the middle of Pleasant Street. He gave me a quick check before twisting his anvil-shaped head to look back at the direction he had come. His ears lay flat on the top of his head and his brown eyes had the wide-eyed stare of a wild animal desperate to escape a predator.

My guess was he was either full Doberman or a mix. I called to him but he didn’t slow down, instead the sound of a human voice seemed to panic him into picking up his pace. Looking back up the dirt road I tried to make out what had spooked the poor thing so bad. A powder blue Porsche raced toward me, kicking up a cloud of dust.

People drove too fast down the narrow country road all the time so the speed didn’t spook me. The hand sticking out the passenger window pointing a gun at the dog — that spooked me.

I froze as my mind struggled to make sense of what I saw. Two quick gunshots jolted me out of my indecision. We had a six-foot-high boulder at the corner of my driveway. For over five years I had cursed that boulder every time I had to plow the snow around the thing, now I used it for cover and blessed that rock for saving my life.

The Porsche sped by. The guy leaning out the passenger window fired two more rounds at the escaping dog.

People being mean to each other I could take, but I could never abide cruelty aimed at some poor dog. Feeling helpless, and mad as hell at the idiot behind the wheel of the Porsche, I ran out from my hiding spot and picked up a rock off my stone wall, hurling it hard at the car.

Maybe a good scare would cause them to leave the dog alone. In college I spent four years on the bench as the third-string pitcher. Couldn’t find the plate to save my life. This time I nailed the Porsche with a softball-sized piece of granite, smashing the rear window just as the car slowed on the curve down our hill.

The wheels squealed on the pavement and I smelled burned rubber as the car took the curve and vanished out of sight.

My first reaction: serves the idiots right if they crashed their fancy car.

My second reaction: throwing a rock at a car could land me in jail.

A few minutes later the Porsche reappeared, backing up the street so fast the car swerved left and right as the driver struggled to keep control. This time the gun sticking out the passenger window pointed my way.

Inside our house, my husband and six-month-old baby daughter took their morning nap together in our bedroom. I started to run toward the house but stopped. If I ran inside, I might be leading these lunatics to my family.

Living out in the country, we had no neighbors close by to run to for help.

I’d left the cell phone on my nightstand. I was the one the men were after.

In an effort to lead them away from the house, I ran into the woods. Too scared to look behind me, I ran as fast as I could for as long as I could on the narrow path, taking care not to trip on the tree roots sticking up along the ground.

The men didn’t call after me.

They didn’t fire their gun at me.

But I was sure they were behind me.

About a half hour later, I reached Iron Mine Pond. I waded into the warm water and hid among the lily pads, waiting for the men from the Porsche to arrive.

After ten minutes of swatting flies and mosquitoes, I began to wonder if maybe the guys had come to their senses and not bothered to follow me. After another five minutes, I pulled myself out of the water, my clothes wet and my shoes waterlogged.

On the way home I kept off the path, taking care to wind my way through the wetlands, risking tick bites over being spotted by the men who had fired at the dog.

As I walked, I began to calm down. Reason replaced panic.

No doubt the men had thought better of going after me and had decided to go home rather than get into a confrontation. Shooting at a dog was probably a misdemeanor. Shooting at a person would definitely get you jail time. The worse that would come of the whole affair would be a court case over smashing the car window.

I’d never been in trouble and they pointed the gun at me. I decided I would probably not be in that much trouble after all. Maybe I could claim self-defense.

I was looking forward to a hot bath and getting dinner ready by the time I came within sight of my house.

Instead, I spotted the Porsche in my driveway, smashed rear window and all. Neither the driver nor his gun-happy passenger appeared to be inside. Where had they gone?

They weren’t in the yard.

My house was a two-story colonial, cedar shingles with a big wide farmer’s porch. I didn’t see them on the porch.

After checking again that the men weren’t lurking in the yard somewhere I edged closer to the house and saw the front door stood ajar. My husband grew up in Manhattan. He never left the door unlocked, let alone open.

More likely the men had forced their way into the house and they had left the door open, but why?

Why even go into the house? The men might have been mad at me for throwing a rock at their car but they knew I wasn’t inside the house. Were they waiting for me to return?

The nearest police station was five miles away. The nearest house, three miles away. What would the men do to my family if I tried to run to get help? I doubted I could do much good in the house. My family’s best bet would be for me to get help.

We had two Volvos in the garage but the Porsche blocked the driveway. Maybe I didn’t need to get into my car if I could start the Porsche.

Woods lined both sides of my driveway. Using the thick pine trees for cover, I crept along the ground, staying close to the old stone fence as I inched toward the sports car.

Every few minutes, I checked the door.

With no sign of the men in the yard or on the porch, I made my way to where a large forsythia blocked the view of the driveway. Taking care to stay out of the sightline from the house, I dashed in front of the car, then walked half-bent-over around to the driver’s side.

I tried to open the door latch. The men might have left my front door open but they had locked their car.

I decided the smart thing to do would be to walk up the street in hopes of finding a car to flag down. Then I could use someone’s cell to call the police. The plan seemed the best course of action even though part of me wanted to charge inside the house, but what good would that do? I might even get my family killed.

The plan made sense. I might even have followed it if I hadn’t heard my baby crying.

And my husband shouting.

And the single shot.

I started to run for the house, not caring if anyone saw me or not.

There was more shouting.

Then I heard Jim’s voice.

He was alive.

I needed to keep him that way.

It was the gunfire that sent me running toward the backyard gate. My husband had used a bike lock to keep the gate shut. I put both hands on the gate’s top bar, jumped and pulled my legs over, landing on my feet.

The shed was new and built to look like a mini-version of our house. I didn’t have the key but I decided I would smash the door down if I had to. There were tools inside. Tools I needed if I were to try to save Jim.

The double doors for driving the John Deere riding lawn mower were padlocked but we never locked the side door. I slipped inside and searched for a weapon. Something not too heavy to carry. Something that could kill.

Something I could handle.

The axe was too heavy and not terribly accurate. I went for my fishing knife. The seven-inch, serrated blade would make a nasty cut. A short bungee cord served as a belt. I pushed one end through the knife-sheaf belt loop and tied the cord around my waist. My long work shirttail just covered the knife sheaf.

I still had my old softball bat but the men might be able to get that away from me. An old can of wasp spray would be more effective. Jim and I never owned a gun — except for a cordless nail gun, heavy as hell. At least it was loaded with a tape of nails. I just prayed it still worked.

Then I went to try and save my husband and my child.

From the shed, I could see the large copper clock on our raised deck that overlooked the backyard. An hour had passed since I first saw the dog running down the street. The sun shone overhead, a harsh glare.

The large windows in our sunroom provided a clear view inside. Both the sunroom and kitchen appeared empty. Two entrances led into the house from the back: a cellar door into the basement or the deck slider. I chose the slider.

When I was halfway across the yard I heard the familiar sound of the slider opening. Caught in a no-man’s-land without any cover, I charged forward, lugging the nailer. I ran to hide below the raised deck.

I dived underneath the planks, lying facedown on the stone pebble base.

A single set of footsteps on the deck above told me someone had come outside alone. There had been two men in the Porsche, but if I could get rid of one of them, then the odds might be a little better for rescuing my husband and daughter.

I needed to keep whoever was above me in the yard, separate from his buddy. I grabbed a nearby pebble and threw it into the woods on the edge of the lawn.

I heard footsteps going toward the house.

Jim’s cry kept going off in my head. I had to do something and soon.

“Hey!” I stayed hidden by the side of the deck, fighting the pounding in my head and the voice screaming that I had just made a huge mistake.

Convinced surprise might be my only hope, I knelt on the ground, holding the wasp spray at my side, and set the nailer on the ground beside me.

The footsteps stopped. They changed direction, walking toward the stairs leading to the lawn rather than back toward the house.

I could hear someone on the stairs.

A teenage boy with long hair and a NY JETS cap peeked around the edge of the deck. He was a small, skinny kid. He spotted me, breaking into a wide smile that showed his braces. Up until that moment I hadn’t gotten a good look at either of the guys.

Why did he have to be so damn young?

“Well, well, well... What are you doing out here? We’ve been looking for you. That Porsche you wrecked, that’s Matt’s daddy’s car. Matt loves that car. He isn’t very happy with you right now.” The boy laughed. “Nope, not happy at all.” He brushed a lock of long greasy brown hair out of his eyes. He didn’t look cruel. He looked young. Young and stupid.

Except he was cruel, I reminded myself. He had a gun tucked in his pants’ waistband. A gun he had used to shoot at the dog and me.

I had no choice but to rise to my feet. I aimed the wasp spray at him and squeezed the button. My attack came so unexpectedly I caught him full in the face. It must have hurt like hell by the sound of his screams.

Above us the slider squeaked open. “Dave? You okay, man?”

Dave wiped his eyes with his hand, then pulled out his gun. His arm swiped in every direction as if frantic to find me. In his wild swatting, he struck my arm with his free hand, then brought the gun around.

I dropped to the ground and balanced the nailer on the concrete deck footing. A bullet whizzed by my head.

There’s a good chance I had my eyes closed when I pulled the trigger. I only knew I shot off three nails. When I opened my eyes I found only one of the three-inch nails had hit the boy.

Right in the middle of his forehead.

As he fell, his gun went off, breaking the window in the door to the garage.

On television, you hear stories of people who survive getting a nail in their head. I debated if I should fire again. I couldn’t take a chance he might attack another time. His eyes stared at the sky. He didn’t blink.

I didn’t feel anything for him. All I felt was desperation to save my family.

“Shit! What did you do? What did you fucking do? Dave?” A second teenager, about the same age as the first, rounded the edge of the deck. This one looked more athletic than the other kid. He wore a muscle shirt and he had muscles to show off.

I raised the wasp spray again but nothing came out. The boy picked up his friend’s gun. Insanely, I didn’t freeze this time. Instead I thought, if he shoots me I can’t save Jim.

I dropped the heavy nail gun and the empty wasp-spray can. I ran as fast as I could away from him toward the far end of the house.

The fence wrapped around the entire yard. I was trapped but I ran anyway.

I had no plan.

The gun went off again. Something whished past my right ear, but I ran harder and started to zigzag my way across the yard. Once a television reporter had said running in a zigzag pattern could make you a harder target to hit.

At the edge of the house, I decided to try and leap the picket fence again. I slowed down. If I didn’t clear the fence and had to hang for a moment at the top and hoist myself over, I would make an easy target.

Overthinking such things usually leads to trouble. This time proved no different. My foot struck two of the pickets. Rather than go over the fence I fell down on the lawn, landing in front of the boy with the gun.

He stood over me, his hand steady. His finger on the trigger. “Get on your feet.” The order didn’t sound like it came from a teenager.

This time I had no choice. He had me.

I raised my hands in defeat. “Okay.”

He motioned with the gun in the direction of the deck. “We just wanted to scare you. Just hurt you a little bit for breaking the window. You didn’t need to kill Dave, you bitch.”

Maybe talking to him could save my family. Worth a try, anyway. “Windows can be paid for. I’ll pay for the window. Shooting a dog is a minor offense. Shooting a person is murder.”

“Yes, I know. You can tell that to the judge.”

Then he had no plans to kill me. The little bit of hope helped. If he wasn’t going to kill me, he wasn’t planning on killing my family.

We went onto the deck and into the silent house. Everything in the kitchen and sunroom looked the way I had left things before I went out to do a bit of gardening.

“Where’s the baby?” My daughter would be hungry by now. She should be crying but I heard nothing. “Jim?”

From the upstairs my husband called out, “Sarah?”

The boy pushed me forward. “Into the living room. “

I yelled, “Is the baby all right?”

The boy leveled the gun at me. “Shut up.”

He wasn’t able to stop my husband’s answer. “We are both okay. Just... just I’m tied up.”

I feared the worst as I entered the living room but the basket of white laundry I had left beside our brown leather sectional was still there. The CDs remained in place in the bookcase beside the collection of piano music my husband stored in the bookcase.

The boy walked over to my husband’s grand piano. “Yours?”

“No.”

He ran his index finger over the polished top of Jim’s beloved Kawai. “You don’t play?”

“No.”

The boy didn’t say anything. He just stared at me until I felt I had to offer him something. “I play the guitar.”

My Martin hung from the wall. The boy smiled and walked over to admire the instrument. He took a step back, raised the gun, fired into the guitar, sending Madagascar Rosewood splinters into the air. Steel wires flew across the room like shrapnel.

“That Porsche you wrecked. That’s my father’s car. He’s going to be plenty mad when he sees what you did to it.”

So this was his game. “I told you I’ll pay for the window.”

“Good, you can start tonight.” The boy cocked his head to one side. “Any other instruments you play?”

“No.”

“Nice house you have here.” He took his time walking around the room, then motioned toward the hall. “Why don’t you take me on a tour?”

I led the way down the hall, stopping at the bathroom. Not much he could destroy there. “Toilet, shower.”

“Let’s take a look.”

When I renovated the bathroom I added a handcrafted sink.

He pointed at the two oil paintings with his gun. “Tell me about the pictures.”

The matched set of my niece’s worthless art-camp work gave me a chance to divert attention from the sink. “They are originals. A gift from my mother who passed away last year. Please... don’t destroy them.”

“Ah, okay.” With a step back into the hallway he turned and fired into the sink.

“No!” I lunged forward toward the sink, but there was no way to repair the damage.

A large chunk of porcelain cracked and fell to the tile.

The boy laughed. “Fancy sink, isn’t it? Worth much more than a couple of kids’ paintings.” He pointed at my forehead. “Looks like you got cut.”

Sure enough, a look into the vanity mirror showed a cut above my left eye. Blood had started to drip down my cheek. I wiped it with my hand, smearing it along my face.

I tried to hide my anger.

In an attempt to distract him I asked, “Why were you chasing the dog?”

He didn’t seem to hear me at first. Something seemed to distract him. Then he directed his attention at me again. “What?”

“The dog you were chasing down the street. Why were you chasing it and trying to shoot it?”

The boy ran his palm over the peach fuzz on his chin. “Damn thing barked at my car when I came to a stoplight. We fired a warning shot and he just stood in the middle of the road barking his head off. Wouldn’t get out of the way. I tried to run him down but he took off. What is it to you?”

“I just wondered. Maybe he thought he was protecting his territory.”

“He was just a crazy dog.”

“Who made you mad.” I regretted the mistake as soon as I spoke.

The boy’s face reddened. “Not as mad as you made me.” He spoke in a calm tone, without emotion but I could hear the threat.

I had something more valuable than a sink to protect. Maybe if he destroyed enough of my possessions he would leave my family alone.

He grabbed my arm and pushed me forward. “Show me the rest of the house.”

At the end of the hall, we entered my office. Here he would think he had found a gold mine of possessions to destroy.

“Nice monitor.”

My thirty-four-inch Ultra Apple Monitor dominated my desk. Nabbed on eBay, I did love that monitor. Beside the monitor sat my scanner and an antique Waterford lamp with a large brass base, my first Brimfield Antique Show buy. The Hooker mahogany desk would be another alluring target. Behind the desk, placed against the wall, sat my curled cherry, hand-carved grand upright piano my mother and I had restored over a summer when I was fifteen. On the wall I had a handmade German windup clock with a big pendulum that rang a single chime with a deep, rich sound.

The boy took his time examining each piece. “Your husband has two pianos?”

“No,” I admitted. “This one is mine.”

He fired into the elaborately carved fern in the middle of the piano. “I knew you played. You look like a piano teacher.”

“I don’t play. I was saving the piano for my daughter.”

The boy laughed. “Oops!” He turned and fired into the clock, severing the metal spring. Small metal disks clanged as the internal parts broke apart.

He shot into the desk, then the monitor glass, laughing each time he destroyed something. He seemed to be having such a good time. When he ran out of bullets he reached inside his jeans’ pocket and pulled out a packet. He started to load the magazine without even bothering to watch me.

I might not get another chance to try to escape and I had to escape before we went upstairs in search of my best-loved possessions.

I didn’t have much time. I grabbed the lamp. The thing weighed almost ten pounds but it wasn’t too heavy for me to lift. Without trying to unplug it I swung the big brass base at the boy’s head like a baseball bat.

I missed his head but hit the hand holding the gun and he dropped it onto the desk.

The boy ducked, covering his head with his hands as I took another swing and missed again. I picked up the empty gun and ran toward the front door. He followed.

I thought he would catch me, but as I got to the door I remembered he and his friend had left the door open.

He chased me outside. Standing on the porch he screamed, “Come back or I’ll kill your family.”

I knew better. To punish me, he needed me. That was my advantage. If I escaped, he would have to chase me and capture me. His game was to make me watch him destroy the things I loved. Without me to watch, he wouldn’t kill my family. He had already proved that by waiting for me to return to the house.

Without the gun he had no weapon, so for the moment we were an even match. I had the gun. He had the bullets.

What I needed was a weapon.

I remembered the nail gun in the backyard. Too far away. Besides, the boy would catch me when I tried to jump the fence.

In desperation I spun around looking for something, anything I could use to try and stop the boy.

The only thing I could find was his Porsche.

Turnabout was fair, right?

I ran toward the car. “You think a smashed window was bad? You want to play smash things? Let’s smash your things now.”

Massachusetts has lots of rocks. Plenty of rocks. In the spring they rise out of the ground we have so many. I picked up a good five-pounder and ran toward the Porsche.

“No, get away from there. I’m warning you.” I could hear the panic in his voice.

I held the rock over the car. “Get down on the ground. Put your hands over your head.”

“Fuck you.” The boy ran toward me.

I dropped the stone on the hood and ran down the driveway without a plan other than to escape. He was a lot faster than me, even in my prime.

I picked up another stone and waited for him. Just as he reached me I threw the stone toward his foot, hoping to break a bone so he couldn’t run.

I missed.

He reached out and grabbed my left hand, then twisted my arm behind me. “So you like to throw stones, huh?”

Looking past the boy I saw the dog inching forward as if stalking prey. Ears laid flat, hair on his back standing straight up, his snarl showing teeth, the dog took a position just out of reach of the boy.

He began barking and barked and barked.

The boy turned around and kicked at the dog, “Get out of here.”

The dog just barked louder. Maybe he sensed the boy’s fear without the gun.

It was all the distraction I needed. With my free hand, I reached under my shirt and pulled out my fishing knife, then ran at the boy and sunk the knife in his back.

On his left side.

Where I figured his heart should be.

He sunk to the ground, moaning, then went silent. The dog inched toward the still body, barking louder than before.

I ran for the open door. Back to my family and to call for help.

I had thrown a rock to save a dog, and ended up killing two boys. Even as I rushed into the house I knew the boy had gotten what he wanted. He had destroyed something I valued almost as much as my family — that image I had of myself as a good, decent person, incapable of what I had just done.

I would never look at myself the same, but my family survived.

That was my payback.