Dangerous Women

“Can I help you?” he called back to me. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” I said. “Something’s terribly wrong. It’s Francine, Francine Drury. I’ve got to talk to you, Larry. It’s important.”

“Well, come on up to the house,” he said. “We can talk there.”

“No,” I said desperately. “We can’t go to the house.”

“Why not? What’s wrong? Has something happened to Mindy? My God, is she all right?”

“You’ve got to listen to me, Larry. Mindy’s fine, but she’s got a boyfriend. They’re pla

“Kill me?” Larry said. “Are you kidding? Mindy loves me, and she wouldn’t hurt a flea. That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. Where did you come up with such an outrageous idea? You haven’t been drinking, have you, Francine?”

“Of course I haven’t been drinking,” I said. “I was standing outside the gate. I heard them talking inside the garage-Mindy and somebody named Wes.”

“Wes Noonan, no doubt,” Larry said confidently. “I’ll have you know Wes is a very good friend of mine. I’m sure all of this is just some silly misunderstanding. Come on up to the house now, Francine. We’ll talk this over, have a drink or two and a good laugh besides when we finally get to the bottom of whatever’s going on.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” I insisted desperately. “Mindy’s going to kill you and try to make it look like you attacked her.”

“She’ll do no such thing,” Larry Harshaw told me. “Now come on. It’s starting to rain. I have no intention of standing here, getting wet and arguing about this. Are you coming or not?”

“Not,” I said. “But please don’t go.”

“I’m going,” he said. And he did.

I scrambled into my car, grabbed my cell phone, and dialed 9-1-1. “Washington State Patrol,” a voice said. “What is the nature of your emergency?”

“My name’s Francine Drury,” I said. “I’m on Magnolia, in Seattle. And someone’s about to be murdered.”

I was still on the phone, giving them Mindy’s address, when I heard the distinctive pop, pop of gunfire. There was a pause and then a third pop. “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed into the phone. “Please hurry. She already did it. She shot him. Send an ambulance, too!”

I stood there shaking, leaning against the roof of my Beetle for support as two blue police cars and an ambulance, lights flashing and sirens blaring, went screaming up the hill past me. I’ve never felt more useless. If only I could have made him believe me…

A third cop car pulled up behind me and a uniformed officer stepped out. “Ms. Drury?” he asked. “Are you the one who placed the first 9-1-1 call?”

“Yes,” I managed. “Yes, I am.” Then I burst into tears. “It’s all my fault,” I blubbered. “I heard her say she was going to kill him. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen to me, and now he’s dead.”

Something came in over the officer’s radio. I heard a garbled voice, but I couldn’t make out the words. “Sit down, please,” the officer urged me. “Let me get you some water.”

I did. I was too weak to object or do anything other than what I’d been told. I sat where he told me. There were other people on the street now, streaming out of neighboring houses, trying to figure out what had happened and what was going on.

Moments later the ambulance came roaring back down the hill. The onlookers parted to let it through. r

“That’s the male vic,” the officer explained, handing me a bottle of water. His name tag said he was Sergeant Lowrey. “She winged him. Superficial wound to the shoulder. They’re taking him to Harborview. He’s going to be fine.”

“And Mindy?” I asked. “What about her?”

Sergeant Lowrey took out a small notebook. “That’s her name? Mindy what?”

“Mindy Harshaw,” I answered. “What about her?” Lowrey shook his head. “When it didn’t turn out the way she expected, she turned the gun on herself.”

“You mean she’s gone?” I stammered. “She’s dead?” Sergeant Lowrey nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he answered. “I hope she wasn’t a friend of yours.”

“I thought she was,” I said quietly, fighting back more tears.

“But I guess she wasn’t anymore.”

SOFT SPOT by IAN RANKIN

Most evenings, De

Not that anyone knew. He reckoned most of his fellow prison warders wouldn’t care one way or the other. As far as they were concerned, De

His filing cabinet was secured with a vertical metal bar co

The other warders, they reckoned De

This was his job, and he carried out the work diligently. His ruler would underline a contentious sentence, and he would get to work with the razor blade. Excised sections were kept in the filing cabinet, glued to a sheet of stationery with typed comments including date, the inmate’s identity, and reason for excision. Each morning a fresh delivery of mail awaited him; every afternoon, he checked the outgoing post. These envelopes were prestamped and addressed, but not stuck down until De

He opened incoming mail with a wooden letter opener he’d bought from a curio shop on Cockburn Street. It was African, the handle carved to resemble an elongated head. This, too, he kept locked away whenever he vacated his office. His room hadn’t always been an office. He guessed it had started life as some sort of store. Maybe eight feet square, with two small, barred windows high up on one wall. There were metal pipes in the corner opposite the filing cabinet, and sounds from outside seemed to travel through them: distorted voices, barked orders, clanging and rattling. De

The smells were worst in the morning: unaired cells thrown open, the great unwashed scratching and belching as they slouched toward breakfast. He seldom had contact-actual contact-with these men, yet he felt he knew them. Knew them through their letters, filled with clumsy sentences and spelling mistakes, yet eloquent for all that, and sometimes even poignant. Give the kids a big hug from me… I try to think about the good times only… Every day I don’t see you, a bit more of me crumbles away… When I get out, well start over…