Exit wounds, p.1
Exit Wounds, page 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Also Available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction Paul B. Kane & Marie O’Regan
The Bully Jeffery Deaver
Dead Weight Fiona Cummins
Like a Glass Jaw Mark Billingham
On The Anatomization of an Unknown Man (1637) by Frans Mier John Connolly
The Pitcher Sarah Hilary
Disciplined Martyn Waites
The Consumers Dennis Lehane
Voices Through the Wall Alex Gray
Wet With Rain Lee Child
Happy Holidays Val McDermid
Fool You Twice Steph Broadribb
Lebensraum Christopher Fowler
Dancing Towards the Blade Mark Billingham
Kittens Dean Koontz
Take My Hand A.K. Benedict
Dressed to Kill James Oswald
Booty and the Beast Joe R. Lansdale
The New Lad Paul Finch
The Recipe Louise Jensen
About the Authors
About the Editors
Acknowledgements
Copyright and First Publication Information
EXIT
WOUNDS
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Exit Wounds
Print edition ISBN: 9781785659188
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785659195
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: May 2019
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Introduction Copyright © Paul B. Kane & Marie O’Regan 2019
The Bully Copyright © Jeffery Deaver 2019
Dead Weight Copyright © Fiona Cummins 2019
Like a Glass Jaw Copyright © Mark Billingham Ltd 2015. This story was originally broadcast on BBC Radio 4 in 2015 as part of the series Blood, Sweat and Tears.
On The Anatomization of an Unknown Man (1637) by Frans Mier Copyright © John
Connolly 2016. Originally published in Night Music: Nocturnes 2.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
The Pitcher Copyright © Sarah Hilary 2019
Disciplined Copyright © Martyn Waites 2019
The Consumers Copyright © Dennis Lehane 2012. Originally published in Mystery Writers
of America present Vengeance. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Voices Through the Wall Copyright © Alex Gray 2009. Originally published in Shattered:
Every Crime has a Victim. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Wet With Rain Copyright © Lee Child 2014. Originally published in Belfast Noir.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
Happy Holidays Copyright © Val McDermid 2008. Originally published in
the Daily Mail. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Fool You Twice Copyright © Marland Broadribb Ltd. 2019
Lebensraum Copyright © Christopher Fowler 2019
Dancing Towards the Blade Copyright © Mark Billingham Ltd. A version of this story
was first published in Men From Boys, edited by John Harvey. Published by William
Heinemann Ltd, 2003. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Kittens Copyright © Dean Koontz 1966. Originally published in The Reflector,
Shippensburg University, Shippensburg, Pennsylvania; revised edition
© Dean R. Koontz 1995. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Take My Hand Copyright © A.K. Benedict 2019
Dressed to Kill Copyright © James Oswald 2019
Booty and the Beast Copyright © Joe R. Lansdale 1995. Originally published in
Archon Gaming. Reprinted by permission of the author.
The New Lad Copyright © Paul Finch 2019
The Recipe Copyright © Louise Jensen 2019
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
INTRODUCTION
By Paul B. Kane & Marie O’Regan
We have both been fans of the crime genre for as far back as we can remember.
Our tastes have always been wide-ranging, as broad as the genre itself. From the mysteries of Agatha Christie to Colin Dexter’s Morse, from the hard-boiled detective stories of Raymond Chandler to the serial killer tales of Thomas Harris and Jeff Lindsay – over the years we’ve lapped them all up. Needless to say, they’ve also influenced our own work, from novels like The Gemini Factor to collections such as Nailbiters and In Times of Want …
And over the course of our careers in fiction, we’ve also been fortunate enough to meet a lot of our crime-writing heroes, whether it’s at conventions – some of which we’ve even run ourselves – or online, either through social media or just on email. This got us thinking, over a drink in a pub (drinking and thinking, just like all the best detectives), what if we were to try and put together an anthology of stories by some of our favourite crime writers, something we would love to read ourselves? After all, we’ve racked up a fair amount of experience between us compiling anthologies such as Hellbound Hearts, A Carnivàle of Horror, Phantoms and Beyond Rue Morgue (also by Titan and of interest to crime fans because it gathers together new stories featuring Poe’s detective Dupin).
But what should the focus be this time? As already mentioned, there’s such a wide scope to crime fiction; from psychological to procedural, from the armchair detective to hit-men and assassins, the genre takes them all in. There’s one thing you tend to find in a crime story, however, and that’s an exit of some kind. Sometimes it’s a death, an event that kicks everything off … or even ends it. Or it could be a case of someone going missing, leaving a family not knowing what happened. Or simply somebody skipping out on a marriage, or a deal, or even a country. Or it might be that a character has reached the point of no return and sees no option but to end it all themselves.
And, of course, an inevitable consequence of that exit or absence – whether it comes at the end or the beginning of a tale – is likely to be a wound of some sort. It doesn’t have to be physical, it can be emotional (sometimes those kinds of wounds are even worse). Put both of these ideas together and you have … Exit Wounds, the book you are holding in your hands and which we’re incredibly proud of.
Inside these pages you’ll find many varied tales of both exits and wounds, the topics left as wide open as possible for authors to deliver their very best work. And do we have some treats in store for you! From how the main character in Jeffery Deaver’s “The Bully” deals with the titular threat, to an overbearing mother in Fiona Cummins’ “Dead Weight”; from a certain famous painting in John Connolly’s “On the Anatomization of an Unknown Man (1637) by Frans Mier” to a journalist’s hunt for a story in Sarah Hilary’s “The Pitcher” and the depravities of love in Martyn Waites’ “Disciplined”.
Dennis Lehane, meanwhile, offers a cautionary tale about modern life in “The Consumers”, Alex Gray’s haunting “Voices Through the Wall” will give you pause for thought, as will Christopher Fowler’s affecting “Lebensraum”, and Lee Child’s jumping-off point is the sale of a house in “Wet With Rain”. We present Dean Koontz’s first ever published story here in the form of the shocking “Kittens”, mix mythology and crime in A.K. Benedict’s “Take My Hand”, and serve up a slice of good ol’-fashioned Texas noir in Joe R. Lansdale’s “Booty and the Beast”.
There’s a double helping of crime favourite Mark Billingham in the form of “Like a Glass Jaw” and “Dancing Towards the Blade”, plus a hard-hitting novelette from Paul Finch, “The New Lad”, and a subtly chilling look at suburban life in Louise Jensen’s “The Recipe”. All this and appearances from Val McDermid’s beloved characters Tony Hill and Carol Jordan in “Happy Holidays”, bounty hunter Lori Anderson (her first adventure, actually) in Steph Broadribb’s “Fool You Twice”, and Scottish detective Inspector McLean in James Oswald’s “Dressed to Kill”. All in all, a line-up that should please fans of crime in all its forms.
But now, it’s time for you to read; to be wounded by some real professionals.
And for us, the editors, to exit …
Paul B. Kane & Marie O’Regan
Derbyshire, 2018
THE BULLY
JEFFERY DEAVER
He’s here.
Hell.
I’m in the back of the Eagle Tavern, which at six thirty isn’t yet highly populated, and what customers there are aren’t three sheets to the wind. Mostly now it’s an after-work crowd and these imbibers will be driving on home after only a wine or beer or two. Later, the place will be bustling and Ubers and cabs and designateds will get the seriously impaired home for bed tuckee-in. That’s the kind of neighborhood this is.
I’ve been watching some of the action, just curious, but the minute I saw him, all my other thoughts vanished.
He’s getting a drink and talking to Sharee the bartender, a sweet African American girl not much over the legal drinking age. My impression is he wants to reach out his meaty paw and close his fingers around her arm or shoulder – her butt being inaccessible from where he stands. But as tough as he is, it seems she’s a notch tougher, being a bartender, and she’s not having any of his bullshit. He wears a shabby navy sport coat and tan slacks with explosive wrinkles radiating out from the crotch. His gray shirt clings tightly to a barrel chest.
For a moment – since he’s focused on Sharee – I think maybe I’ve got it wrong. He works around the corner, so maybe it’s just a coincidence he’s here.
But then his round head, covered with a shaggy blond pelt, turns slowly toward me and tips that creepy smile my way. He’s not surprised in the least to see me. It means that, oh yeah, he knew I was in the Eagle. Maybe he got off work and happened to see Larry and me stop by for a fast one. Or, also possible and more troubling, he followed me here.
My jaw tightens and heat swells around my face, which often happens whenever I see him. This is so unfair. I’m a twenty-six-year-old successful web designer, a good brother, a good boyfriend, a genial host at parties I throw for my clients and friends, a donor to NPR and animal rescue outfits. Objectively? I’m too old and too nice to have a bully.
But I’ve ended up with one. And what a bully he is: Stan Whitcomb, all six foot, three inches and two hundred and fifty pounds of him.
Being of diminished height and having had a horrifically embarrassing parent, I experienced bullying as a kid, plenty of it. I learned young that there’re people who become convinced it’s their mission to ruin your life for no better reason than that they think you did something they didn’t like, or there’s something about you – you’re fat, you stutter, you’re short (!) – that rankles them.
At the shadowy high-top, I sip my Diet Coke and debate next steps. I look around for Larry and spot him in the back room, by the digital jukebox. He’s struck up a conversation with a slim blonde in a cowgirl getup. I spend a fair amount of time with Larry – we met because of the Ambrose Avenue tornado. He was the insurance investigator who assessed the aftermath of the contest between a hundred-year-old oak tree and my garage (two months after I’d moved in, two!). And we started to hang out some after the claim was settled.
Larry’s trim, with dark hair and a great tan, since he’s outdoors most of the day. He’s not talkative and comes off a bit distant. My theory is it’s because he’s always sizing people up, a habit developed because there’re some who don’t think ripping off insurance companies is a crime; somehow their deep pockets make fake claims all right. So he comes off as standoffish and shy – though for some reason I tend to think of him as “bashful.” I’m not sure there’s a difference between those two, but the latter word seems to fit better.
This makes Larry’s search for a girlfriend an uphill battle. Witness now: I can see he’s struggling to make conversation with the cowgirl. She’s none too receptive. He’s trying hard, grinning – not a natural expression for Larry – and probably telling jokes she doesn’t want to hear, and that he can’t tell well. Also, it’s possible there’s another thought in the back of her head: the recent unsolved murders, women about her age in Auburn Hills, the town next to Mammoth Falls. The killer still being at large has put a crimp in the county dating scene. When I met Sarah and asked her out, she said sure but added – subtly – that, since I was new to town, she’d gladly be in charge of the itinerary. I realized later she set it up so that we were never alone that first night out. I called her on it later and she stammered for a moment, then broke into a blushing grin and admitted the truth. It’s been a private joke between us ever since.
Finally Larry’s cowgirl gives him one of those nice-talking-with-you-even-though-I-don’t-mean-it smiles. She feeds her own dollar into the jukebox, punches some numbers and walks back to her friends. Larry looks after her. His face isn’t defeated. Just blank. I feel bad for him but this is good news for me. Now that the bully, Whitcomb, has showed up, I want to get the hell out of here. If Larry had hooked up with Blondie, it would’ve meant staying for a while.
Now, at last, out of the corner of my eye I see Whitcomb push away from the bar and I know where he’s headed. Just then Larry too starts my way but, fast, I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the screen, pretending I’ve gotten a call – you can’t hear ringtones because the cowgirl picked a loud Bruno Mars song. It’s not exactly being honest with Larry but I haven’t told him about the bully and want to keep it that way.
I hold up a wait-a-minute finger and lift the unit to my ear. Larry nods and moves to the pool table, watching a couple of ladies play. They nod in response to his greeting but then strike identical expressions: We’re ignoring you; why try?
Then the low voice rattles in my ear. “You’re not making a call.”
Whitcomb.
“Because, Little Hank, it’s your locked home screen. Anybody can see that. You’re faking.”
The “Little” is an obvious insult. The “Hank” part is because when we met the first time I said I preferred “Henry.” And, of course, he’s been calling me Hank ever since.
I sigh.
“That’s kinda pathetic, wouldn’tchya say? That crap with the phone. Hopin’ to avoid me. Like I’ll think, ‘Oh, the big man’s talking to some phone sex whore, so Stan won’t bother him.’”
I’d be amused that he’s misinterpreted the ploy if I wasn’t so upset.
“I just … I was going to make a call.”
“Really? Hm.”
“What do you want, Stan?”
“I like that we’re on a first-name basis, Hank.” He sips more of his liquor. “Oh, there’s nothing I want. Just came by to say hi. Who’s your girlfriend?”
For an instant I think he means Sarah, but then he adds, “That you sashayed in here with.”
Larry.
“Nobody. A friend. Come on, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble? Trouble? You saying I’m trouble, Hank?”
Stan is a foot taller than I am. For some reason that damn grin makes him seem taller.
“I’m just having a drink here. Minding my own business is all.” I look away. There are some people glancing toward us now. Those watching mano-a-mano shit like this are like sharks noting blood.
“What’re you drinking?” He picks the glass up and sniffs. He laughs and sets it onto the high-top. The implication is that I’m not man enough for real liquor. Which he doesn’t bother to say out loud.
Of course, fighting isn’t an option. I’m not in bad shape. I bike everywhere – I ride fifty, a hundred miles on the weekends – and work out on the machines at a nearby health club. But I can easily imagine what would happen if I took a swing. Disaster. Still, the scene calls for me to push back in some way. “Why don’t you crawl back under your rock?”
He roars with a laugh. But then, in a clock click, his eyes narrow, just like I knew they would. He leans close and I back up, as far as I can. He rages, “Listen, prick, you’re mine. You know you are.” Whitcomb doesn’t touch me. He knows he can’t – I’ve complained to the Sheriff’s Department about him and they’ve issued a warning. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t snap and pound me to a pulp, taking the consequences later. He’s not normal. There’s something wrong in his mind.
I smell his sweat and garlic and whiskey, and it makes me want to puke. I almost think I will, and wonder what he’ll do to me if I mess up his boots. Naturally, he wears boots. With pointy toes. They look like weapons.
“Hey,” a voice mutters. “Leave the guy alone. He wasn’t doing anything to you.” Here’s a stocky, broad-shouldered man, a construction worker or truck driver, in a plaid shirt and jeans. Big, bearded. He was on his way to the john and I guess he just didn’t like the looks of what was happening. In the testosterone dimension, whatever I’d done to Stan didn’t justify an uneven fight like this.
