MOSTLY MURDER: Till Death: a mystery anthology Read online

  At the trial, they displayed pictures of the shed and our backyard on the mesa.

  The shed that Kanya had staged to make me look so crazy and guilty.

  They showed pictures of the knives I supposedly used to cut off my own fingers, and the thread I used to stitch them up. They even put the mechanical hand on a table right in front of the jury, posing it in the most menacing way possible and showing how the grip strength and the bruises on my wife and the overly-helpful handsome shrink friend of the woman next door matched with the appendage.

  It was all so misleading and taken out of context… but at that point, I could see that I was lost. Kanya had won. Everyone believed me to be the monster she intended. The judge. The jury. Definitely the District Attorney and the cops.

  They looked at Kanya and saw what I’d seen in those early days.

  A delicate flower. A slip of a woman, nearly a girl, who could never harm anyone.

  And how could I blame them for that?

  It still shocks me, however, when my therapist uses the word “everyone,” though.

  Does he really mean everyone? Could everyone really believe these lies and distortions about me? Do all of the people who’ve known me over the years, who’ve seen me and heard me behave as a kind and generous friend, a helpful work colleague, loving husband… do they all really believe I could do these things?

  All of them? Every one?

  And true, none of them have visited me in here, or really since my initial arrest prior to the trial and all the publicity. But that could be for lots of different reasons, not simply because “everyone” believes these awful stories from those who want only to destroy me.

  After all, they have their own jobs and reputations to protect.

  Besides, I’m sure their wives believe I’m guilty.

  I know everyone believed Carina, that co-worker who cost me my job in San Francisco. That hurt, I admit, especially at the time. Like with Kanya, I’d just been so shocked. Carina was always so nice to me. I’d really liked her—which is the only reason I showed her my side projects in the first place.

  The next thing I know, and totally out of nowhere, she’s accusing me of sexual assault, of “unethical and grotesque experiments,” before launching into fake tears and showing my boss bruises that I had absolutely no memory of giving her. When I tried to explain that the company paid me to conduct that research, my boss sided with her of course, since she was a woman and she was crying so I just had to be the bad guy.

  But here’s my question for my therapist, one that he’s never given me an adequate response to—at what point does a man have the right to defend himself?

  Where is that line?

  That’s all I ask. I want a line.

  I’m a nice guy… I know I am. So tell me where the line is, and I won’t cross it, even if they do ever let me out of here. But they never say where that point begins and ends, precisely. Tell me where that point is. Tell me, and I promise, I’ll remember it when I see it again.

  Back then, in San Francisco, a lot of people told me I loved Carina too much.

  Perhaps that is my real fault. Perhaps that is the real line I keep crossing.

  I love women too much.

  Maybe that’s what I will tell my therapist the next time he comes to see me.

  Q&A with JC Andrijeski

  Man, that story left my head spinning! What a turnaround. How did you come up with this idea? No personal experience in this area, I hope?

  In some ways this is based on my personal experience, but not personal, personal experience, if that makes sense. I’ve lived in Bangkok, Thailand, for the past few years, and I’m sorry to say I’ve come across a few guys like “Bobby” (in a less-extreme form) since I moved here. I don’t know if it’s common knowledge in the States, but a subset of the Western men who live in Asia tend to have pretty bizarre views of women. They come across as somewhat angry at women in general, truthfully, but also kind of sad in their inability to connect or find someone that fits their view of what a “perfect woman” is.

  Though they scare me at times with how angry they can be, I have a lot of empathy for them, too, since they often seem very lonely. I also find them weirdly paradoxical and fascinating, in that they are proud proponents of living in Asia, dating Asian women, etc., but at the same time seem to really hate Asia in a lot of ways, and are often the ones who complain the loudest about differences with the West. They often put Thai (and other Asian) women on a pedestal initially, only then to later come back and accuse them of being duplicitous, manipulative, money-grubbing, having boyfriends on the side, etc. There’s also a bit of a stereotype of them only being willing to date Asian women who are quite a bit younger than they are. Often, just due to the nature of sexual economics in Asia, those women come from poorer backgrounds and/or rural areas.

  So yes, I got a lot of the complaints about Western women (and Asian food) from hearing those guys talk, since they are really vocal about such subjects, both at bars here in Bangkok and on a lot of the Thai forums. Using that as a starting point, I then created an exaggerated character out of some of the common themes.

  I should say that in general they are older men (most of them older than “Bobby” by at least a decade), often divorced, many of them retired.

  So, I might be being a bit mean to that “type” of guy, (if there is such a thing), but I was more taking aspects of that mentality and seeing how far I could push it for fictional purposes.

  Honestly, the character of Bobby scares me, though, because in some ways he’s a lot more “real” than most of the darker characters I create.

  What got you into mysteries, and what other genres do you write?

  You know, it took me a while to realize that I write mysteries. I’ve read them my whole life and have always loved them, but I always figured I wasn’t smart enough to actually write one. Then I got it into my head to take a craft course on the art of mystery writing, given by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, and it kind of exploded a lot of my internal myths about not only what mystery and crime writing were, but also whether or not I could do it.

  Since then I’ve been much more consciously writing mysteries, but I also noticed a ton of mystery-like quirks in things I’d already written. Even now, I still tend to write in a somewhat cross-genre form, but all along I’ve written my novels with elements of mystery writing in them, especially in terms of enjoying a good twist to my plots and surprises that build off of clues I’ve left scattered through the texts of my books.

  My newest big series launch is a paranormal mystery, the Quentin Black Mystery books. It’s still a bit of a genre mash-up in that he’s a psychic detective who works with the police and with a forensic psychologist named Miri Fox. The tone is gritty and more hard-boiled, but the series has a strong romantic subplot running through it, in addition to the paranormal. With that series, the mystery theme is getting more and more prominent in my work.

  As far as other work/genres, I also have a more “epic” series that’s urban fantasy mixed with urban science fiction, also with a strong romantic subplot and a ton of mystery and suspense. That one is called Allie’s War and it’s set in a gritty and realistic version of Earth where a second race of beings, called “Seers” are discovered living side by side with human beings. Their presence twists a lot of our regular, “human” history, including world wars, modern politics, technology, race relations, organized crime… even religion. It’s been a blast to work on, and in many ways it’s probably my most involved work to date, given the complexity of the world, but there’s a ton of mystery and suspense worked into those books, as well, and a lot of surprises in terms of the characters and plot twists.

  In addition, I have a post-apocalyptic series with aliens called Alien Apocalypse (now completed), and I write some nonfiction and even a few children’s books. In short form, I’ve written in a wide range of genres, including: literary fiction, mystery, science fiction, fantasy, paranormal romance, science fiction romance,
horror, apocalyptic fiction, and humor.

  Tell us what you’re working on now.

  I’ve got three projects going right now, all at various stages of completion.

  One is called Red Magic and is a fantasy romance commissioned as part of a multi-author project set in a post-apocalyptic world. That world, created by the publisher/series organizer, is a lot of fun—filled with deadly creatures called “ravagers” along with witches and warlocks and humans battling it out following a world-wide catastrophe that broke the remaining civilization into districts. My book is centered in District 6, which covers most of what used to be Southeast Asia, so it’s fun for me to set another story here in my part of the world.

  The next book in my queue (which I can’t help working on here and there, since I’m really excited about this series right now), is book six in the Quentin Black Mystery series, which has the working title Black To Dust. Book five introduced a whole new slew of twists and turns to the longer series arc, as well as a host of new characters, so in addition to the book’s central mystery, I’m having a blast working out some of those more long-running threads.

  The third is the final book in the Allie’s War series, called Sun, a monster project that I don’t expect to have completed until 2017.

  What else should we know about you, and where can readers find you?

  Hmm… well, I hail from Northern California originally but I’ve been a nomad most of my adult life, so I’ve lived all over the place, both in the United States and abroad. I lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico for a few years, which is part of why I set “Nice Guys Finish Last” there—I think I just wanted an excuse to write about the summer desert monsoons, since they’re so different from the kind we’re having here in Bangkok right now.

  Other fun facts? I used to work as a business consultant and a process design project manager, but I’ve also milked cows, waited tables, mucked stalls, dug trenches, worked as a photo printer and a sound editor and a bartender. I’ve been a secretary and a teacher of various subjects. I worked as a freelance journalist and sang in a rock band. I love green chili and burritos and sushi in addition to my unflagging fondness for Thai food (as well as sour pickles and ice cream and anchovies and mangos). I love doing martial arts and yoga, sniffing sage, jumping in swimming pools and hugging puppies… as well as taking long, pointless walks in the rain and getting lost in street markets.

  I also love talking to my readers, pretty much any time, so if you have any questions about me or my work, feel free to write me directly! I’m even planning to do some video posts to answer some of those questions, so if you ask me one I get fairly often, you might have to deal with me rambling on and on about the topic nonsensically in video format for however-many minutes.

  As far as how to contact me, probably the easiest thing to point to is my website, which gives you a bunch of options: www.jcandrijeski.com.

  For a few direct links, you can join my newsletter, The Rebel Army. You’ll be notified of new releases, have the opportunity to join in some exclusive giveaways of free books, and receive updates and odd pictures and stories about my life here in Asia: http://hyperurl.co/JCA-Newsletter. You can also find me on Facebook here: https://www.facebook.com/JCAndrijeski/, and Twitter here: http://twitter.com/jcandrijeski.

  Forsaking All Others

  by Chris Patchell

  “Mally!”

  Someone is calling me, but I can barely make it out. My head swims, as if I’m under three feet of water. Groggy, I open my eyes. Light shimmers and dances around my field of vision, creating a kaleidoscopic mishmash of colors and shapes that I can’t make sense of. I squint to pull the scene into focus and cringe as a throbbing pain, like the boom of a bass drum, fills my head.

  “Mally.”

  Again.

  Clearer this time, and I know it’s Jack. Way off in the distance he calls to me. I try to answer, but the words catch in my throat. My mouth is as dry as sand.

  I force my eyes open again, and it’s like peering through a lens of broken glass.

  “Where are we?” I ask, too woozy for the panic to set in.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Jack says.

  I blink away the fuzziness, and my vision finally clears. I see the islands of boxes, and skis, and other piles of accumulated junk all around us.

  “What are we doing here?”

  This makes no sense to me. I avoid basements at all costs. They are dark, closed spaces, prisons, places of punishment, or purgatory, depending on your crime. Although this place looks nothing like the dank and dirty cellar in the house where I grew up, I come down here as rarely as possible. A fact that Jack knows well. So why we’re both down here together is beyond weird, and I struggle to square it with logic.

  Stiff and sore, I try to shift my position and can’t. Only then do I realize that I’m bound to a chair. A spike of fear stabs through me as I foolishly try to rise. Move. Escape. Hard restraints bite into the spare flesh of my wrists and pin me in place.

  “Jack,” I cry, panic invading my voice. “What’s going on?”

  “Shh…” he cuts me off, and I fall silent.

  Up above I hear a crash, like my Grandmother’s dishes from the china cabinet hitting the floor and smashing into a thousand pieces. Another crash. This time I whisper.

  “What’s happening?”

  “We’re being robbed. Or at least, that’s how it is supposed to look.”

  Supposed to look?

  His words send a shiver through me, and I roll them around in my mind, grasping for the deeper meaning buried beneath the surface of what he just said. Nothing is ever simple with Jack. Anxiety sloshes around in my gut, and I crane my head around to see him. The stabbing pain through the base of my skull makes me gasp. Warm blood trickles through my hair and down the back of my neck. I want to wipe it away, but I can’t. Not with my hands clamped to this damned chair.

  “What do you mean it’s supposed to look like a robbery?” I ask in a voice that’s barely a whisper.

  “Like you don’t know.”

  His razor sharp tone slices into me, and I’m afraid to ask what he means. There’s a hardness—an edge to it that I know all too well—just another verbal scar in this ugly little war of ours.

  Minutes tick by, and, little by little, the confusion evaporates, like dew in the morning sun. Still, his next words catch me completely off guard.

  “How long have you been sleeping with him?”

  I am breathless. My head reels from the blow.

  “Who?” I manage at last.

  An icy silence follows. My heart pounds, and I force myself to swallow, waiting for Jack to say more.

  Another crash shakes the ceiling above us. I nearly jump out of my skin. I hold my breath in the chilling silence, waiting for Jack to speak.

  “I saw him that time I picked you up from the school.”

  He spits the words out like an accusation. There’s no point in playing dumb; we both know who he means.

  “Kyle?”

  Another frosty silence forms between us, and my head spins as I try to dredge up the details of that day.

  My car had gotten a flat, and Jack arrived at the school, fully pissed I had pulled him away from a meeting. I knew he didn’t like being disturbed at work, and on any other day I would have dealt with the problem myself. The whole morning had been a disaster, and when I left school later than I should have, and found the flat tire, I didn’t know what else to do. So I’d called.

  Kyle’s daughter, Megan, was in my fifth grade class. Megan’s basketball game had just let out, and the two were leaving the school when Jack arrived—red-faced and ready to argue with me when sweet little Megan had called out her goodbye.

  The timing was beyond horrible. I faked a smile and waved. She’d waved back.

  And then there was Kyle, tall and angular, with a military bearing. He pulled his ball cap down over his thick brow and fixed me with a look my husband didn’t miss.

  Jack had int
errogated me later, as I knew he would, and I’d done my best to brush the whole thing off. Kyle was just like that, I said. He was an odd duck; he truly was. But clearly Jack hadn’t bought my story. Here he was bringing it up again.

  Now.

  “What does Kyle have to do with anything?” I ask, wiggling my hands to try to pry loose the bonds, but the sharp edges of the zip ties slice deeper into my skin, and I suck in my breath from the pain. Jack releases his breath loudly. I can feel the anger wafting off him like shimmering waves of desert heat.

  “How long have you been sleeping with him?” he barks.

  My eyes fly to the ceiling, and I wait for the inevitable sound of footsteps racing down the stairs in response to Jack’s roar. I hear nothing. In a way, the silence is more disturbing than the sound of the house being ransacked. At least that helps me track his movements.

  My husband swears, and I can feel him trying to fight his way free, but for once, he’s every bit as stuck as I am. There’s something satisfying about the thought.

  Jack’s a hard man to live with and always has been. He’s commanding, successful, and driven. Once he seemed like everything I ever wanted in a man, a real life dream come true. How wrong I was.

  A whirlwind courtship ensued, and we said our vows on a sandy beach. Naïvely, I thought he would take care of me forever. In his own way, I suppose he has. Fairy tales are for little girls, and reality is a fickle beast.

  Growing up poor made me appreciate the fact that the money is plentiful with Jack, and I don’t really want for anything. But it’s lonely living with a man who cares more for his business than he does for his wife. I’m a pretty ornament to dangle from his arm when it’s convenient, and a housemate and personal maid when it’s not. Left alone night after night to wander the halls of an empty house, a wife gets to thinking.