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“I want you to kill my husband.”
My gaze traveled the long way around her curves and returned to her eyes. “What’s in it for me?” “Ten thousand. Small bills. Non-sequential.” Ten thousand would get Lemmy off my back. “Why me?” “No reason,” she said. “You just look like a guy could do something like this.” I had killed for less. I didn’t tell her that. “When?” “Tonight. Late. I’ll give you the key and the alarm code.” “When do I get paid?” “After.” I shook my head. “Give me something up front. A retainer, like.” “How much?” “A thousand,” I said. “I’ll look the place over tonight. Maybe I’ll do it and maybe I won’t. Either way I keep the grand.” She retrieved a wad of cash from her shoulder bag, counted out $1,000 in crumpled bills of various denominations, and shoved the remaining currency back into her bag. Then she handed me a door key and slip of paper with an address and an alarm code written on it. “I’ll be there, too,” she said. “Don’t make a mistake.” She turned and walked away, her hips swaying to a rhythm all their own. * * * “This ain’t all of it,” my bookie said as he counted the money I’d handed him. “I’ll get the rest.” Lemmy glared at me from behind his desk. I’d never seen him anywhere but behind his desk. “When?” “Tomorrow or the next day.” When he didn’t say anything, I added, “I always been good for it. You know that.” “Two days.” He shoved the money in his desk drawer. “You got two days.” * * * I had a snub-nose with the serial number filed off tucked into my pocket. I removed it before I stepped into the bedroom. I prodded one of the sleeping figures with the barrel of the gun until he threw back the cover and sat up. “Lemmy?” “What the fuck you doing in my bedroom, Jackson?” “I come to kill you, Lemmy.” “I always knew you’d welsh on a bet.” “It ain’t like that, Lemmy,” I said. “I been hired to kill you.” “Who hired you?” I didn’t reply, but I cut my eyes toward the lump in the bed next to him. “I always knew she was trouble.” I was finished talking so I squeezed the trigger three times. The woman in bed next to Lemmy rose up screaming. She wasn’t the woman who had hired me, and I put three slugs into her before she shut up. * * * On my way home I tossed the snub-nose into the lake. I was unarmed when I pushed my apartment door open and found myself facing the woman who had hired me. She asked, “Is it done?” “It’s done, but you wasn’t in bed with him.” She shrugged. “Plans change.” “You didn’t tell me you was married to Lemmy.” “You didn’t ask.” She pushed herself off my couch and indicated a bloated pillowcase she’d left behind. “Your money’s in there.” * * * Several hours later I was awoken when my apartment door crashed open and my bedroom quickly filled with police officers. I didn’t resist, and I was taken to the station wearing only my pajama bottoms and an undershirt. I learned later that the pillowcase had been taken from Lemmy’s house where its mate remained. The money had been taken from Lemmy’s safe, which had been left open. Lemmy’s wife had returned home that morning from an overnight spa trip to discover her husband’s body next to the body of a stripper from one of the downtown clubs. The cops never found the snub-nose. But they said I had means. I had motive. I had opportunity. Now I’m serving twenty to life. But at least I don’t owe Lemmy anything. © 2025 Michael Bracken About the author: Michael Bracken is an Edgar Award and Shamus Award nominee, with stories published in The Best American Mystery Stories and The Best Mystery Stories of the Year. He is also the editor or co-editor of three-dozen anthologies, including three Anthony Award nominees.
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INTRODUCTION
The Western Yellowjacket is native to temperate climates. Its activity is restrained by cold temperatures. Western Yellowjackets are predatory social wasps. In the spring, the fertilized queen settles in a subterranean hole to build a nest. She lays eggs and feeds the larvae until a colony is established. Yellowjackets are fiercely protective of their nests and both bite and sting. They bite to jab in their stingers. Since they do not lose their stinger, they can attack repeatedly and are potentially deadly to a person stung numerous times or to a person with an anaphylactic reaction to their venom. The purpose of this study is to test whether one can kill a person using Yellowjackets as the method. METHOD The Yellowjackets in this study established a colony in a gopher tunnel under Alstroemeria (Peruvian lilies) in Santa Cruz, California. The experiment was conducted on August 6, 2019, in mid-afternoon as a “bee” line of wasps flew in and out of the hole. The subject was a 70-year-old Caucasian male known to have a “bee-sting” allergy, one of his defenses for the aggressive use of pesticide, including glyphosate to kill weeds in his lawn. (He’d been informed numerous times of glyphosate’s harmful effect on butterflies and birds—even humans.) In the afternoon when the Yellowjackets were active, the subject was summoned from the sidewalk to view the Peruvian lilies. He was well exposed, dressed in walking shorts and a polo shirt. The scientist conducting this experiment, Arla Fairfield, PhD entomology, Montana State University, was swathed in a thick shirt, gloves, and sunhat with neck flap. When the subject stood within a foot of the hole, the scientist yanked up several Peruvian lilies, then moved quickly into a small protected area. The Yellowjackets immediately attacked. RESULTS The subject swatted at the wasps, increasing their agitation. He screamed and ran toward the sidewalk, Yellowjackets swarming. Half-way to his house on the corner, approximately fifty yards, he collapsed on the sidewalk. DISCUSSION To replicate this experiment, one must be patient and meticulous. Dr. Fairfield possessed both qualities, having counted Aceria tosichella (wheat curl mites)—tiny even through a microscope—for hours at a stretch. It helps if the human target is a particularly vulgar specimen. For example, before the experiment, the subject shuffled by on the sidewalk. When greeted with, “Good morning,” he responded, “Why don’t you pull your spent flowers? Your beds look so . . . done.” When it was explained that the flowers were being left to reseed, he said, “Humph.” He stood there eyeing the dried pods atop the Nigella damascene (love-in-a-mist). The flowers bloom pretty and blue, akin to bachelor buttons, but the rattling brown seed pods possess their own natural beauty, not a concept this idiot would understand. “You still have that illegal alien helping you?” he asked. “Carlos? Carlos is a descendent of Californios.” The subject gave a blank stare, unfamiliar, I guess, with basic California history. “I have a little gal helping me with my roses,” he said. His “little gal” is a full-grown woman. So, to summarize, the chosen human was obnoxious, racist, and sexist—a worthy subject. But the experiment. Unfortunately, the experiment had too many variables. Not enough controls. When the subject collapsed, a female neighbor turned the corner and called 911. She also dropped to her knees and administered mouth to mouth, the Yellowjackets having seemingly retired after chasing their victim an acceptable distance from the nest. As the neighbor had spotted Dr. Fairfield, the only logical next step was to assist in the aid to the subject. The ambulance arrived quickly and hauled him away. The neighbor dusted off her knees. “Poor guy,” she said. “I thought you hated him.” She blinked heavily. “That doesn’t mean I wanted him to be attacked by bees.” “Yellowjackets.” She gaped, then finally asked, “Did you get stung?” “I’m well covered when I work in the garden.” If this neighbor were particularly observant, she would know this information to be false. She gazed in the direction of the fading ambulance siren. “Do you think he’ll die?” “It’s possible.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “He wasn’t all bad.” “He complained on Nextdoor that you didn’t pick up your newspapers fast enough, attracting thieves to the neighborhood.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t personal. He griped when people didn’t bring in their garbage cans on collection day, too.” “If he isn’t all bad, what’s good about him?” “He grows beautiful roses.” This gave me pause. His Double Delight were exquisite. Even if he made them march in uniform rows alongside his manicured lawn. How many times had I leaned over his picket fence to inhale their intoxicating fragrance? “You know,” the neighbor said, “he once told me he was going to leave them to you.” “What?” “Yeah,” she said. “It’s true. For all his cranky pants, he’d talk my ear off if he saw me walking by. He has a couple of kids, somewhere, but he told me they wouldn’t take care of his roses—that you were the only person he’d trust with them.” “Me?” “Oh, you know,” the neighbor twiddled thin fingers in the air, “he said it as a backhanded compliment—you’d tend them in your weird way and they’d be mottled, but at least you’d appreciate them.” At this point, the scientist took her leave, telling the neighbor that she did not feel well, a statement of fact. In the end, the subject did die. However, in conclusion, this experiment was not a success. It delivered the desired result but failed to produce an adjunct sense of satisfaction. © 2025 Vinnie Hansen About the author: Still sane(ish) after 27 years of teaching high school English, Vinnie Hansen has retired and plays keyboards with ukulele groups in Santa Cruz, California, where she lives with her husband and the requisite cat. She also writes fiction. A Claymore and a Silver Falchion finalist, Vinnie is the author of the Carol Sabala mystery series, the novels LOSTART STREET, ONE GUN, and the upcoming CRIME WRITER, as well as over seventy published short works. |
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