Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Laura’s eyes got round with fear. Scott advanced slowly, circling the room until his back was touching the front door.

“Scott, please leave. We’ll talk tomorrow if you want. At a café or something.”

“Like a date?” he said bitterly.

“Scott, please.”

“I want to talk now.” He inched toward her, then lunged, grabbing her hand. She turned and kicked his head, her heel landing hard on his jaw. He staggered back, shocked, staring at the streak of sticky warm ooze on his fingers. He looked up at Laura, who was crouched in the fighting stance she’d learned.

“Okay, Laura. I’ll leave if that’s what you want.”

“Yes. That’s what I want,” she said firmly.

He walked to the front door, holding his jaw with one hand. She approached cautiously. As he opened the front door and stepped out, he turned and wedged his body in the doorjamb so she couldn’t slam it behind him. “I love you, Laura. I always will.”

Her eyes did not soften, filled with disgust. He plunged back through the doorway. But she was ready for him; grabbing the inside doorknob and doorjamb, she launched herself, kicking his chest with both her feet. As he stumbled back, she slammed the door shut and bolted it.

She slumped against the door, her heart pounding wildly, sensing him on the other side. She expected him to pound the door and yell, but he didn’t. She ran to the balcony and slid closed the glass panels and locked them, then pulled the blinds. She ran back to the front door and waited. She heard nothing but silence for nearly a minute and she worried that he’d stumbled and hit his head, that he might lie there unconscious until morning, and as she contemplated opening the door to check on him, she heard his footsteps descend the wooden staircase, pause, then crunch across the gravel driveway.

Scott staggered down the steps feeling nauseated, acid burning in his chest. As the cool breeze blew off the water and hit his face, he felt a horror take hold of him, as if life held no more pleasure for him, but was a black bottomless pit crawling with snakes and insects. Dizzy, he caught himself on the post at the bottom of the stairs. He hung there for a moment, his body shaking uncontrollably, his eyes tearing, a deafening rage roaring in his ears so he could hardly see. He squeezed his eyes shut; burning lava shot up his spine, whipping it like a dragon’s tail.

He parted his lips in a silent scream, forcing out air until his lungs hurt. He refused to breathe until his chest jerked in spasms and he gulped for oxygen.

Then all was still. A light mist chilled his skin. A fog horn moaned a distant summons as if from another world.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the sculptor’s axe driven in a stump, its red handle purple-gray in the moonlight, its sharp, wedge-shaped blade glinting, beckoning, luring him to reach out and set it free.

The Field by Peter Lovesey

With a style that PW once described as “smooth and polished as steel” and a genius for plotting, Peter Lovesey is one of mystery’s most celebrated writers. He is a winner of the British CWA’s highest award, the Diamond Dagger, and he’s had a good share of recognition on this side of the Atlantic, too — not least his win in the MWA’s 50th Anniversary contest in 1995. We believe a page of that winning story, from EQMM, may be visible briefly in Secret Window.

* * *

A field of oilseed rape was in flower, brilliant in the afternoon sun, as if a yellow highlighter had been drawn across the landscape. Unseen by anyone, a corpse was stretched out under the swaying crop, attended only by flies and maggots. It had been there ten days. The odour was not detectable from the footpath along the hedge-row.

Fields have names. This one was Middle Field, and it was well named. It was not just the middle field on Jack Mooney’s farm. It was the middle of his universe. He had no life outside the farm. His duties kept him employed from first light until after dark.

Middle Field dominated the scene. So Jack Mooney’s scarecrow stood out, as much as you could see of it. People said it was a wasted effort. Crows aren’t the problem with a rape crop. Pigeons are the big nuisance, and that’s soon after sowing. It’s an open question whether a scarecrow is any deterrent at all to pigeons. By May or June when the crop is five feet tall it serves no purpose.

“Should have got rid of it months back,” Mooney said.

His wife May, at his side, said, “You’d have to answer to the children.”