Down a Crooked Road: Tales of Mystery & Suspense

By Ty Treadwell

Take the last sharp turn on a crooked road and you might find yourself face to face with a desperate killer, or a clever con man, or a restless spirit whose face is eerily familiar. In the tradition of The Twilight Zone, the 12 stories in this collection all share one common trait; each one ends with a delicious, unexpected twist. In "The Woman Upstairs," a claustrophobic housewife uses extreme measures to escape from both a cramped apartment and a confining marriage. "The Sorrow Business" tells how a devious reporter suffers the consequences after hounding a murder victim's family for an interview. And in "Deep in the Roaring Fork," a man lost in the backwoods of Colorado stumbles across a lonely tavern whose bartender knows far too many details about his life---and about his death. Includes 7 stories previously published in mystery magazines like Over My Dead Body and Unreality, as well as 5 brand new stories from award-winning writer Ty Treadwell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty Treadwell
• Release date: Apr 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458080639

Ty Treadwell

Ty Treadwell's short stories have appeared in Writer's Journal, Unreality, Over My Dead Body, and many other magazines. He has also sold over 150 non-fiction articles. His awards include a gold medal in the essay category at the 2008 GAMMA Awards and first prize in the 2007 Travel Writing Contest sponsored by Writer’s Journal. He once taught writing classes for Clayton State University, and he now teaches an online writing class that attracts students from across the country.Treadwell is also co-author of the book Last Suppers; Famous Final Meals from Death Row. He is currently at work on a variety of both fiction and non-fiction projects.

Book preview

Down a Crooked Road

Tales of Mystery & Suspense

By Ty Treadwell

Down a Crooked Road

By Ty Treadwell

Copyright Ty Treadwell

All rights reserved. No material from this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written consent from the author.

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Table of Contents

Deep in the Roaring Fork

Incarnation

The Plum-Colored Sky

Like Father, Like Son

Lightning Does the Work

Dig

Starving Under a Sickle Moon

The Sorrow Business

The Woman Upstairs

The Swap

Ancient Wisdom

The Little Things

Deep in the Roaring Fork

(Originally published in Over My Dead Body!)

The sun was just sinking behind the mountains as Spencer swung his Saab violently into the small parking lot, scattering gravel and startling an Alaskan husky that had been asleep beside the tavern. The dog barked and strained on its leash as Spencer climbed out of the car, wrestling briefly with his seatbelt in his haste to get out. He slammed the door and swore as he bent to examine the long scrape on the side of his car.

Wonderful. Just wonderful, he muttered to himself as he brushed off flakes of paint with a gloved hand. This is one for the record books. First I have to cancel a date with Tracy because my lovely wife decides she wants to meet for dinner at a secluded, romantic, and probably overpriced-as-hell restaurant. Then I spend over an hour driving around trying to find this place, which is so well-hidden not even a full-blooded Indian could find it, and then to top it all off, I get sideswiped by some hillbilly in a truck who manages to do a couple hundred dollars worth of damage to my car.

Spencer dug his cell phone out of his pocket and swore again when he saw the battery low message on the screen. He pressed the ON button anyway but the message wouldn’t go away. His wife told him she’d just charged the battery when she handed him the phone on his way out the door, but the woman obviously couldn’t do anything right, even a simple task like this.

Perfect, he thought as he put the phone in his pocket and slapped a hand to his forehead in frustration. He closed his eyes and mumbled to himself, then glanced at the building at the far end of the parking lot. It didn't look like much, just a ramshackle wooden structure resting timidly by the edge of the woods, too unimpressive to even warrant a proper name. Its only identification was a wooden sign over the door that said TAVERN in bold capitals.

Looks more like an overgrown log cabin, Spencer thought, but hopefully they're civilized enough to have a pay phone.

After another disgusted look at the Saab he tromped towards the bar, his shoes crunching on the frosty ground and his overcoat---which had come unfastened in his struggle to free himself from his seat belt---swirling around his legs in the crisp October wind. He reached the door and, shooting an icy stare at the barking dog, grabbed the handle and pulled.

The electric heat hit him like an invisible wave as he stepped inside, so he shook off his overcoat and gloves as he looked around. The place was plain and tidy, decorated like most of the other rustic bars in the mountains, with round hardwood tables, a couple of dusty neon beer signs on the walls, and the obligatory deer head over the bar. It had a pleasant and homey atmosphere, like a place where men would come every evening after a hard day's work to sit and enjoy a beer and see the same faces, talk to the same friends, day after day. A place where you would be on a first-name basis with the bartender, who would greet you warmly and tell you jokes and occasionally share a cold mug of brew with you.

It was still early in the evening and the room was empty except for a table full of young men in plaid shirts and an old man who sat alone in a corner, a walking stick held loosely between his legs and a fishing cap pulled down low on his forehead. The bar itself ran along the left-hand side of the room and was occupied only by the bartender and a pretty young girl who sat and stirred a glass of cola with a straw.

As Spencer approached the bar, the bartender---a short older man with tanned, leathery skin and snow-white hair---raised a palm in welcome. His bristly moustache crinkled into a smile as he turned and, whistling happily, pulled down a mug from an overhead rack and started filling it with beer from a tap

Excuse me, Spencer said. Is there a payphone here?

The bartender shook his head as he finished drawing the beer, expertly creating an inch-tall head of foam without letting any spill over the sides. Nope. No phone at all. Never really felt the need for one.

Spencer bit his lip in irritation. Great. The only inhabited place on the whole damn stretch of road, and they've never felt the need to install a phone. Maybe they've got some carrier pigeons in the back I could borrow.

Well, then, Spencer said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. Maybe you can help me.

Help you? Sure, I can help you, alright, the man said. First thing I'll do to help you is give you a mug of your favorite beer. What do you think about that?

The bartender tossed down a coaster and set the mug in front of Spencer.

No thanks, pal. I didn't stop here for a drink, I just need directions.

Oh, come on, Mr. Briggs. It's Warsteiner, your favorite. Don't usually carry this brand. I had some brought in just for you.

Spencer frowned at the man, trying to identify the broad, smiling face. How do you know my name? And for that matter, how the hell do you know that Warsteiner is my favorite brand of beer? The bartender just smiled and winked, a harmless motion which, under the circumstances, irritated the hell out of Spencer. Look, I've got a good memory for faces and I know we've never met, so what's the deal?

The man thrust a meaty hand over the bar. Well, you've met me now, sir. My name's Jack. Good to know you.

Spencer absently shook the hard, callused hand, suddenly realizing that the man must have recognized him from the article in the Denver Post the month before. But that piece had been about his real estate company, strictly business-oriented, and there had been no mention of anything as trivial as his favorite brand of beer. Or had there?

Focusing on the problem at hand, Spencer decided to ignore the bartender's unexpected familiarity. So, as I was saying, Jack, I really need directions to--

To the Eagle Ridge Restaurant, Jack finished for him.

Spencer took a step back. How the hell did you--

Yes sir, I know the way there. You missed the turn for it about five miles back. It's really not your fault, though. These little roads can be tricky if you're not used to 'em. Lots of twists and turns, and some of the side roads aren't marked clearly at all. Anybody could've missed that turn, Mr. Briggs.

The bartender's casual use of his name inched Spencer's irritation level up another notch. I don't believe this. Next thing I know, this guy's going to tell me I'm on Candid Camera. Spencer shot glances around the room, but no one was paying attention to their conversation. Stepping back to the bar, he lowered his voice to the authoritative growl he used at the office when he wanted direct answers from his staff. Why don't you cut the BS, Jack, and tell me how you know my name and my life story? You been bugging my phone or something?

Jack winked and patted the bar, reminding Spencer of a kindly grandfather trying to calm a difficult child. Sit down and enjoy your beer first. We've got plenty of time to talk.

Spencer's face flushed in anger as his temper rose further. Listen, you idiot, that's the whole point, I don't have plenty of time! I came in here for directions, which you still haven't given me, and now you're trying to spook me with all this ridiculous doubletalk, which is really starting to piss me off!

"Please, Mr. Briggs, just sit down for one minute and I promise you, fair and square, I'll tell you everything. Please? I'm an old man. Just humor me, okay?

Despite his anger at the situation, Spencer decided that his options might be limited to only two: either knock the old guy's teeth out for fun and then take a hike, or play along with him and find out what his game was. Alright, what the hell. I'm not getting anywhere at the rate I'm going. I'll give him five minutes then I'll find a gas station or somewhere else where I can get directions without jumping through a bunch of hoops.

Spencer plopped down on a stool and spread his hands in surrender. Okay, you win, I'm sitting down. Now talk.

The bartender wagged a finger at the mug of beer. It's better when it's cold, you know.

Spencer shook his head. I don't want any. Just get on with it.

Come on, Mr. Briggs, have a sip. It'll help calm you down.

Rather than risking another flash of anger, Spencer grabbed the mug and took a swallow. Okay, I'm drinking the damn beer. Now tell me how you know so much about me.

Jack pulled out a damp rag and began wiping the top of the bar with slow, circular motions. It's my job to know about certain people, Mr. Briggs. Not everybody, of course, just the ones who pass through my place on their way to… He paused, his brow wrinkling. Well, on their way to someplace better.

I don't know what you're talking about, Jack, but you've got ten more seconds to start making sense before I really get mad.

I know a lot about you, Mr. Briggs. I know you're a land developer who's lived in Aspen for about three years now. You earn quite a good living, and you were recently named one of the most successful businessmen in Colorado.

Lots of people know that, Spencer said, taking another swallow of beer and trying to stay calm. "There was an article about me in the business section of the Denver Post last month."

I also know, Jack continued, "that when you left home an hour ago, you were heading for the Eagle Ridge restaurant to meet your wife Donna for dinner. She was shopping in Glenwood Springs and thought it would be nice if you met her halfway for a