Mystery Tribune / Issue Nº9: Spring 2019

By Brian Silverman, Brendan DuBois, Tom Larsen and 7 more

Our 240 page Issue Nº9, Spring 2019 edition of Mystery Tribune is a must-have featuring Brendan DuBois, Andrew Bourelle, Greg Herren, Kevin Egan and Brian Silverman among others.

Issue Nº9: Spring 2019 features

A curated collection of short fiction including stories by Brendan DuBois, Andrew Bourelle, Greg Herren, Kevin Egan, Brian Silverman, E.A. Aymar, J.B. Stevens, Tom Larsen, and Tim Bemis.

Interviews and Reviews by Jasper Fforde, Tracy Clark, Tori Eldridge, Isabella Maldonado, Tobias Carroll, and Charles Perry.

Art and Photography by Montserrat Diaz, Sabrina Fattal, Valentin Duciel and more.

This issue also features a preview of the new The Bone Parish Vol. 1 graphic novel by Cullen Bunn and Jonas Scharf.

NY Times Bestselling author Reed Farrel Coleman has called Mystery Tribune “a cut above” and mystery grand masters Lawrence Block and Max Allan Collins have praised it for its “solid fiction” and “the most elegant design”.

An elegantly crafted quarterly issue, printed on uncoated paper and with a beautiful layout designed for optimal reading experience, our Spring 2019 issue will make a perfect companion or gift for avid mystery readers and fans of literary crime fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystery Tribune
• Release date: May 27, 2019

Book preview

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ISSUE NO. 9

MysteryTribune

SPRING 2019

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MysteryTribune

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P.O. Box 7638, New York, NY 10116 / email [e-mail]

To subscribe go to mysterytribune.com or call [phone]

Publisher and Managing Editor

Ehsan Ehsani

Associate Editor

Fanny Kellerman

Contributing Editor(s)

Charles Perry, Tobias Carroll

Cover Illustration

Veronica Grech

Design and Art Direction

Leo Lipsnis

Subscriptions and Advertising

Rachel Kester

IT Manager

Jack Rodriguez

Contributors

E.A. Aymar, Tim Bemis, Andrew Bourelle, Tracy Clark, Montserrat Diaz, David R. Dow, Brendan DuBois, Valentin Duciel, Kevin Egan, Tori Eldridge, Sabrina Fattal, Jasper Fforde, Greg Herren, Tom Larsen, Isabella Maldonado, Charles Perry, Brian Silverman, J.B. Stevens

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Contents

ISSUE NO. 9

SPRING 2019

Editor’s Note

Ehsan Ehsani

Publisher and Managing Editor

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This issue of Mystery Tribune features a perfect mix of fiction from masters of the genre as well as emerging voices, along with a stunning collection of photography, essays and comics.

Last year we published a fascinating story by Brendan DuBois in our Issue #4. This year, right after publishing a NY Times bestselling novel with James Patterson, Brendan sent us another great piece of short fiction which you shouldn't miss.

Andrew Bourelle, another great mystery writer (who also happens to be coauthor with James Patterson of Texas Ranger), also has a story in this issue which is equally great. Some of our other favorites include J.B. Stevens, Kevin Egan, and Greg Herren.

Also, if you're into crime comics, make sure you check out our preview of Bone Parish which narrates the story of an upstart crime family trafficking in a new designer drug that’s just hit the mar­ket made from the ashes of the dead. Pretty dark stuff...

Our photography section on the other hand, features delightful work of two European artists: French photographer Valentin Duciel has provided us with an amazing photo-story which documents his carefree Euro-trip with two friends. And going through dreamy photographs of Montserrat Diaz is a pleasant experience.

We have covered the work of some great female mystery writers in our reviews and interviews. Since there is so much more to say about this topic, we have published few complementary articles on our website and mobiles apps. On behalf of Mystery Tribune team, I want to thank you for supporting us and I hope you give your friends and family the gift of #goodmystery by recommending our subscription plans.

Fiction

The Samaritan Woman

by Brendan DuBois

It was late afternoon and Photine Antos Young thought it was time to call her dog back from his romp in the wet field when she spotted the shape walking along the abandoned railroad tracks, about a hundred yards way. She stood still, watched intently, not moving. Her dog Tucker was bounding to the left, which was good, because that meant her dog couldn’t be seen by the figure, stumbling and moving along off there to the right.

A man, for certain. But what was he doing here, and where was he going?

Around her was a grassy field that was part of the town’s nature preserve, Turner Fields, and thick woods—a mix of pine trees and hardwoods—and the railroad tracks, which ran parallel to a stream running high from the winter runoff. Mist hung in low sheets across the other side of the tracks, and the high hills beyond lead to peaks and the place beyond the mountains.

Tucker came up to her, panting with joy. How she envied him most days.

Hey, guy, she said. We got a situation here.

Her dog—a brown and white English Springer Spaniel—sat on the grass and rolled over, presenting a wet belly for a rub and a scratch. She squatted down, did just that, the wet fur slick and tangled in her fingers. He panted and then she stood up, and he flopped up as well. Photine looked back to where she had come, where her dark blue Volvo sedan was parked in a muddy dirt lot, with two stickers on the rear bumper, one marking The Nature Conservancy, the other a ‘26.2’, marking her skill as a long-distance runner.

Right now a five-minute stroll would put her back in her car, and in a while, warm and safe and dry, she’d be home with her husband William. He would greet her with a smile and a hug—and never too forceful a hug—and he would sit her down in their large and perfect kitchen, with a nice view of Turner Lake, and he’d make her some tea with honey.

William would lean in and talk and ask questions, and she would smile and lie to him about the walk she had taken with Tucker off to Turner Woods, and then the rest of the day would just drift and bubble along.

Tucker looked up at her with pure, undying love and devotion.

She said, Don’t guilt me, friend. I’m an expert. Come along, then.

Photine paused. Still enough time to turn around and walk back to the Volvo...

Photine then started walking.

Away from her Volvo.

To the place where she had seen the man walking.

The land grew rougher as she headed to the railroad tracks, Tucker running alongside her, sometimes diving into a copse of woods, and then bounding out, happy to see her alive, still standing, still walking. She shivered. Put her hands in her jacket. There were some exposed rocks and she was able to step across the stream with no problem. The grass was now knee-high, wetting her boots and the lower legs of her khaki pants, and then the land rose up to the gravel and stone bedding of the railroad tracks.

She glanced up, towards the high peaks, beyond where it was, and then she looked the other way, saw the man she had spotted earlier, sitting down on the tracks.

Photine paused. Still enough time to turn around and walk back to the Volvo, still go home to her safe William, and he might show her the latest pages of his latest children’s book, and some of the preliminary sketches.

So safe.

So much in the bubble.

How attractive.

The man turned, stood up.

He had spotted her.

The time had passed.

Photine walked in the dirt section between the stone bedding and the grass, finding a nice section to walk on without effort, and as Tucker trotted alongside her, she thought this would be a good analogy for what passed for life. There would be a rocky way that was tough and rugged, and there would be a grassy way the could hide hazards like branches or holes, so the trick of getting through things was to choose the visible and soft path. Because going off the right path... well, that meant sometimes it might happen.

Some analogy. Somehow she doubted the man ahead of her knew what an analogy was.

Or how to even spell it.

The closer she got to the man, the more her mouth got dry, and the weaker her legs got. Alone out here in this part of the wilderness that was adjacent to the White Mountain National Forest, and she felt so very, very alone; so very, very vulnerable.

The man came into focus.

He was taller than she, bulky around the shoulders, wearing blue jeans that were torn at the left knee, like he had fallen earlier. The jeans were sopping wet, and the exposed left knee was bloody. He had on cheap sneakers and a dull orange jacket, and it was easy to see that the man had turned the jacket inside out, to hide the lettering on the back, the lettering that identified the place he had come from.

His black hair was greasy and wet, combed heavily to one side. His eyebrows were thick and bushy, as was his mustache. The man’s face was sallow, pale, like he had spent a lot of time inside, which would be the case if he had come from the place beyond the mountains.

Hey, he said.

Hi there, she said, slowly walking and then coming to a halt. Her legs were trembling, and her breath was catching.

He looked beyond her and Photine knew what he was looking for: to see if she was alone.

Tucker came up, sat down, panted some. The man looked at her dog. Some mutt you got there.

He’s a good boy.

Is he vicious?

Another simple question, and she also knew what he was doing: evaluating a potential threat in front of him.

No, Photine said. He’s very, very sweet. I’ve never heard him bark at anybody, not once.

Unh-hunh. The man looked her up and down twice, and said, Mind telling me where the hell I am?

Are you lost?

He swore. Can you just answer the question, okay, without making a federal case out of it?

You’re in Turner. New Hampshire.

Unh-hunh. He looked up and down the track. Any Amtrak train come through here today?

No.

Any goddamn train at all?

No, she said. The tracks have been abandoned for a long time. Back in the day they hauled lumber when these mountains could be logged, before they were brought into the National Forest.

The man spat on the ground. Typical goddamn government. Abandon the tracks and not do anything about it.

Photine stayed quiet. Her legs still trembled. She felt like a deer out in the woods, suddenly freezing at the scent of man or the smell of gunmetal. It took almost everything she had to stay in place.

Is there a road nearby? he asked.

It’s a ways from here, I’m sorry to say that.

Hunh, he said. How did you get here? You alone?

Her legs trembled more. The scent of man and gunmetal grew stronger. Nope, just me and my dog. I parked my car up on a trailhead, down the tracks some.

The man seemed to ponder that and Photine said, Your leg. Is it all right?

He stuck his leg out like he was examining it. Yeah, it’s okay, but hurts like a bastard. Took a goddamn heavy fall.

Is that where you lost your pack? she asked.

That seemed to startle the man. What the hell?

Photine said, Your knapsack. You must be a hiker, right? The Appalachian Trail is about a mile from here. It looks like you took a nasty tumble and lost your knapsack.

The man grinned, like he couldn’t believe how dumb she was. For now Photine was easily providing him with a good cover story, even though he wasn’t even remotely dressed for doing a day hike, not to mention the months-long trek that went from Georgia to Maine.

Yeah, that’s right, he said. Took a hell of a fall. Dumped my pack. Got lost.

That’s what I thought, she said.

She paused and he looked her up and down, and again, she felt like she was being examined, tested, observed. Hey, he said.

Yes?

How about you give me a ride into town. How does that sound?

Tucker was sitting next to her and for a bit of reassurance, she stroked his damp head. No... no, I don’t think so.

He grinned. Lady, I really don’t care what you think.

Please.

C’mon, give me a ride. How about it?

How about you give me a ride into town. How does that sound?

I... I think it would be best if I just get going.

I don’t think so, the man said, and he came over and punched her in the face and grabbed an arm, and tossed her to the ground.

Photine hated to admit it but it felt right, like the time from last year that she tried never to think about, but now, it was right, it was destined, it was meant to be. Not that she was happy or pleased, no, it was just a sense of satisfaction that it was happening again. Her face and arm and shoulder throbbing with pain, the grass sharp and wet against her face her arms and legs trembling with fear.

And an angry and powerful and dangerous man was standing over her.

Again.

She couldn’t help it. She started sobbing.

The man roughly dragged her up, and slapped her. Stop with the sniveling already, will you?

Photine did her best. He twisted