Jeffery Deaver
Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I began writing fiction at the ripe young age of eleven. Sometimes I claim that that first effort was a novel, since I divided my opus into chapters (two) and included a jacket with cover art that I drew myself. But there’s an expression I’ve heard down here in North Carolina: Just ’cause your cat has a litter in the laundry basket doesn’t mean the kittens are socks.
What I wrote back then, fifty years ago, was a short story, whatever I called it.
I’ve always had an affection for reading short fiction and I’ve learned much about writing from the stories of Edgar Allan Poe, Conan Doyle and Ray Bradbury, among many others. I also thoroughly enjoy writing short stories. Now, it’s my entrenched belief that all storytelling has as its most important goal emotionally engaging the audience as much as possible. I don’t want to come away from reading a book or seeing a film and think, Well, wasn’t that interesting? I want to think: OMG, I need to calm down, take a breath, allow the stitch in my side to ease from the uncontrolled laughter or let the tears subside… In short, I want to be captivated by art and entertainment.
In novels this level of intensity is accomplished by creating multidimensional characters and throwing each into his or her own roller-coaster subplots that are rife with reversals and escalating levels of conflicts, which are ultimately resolved. (I hate ambiguous endings!) In short stories, an author doesn’t have the time or space to follow this formula. But short fiction still needs to captivate, to enthrall. What’s one to do?
The answer is to go for the gut with a shocking twist, a surprise, the unexpected.
An example: My novel version of Lassie would be to tell a multilayered story about Timmy, the collie, a broken home life for the kid and disreputable corporate interests digging wells where they shouldn’t. We’d speed through these several intersecting subplots to a sweaty-palm ending where Timmy is, thank God, saved from the well and Lassie finds evidence to land the evil developers in prison.
O joyous day!
My short story version would be this: The boy’s down the well. Cut to: Lassie running through the fields frantically. Cut back to: Timmy’s about to drown. But then a paw reaches over the edge. The kid grabs it and is pulled out of the freezing water. Cut to: Lassie, a mile away, still chasing the squirrel she’s been after for ten minutes. Back to: Timmy, outside the well, standing in front of the large wolf who just plucked him to safety and who’s eyeing his main course hungrily.
Sorry, kid.
The stories in this anthology are typical of that approach. What you see isn’t, I hope, what you think you’re seeing.
Six of the stories are new, one Lincoln Rhyme (“A Textbook Case”), one Kathryn Dance (“Fast”), one John Pellam (“Paradice”) and three stand-alones (“Game,” “The Competitors,” and “Reconciliation”), though those familiar with my older work will note that “Game” was inspired by a short piece I did for Esquire magazine years ago on the Kenneth and Sante Kimes murder of New York socialite Irene Silverman. Similarly, “Paradice” had its roots in my story “Switchback,” which appeared in the wonderful Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine about fifteen years ago. I’d be curious to know what any of you think of the twist that ends “Paradice” now; it’s one of my all-time favorites.
I should mention, too, that one thing I like about short stories is that they allow an author to step out of genre more easily than novels do. I believe in brand identification — a lofty corporate way of saying you must make sure your audience knows what they’re getting when they buy your fiction. My readers enjoy my thrillers, so I’ll continue to produce crime novels, rather than fantasy or science fiction.
Short stories, though, involve a more modest commitment on the part of readers. So I can easily slip out of category briefly with a story or two, while assuring fans that my next novel will be filled with the murder and mayhem they’ve come to expect from me.
Two stories in this collection, “The Therapist” and “Forever,” are genre benders, bordering on the occult. (Or are they…?)
Welcome to this, the third collection of my short fiction. The first two anthologies were entitled Twisted and More Twisted. In casting about for a name for this volume, I decided to move away from that theme (What was left, anyway: Excessively Twisted? Son of Twisted?). I opted for a similar yet fresh phrase — one that clearly describes many of the characters we meet in these pages — and, some would suggest, the author as well.
I take that as a compliment.
J.D.
FAST
A Kathryn Dance story
They were just about to see the octopus when she received a text alerting her that two hundred people were going to die in two hours.
Kathryn Dance rarely received texts marked with exclamation points — the law enforcement community tended not to punctuate with emotion — so she read it immediately. Then called her office, via speed dial three.
“Boss,” the young man’s voice spilled from her iPhone.
“Details, TJ?”
Over their heads:
“Will the ticket holders for the one-thirty exhibition make their way inside, please.”
“Mom!” The little girl’s voice was urgent. “That’s us.”
“Hold on a second, honey.” Then into the phone: “Go on.”
TJ Scanlon said, “Sorry, Boss, this’s bad. On the wire from up north.”
“Mom…”
“Let me talk, Mags.”
“Long story short, Alameda was monitoring this domestic separatist outfit, planning an attack up there.”
“I know. Brothers of Liberty, based in Oakland, white supremacists, antigovernment. Osmond Carter, their leader, was arrested last week and they threatened retaliation if he’s not released.”
“You knew that?”
“You read the statewide dailies, TJ?”
“Mean to.”
“…the Monterey Bay Aquarium is pleased to host the largest specimen of Enteroctopus dofleini on exhibit in the northern California area, weighing in at a hundred and twenty-one pounds! We know you’re going to enjoy viewing our visiting guest in his specially created habitat.”
“Okay. What’s the story?” Dance persisted into the phone as she and her children edged closer to the exhibit hall. They’d waited forty-five minutes. Who would have thought octopuses, octopi, would be such a big draw?
TJ said, “Everybody believed they were going to hit somewhere up there, Alameda, Contra Costa, San Fran, but maybe there was too much heat. Oakland PD had a CI inside the group and he said two of their people came down here, set up something. And—”
She interrupted. “‘Set up something.’ What does that mean?”
“An attack of some kind. He doesn’t know what exactly. Maybe an IED, maybe chemical. Probably not bio but could be. But the number of victims is for sure, what I texted you. Two hundred plus or minus. That’s confirmed. And whatever it is, it’s up and running; the perps set it and they were headed back. The CI said four p.m. is when the attack goes down.”
Two and a half hours. A little less. Lord…
“No idea of the victims, location?”
TJ Scanlon offered, “None.”
“But you said they ‘were’ headed back.”
“Right, we caught a break. There’s a chance we can nail ’em. The CI gave us the make of the car — a 2000 Taurus, light blue. CHP spotted one in Marina and went after it. The driver took off. Probably them. They lost the pursuit on surface roads. Everybody’s searching the area. Bureau’s coming in from the field office. Hold on, Boss. I’m getting something.”