The next morning Jake rose at the crack of dawn to go fishing. I declined his invitation, burrowing under my pillow and telling him I was going to buckle down and work on Death for a Deadly Deed.
At a more civilized hour I drove Jake’s Acura into Basking. But before I left the ranch I placed a call to my ex-lover Mel, who happens to teach film studies at UC Berkeley.
Lucking out, I caught Mel in his office between classes. We chatted briefly and then I asked my favor: What did he know about Dr. Daniel Shoup? “Mid-fifties, favors safari hats and Gestapo boots.”
Mel thought it over and then laughed that husky laugh I remembered so well. “Like Stewart Granger in King Solomon’s Mines?”
I knew he would think of that. “Or Green Fire.”
That evoked memories of late nights cuddled on the couch, eating hot buttered popcorn and laughing our asses off at the worst movies in the world. Mel must have remembered too. His voice grew warmer.
“What did you want to know? He’s kind of an odd ball, even for Berkeley.”
“I’m not sure. The good stuff. Rumors, gossip, innuendo.”
“You know, there is a rumor connected with him. The kids call him Indiana Bones, by the way.”
“Bless their hormone-addled hearts.”
“Yes. Well, he came to us from the British Museum — at least, that’s what everyone thought. It turns out the British Museum never heard of him.”
“Seriously?”
“That’s the word on campus.”
“How reliable is the word?”
Another husky laugh. “Take it with a grain of salt. Although, the good doctor and the university did part ways a couple of months ago.”
Aha!
“What’s your interest?” Mel asked curiously.
I wanted to avoid getting into that. Funny to think he was the guy I used to tell everything to. Maybe that was the problem: I’d shared too much.
“I ran into him a few days ago. I’m vacationing in Basking.”
“You’re vacationing?” His laugh was disbelieving and a little tart. “And at the legendary ranch?”
“Things change.”
“They do.” He sounded oddly regretful.
I changed the subject back to Shoup, but though I pressed for details, Mel had little useful to add. He pointed out that the archeology department is a long way from film studies. Just as Berkeley is a long way from Los Angeles.
Before I rang off, he asked, “Are you taking care of yourself, Adrien?”
Kind of a sore subject between us. “Of course. Always.”
“Are you —? Have you —?”
Found someone? “Sort of,” I said. “I’m involved.” It’s involved. “Are you still with Phil?”
“Paul,” Mel corrected gently.
“Right. The former student.”
“Former grad student. And no. We split up. About six weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry.” No, I wasn’t. I never was a good loser.
* * * * *
After hours of scattergun research I located a number of articles on the Miwok, including a couple that dealt with the creation legends. The People’s tradition was of a world formed by half-human, half-animal spirit beings with supernatural powers. Confirming Melissa’s tale, after Coyote-man made the world he argued with Lizard-man over whether The People would have fingers or paws. But I could find nothing about a first race of man called the Guardian born with claws and a job description that included protecting the spirit world entrance from mortal man. Nowhere did I find any mention of “The Devouring.”
Which didn’t necessarily prove a thing. The library was small and its resources were limited. I was trying to verify an esoteric point of Indian legend.
Still, it was interesting.
Another fact I found interesting if not useful: the Kuksu, whose mysterious art decorated the rocks above Spaniard’s Hollow, was a secret society of the Miwok tribe. Melissa was a member of the Miwok tribe.
Now and then as I looked up from my reading I caught the gaze of a rather odd little man sitting on the opposite side of the railings. It was hard not to catch his gaze because he appeared to be glaring at me.
After the third time, I gathered up my books and notes and moved to the other side of the library. Despite what Jake thinks, I really don’t look for trouble. Soon I was immersed once more in the story of the Chinese in California. I began to understand Abraham Royale’s dilemma as I read of the anti-Chinese movement and the account of the “Caucasian Leagues.”
Royale had married for money, but he had also desired status, and his second-class citizen bride was a liability there. Had he returned the dowry with the wife? I doubted it. What had become of her, this long dead woman? My understanding of Chinese culture was based on movies mostly, but I figured she must have been disgraced. What were the options of a “ruined” nineteenth-century woman — let alone a nineteenth-century Chinese woman? Despite their part in building the railroads and their willingness to take on the jobs no one else wanted, the Chinese had been despised, even hated. The anti-Chinese movement culminated in 1880 with a proposed amendment to the California Constitution that would have prohibited employment of Chinese immigrants.
Capitalism came to their rescue.
The battle rages eternal, though the race, religion, gender or sexual orientation of those discriminated against changes regularly. Maybe man’s need for a scapegoat is genetically programmed into him.
As I mulled over this notion, I glanced from my book to find the old man staring at me between shelves of the nearest bookcase. I kid you not, there was dust on the shoulders of his black ... what was that, frock coat? The latest from the Goodwill Signature Line?
I looked hastily down at the printed page. What next? Could this possibly have anything to do with what was happening in Spaniard’s Hollow? I mean, the old guy looked like he belonged in the 1800s, but I kind of doubted he was a physical manifestation of a guardian spirit. Despite the dust.
Eventually he wandered away and I packed up my research materials and headed to the front desk only to find him there before me. Cravenly, I detoured to the Featured Selection shelf, trying to look inconspicuous. I wasn’t more than a few feet away so I knew I was not imagining it when I heard the man in black mutter something to the librarian about “avowed homosexuals.”
Though I don’t recall taking my vows, my ears pricked up. I randomly pulled a book from the nearest shelf: it was about harnessing the electrical power of your heart. The idea was that by concentrating on positive thoughts, one could actually alter the heart’s rhythm, which would allow one to stay calm, cool and collected “even in the midst of chaos.” That sounded promising. I could try putting it into effect immediately.
“ ... filthy sodomites ... the wrath of God ... the Day of Judgment ...” The little man’s voice rose and then fell as the librarian made shushing motions.
More hissing. More shushing.
Rumplestiltskin finally took himself off with one final razing look my way.
The librarian’s cheeks were as pink as the rhinestones in her glasses when I reached the counter. I could see she was trying to decide whether or not ignoring the incident was the most tactful thing to do.
A piece of advice passed on from my social butterfly mammy: when in doubt, smile. I smiled tentatively. The librarian’s cheeks grew pinker still.
“I must apologize,” she said stiffly, stamping the inside covers of each book in my stack. “The Reverend is a — an arch conservative.” I watched her small fist punching book after book, like an android running amuck.
“Reverend?”
“The Reverend John Howdy.”
“What denomination?”
“I believe he earned his doctorate of divinity through a correspondence school.”
Church of the Sacred Stamp?
* * * * *
I took my books, dropped them off in the car, and hastened around the corner to Royale House where I found Melissa organizing a rack of picture postcards.
“You just missed Kevin,” she informed me.
“That so? I thought I’d take the tour.”
“It’s your three dollars.”
I paid my three dollars, lingering for a time before the glass case displaying the first Mrs. Royale’s traditional wedding headdress and gown. The fabulous silk robes embroidered in scarlet and gold were doll-sized — she couldn’t have stood over four feet tall. How old had she been? Seventeen? Sixteen? Younger?
I checked out Royale’s master bedroom which had a gigantic canopy bed that must have seemed like a boat to China Doll. There were sepia photos in silver frames on the bureau. I stepped over the velvet-covered restraints to get a closer look. I recognized one from my copy of Histories of Basking Township: Royale and his partner in the Red Rover mine, Barnabas Salt. Another photograph showed Royale formally posed with a blonde woman in a stiff-collar dress. The second wife? They both stood rigidly as all folks in those old tintypes do; it would be a mistake to read anything into their body language. On the other hand, she had split with the smithy before the wedding cake was stale.
I stepped back over the velvet ropes. He had done all right for himself, had Royale, by nineteenth-century standards. He had a mansion on the hill full of furniture that must have cost a fortune in his day, let alone in mine. There were Aubusson rugs and crystal chandeliers. At night he had rested his head on Irish linen, and in the morning he had breakfasted on Wedgwood.
I strolled down the hall. In Royale’s study there was a collection of baskets in assorted shapes and sizes woven by Miwok and Pomo women. Some were decorated with feathers, some were tall and closely knit for food storage. Designs in the basket weave symbolized arrow points or deer feet or rattlesnake markings. The collection might not have existed in Royale’s day, the beautiful and primitive baskets possibly donated to the museum in the years following Royale’s death.
The same could be true of the “Indian Life” sketches by Archibald Basking decorating the walls. More Miwoks? I examined ink sketches of conical Indian houses; scroungy children playing with scroungy dogs; Indian women weaving baskets. A third drawing over the fireplace caught my attention: this depicted a tribal dance. Warriors gyrated around a bonfire, a few of the dancers dressed in animal skins complete with the heads of their former owners: a bear, a white deer with antlers, a wolf.
I looked for the title. It read, Medicine Dance.
I went downstairs and located Melissa.
“Can I buy you lunch?”
She smirked. “Eat your heart out, Kevin.”
“Sorry?”
“Kevin’s got the hots for you, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I removed one of the faded color brochures from the spinning rack. “That picture in the upstairs study. The one titled Medicine Dance. Is that supposed to depict one of the Kuksu rituals?”
The smile died out of her dark eyes. “What do you know about the Kuksu?”
“Just what I’ve read.”
“There’s not much written.”
“But I’m a voracious reader. Speaking of voracious … lunch?”
Reluctantly Melissa laughed.
We found a coffeehouse down the street. Marnie Starr was our waitress. She did a double take when she spotted me and nearly spilled coffee on a customer, but by the time she reached our table she had regained her composure.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Fine. The special is meatloaf.” She scratched at her pad with her pencil.
“Any word from Ted?”
“No.” She looked up then, scowled. “There’s a warrant out for his arrest, thanks to you.”
“I can’t take all the credit. Ted did his share.”
Marnie gave me a long steady look like she was lining me up in her sights. She turned on her heel.
When she was out of earshot Melissa queried, “Is this a writer’s curiosity?”
“What’s that?”
“All these questions.”
“I’m just making conversation.”
“Come on, I know you didn’t ask me to lunch because you’re interested in me. Are you researching a book?”
“How did you know I was a writer?”
“That’s a silly question. There are no secrets in a small town. Everybody knows everything about you.”
I raised my eyebrows.
She shrugged. “Small towns, small minds. Let’s just say you’re something new to talk about.”
Trying to analyze her expression, I said, “I admit I’m curious about things I’ve heard from Kevin. I feel responsible for anything that happens in Spaniard’s Hollow.”
Melissa did a creditable impression of the glowering face on a totem pole, finally pronouncing, “You cannot own the land. The land owns you.”
“Are you referring to property taxes or something more spiritual?”
Marnie returned with our plates before Melissa could elucidate. I salted my french fries and Melissa checked under her rye bread as though expecting a bomb.
The tuna melt turned out to be the best I’d ever had in my life — either that or I was hungrier than usual. Melissa tore into her meal as though I’d discovered her starving on the plains. I’d have put money on her in an eat-off against Jake.
Returning with a pot of coffee, Marnie topped off our cups. She seemed to linger over her task. Eavesdropping?
When at last she was out of earshot Melissa said, “Nobody wants to admit it, but something’s wrong at the site. Maybe there’s a simple explanation, but Kevin’s not the only one who’s heard things and seen things. I have too.”
“Like chanting? Tell me about that.”
“I’ve heard it. It could have come from the wind through the caves on the mountain, but I’ll tell you, it raised the hair on the back of my neck and I’m not easily spooked.”
“What happened to Kevin’s dog?”
“Blue? Coyotes, I guess.”
“Is that what you think? Kevin said the dog was torn to pieces.”
Melissa said slowly, “I’ll tell you what I think. I think somebody doesn’t want the past disturbed.”
“Are we talking supernatural somebodies or somebody from around here?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Melissa said.
“Do you believe in sabotage?”
There was a certain glint in her eye. “I don’t practice it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Do you believe The Guardian protects the hollow?”
She stared at me and said bitterly, “People mock what they don’t understand. What they fear.”
“I’m not mocking. I’m asking.”
“I suppose you’re not afraid either?”
I was saved from answering as Marnie brought the bill. I picked it up.
“No you don’t,” Melissa said, snatching for it. I held it out of her reach — old habits, I guess.
“Come on,” I coaxed. “Let me see how it feels to be one of those good old fashioned oppressive landowners. Or maybe just a good old fashioned chauvinist pig.”
She eyed me narrowly but subsided. I never met a grad student who wasn’t short of cash.
“Since you like legends so much,” she said, “I’ll tell you another about Abraham Royale.”
“Yeah?”
“After his second wife ran off, Royale began to remember how faithful and obedient his first wife had been. He remembered her gentle ways and sweet smiles. He remembered her devotion to him expressed in a hundred loving ways, and he went to San Francisco, to Chinatown, to find her.”
Melissa paused. Looking up from figuring the tip, I nodded encouragement.
“Royale searched and searched but the girl’s father had died. There was no other family. No one knew where Li Kei had gone, though Royale questioned all the neighbors. He spent all that day hunting her. At nightfall he came to what seemed to be an abandoned house in the worst part of the city. He went inside, and to his amazement his wife was there, spinning away —”
“Spinning?”
“Well, whatever Chinese girls did during the day. Embroidering or working at a loom or something.”
“Gotcha.” I noticed Marnie was hovering again. Maybe she needed the table.
“Li Kei seemed to Abraham almost unchanged. As though not a day had passed since he’d left her at her father’s doorstep. He stared and stared without the courage to speak. At last Li Kei looked up from her work and saw her former husband, who fell to his knees. He told her what a fool he had been, and how much he loved her, and how he had been searching for her high and low, and how she had always been in his thoughts, and how each night he dreamed of pillowing his head on the soft black silk of her hair.” Melissa brushed the soft black silk of her own hair over her shoulder.
“And she said?”
“Li Kei wept and said she still loved Abraham and had prayed night and day that he would return.” Melissa popped the last bite of dill pickle in her mouth. “So they went to bed —”
Crunch crunch.
“And?”
“And when Royale woke the next morning he found he was holding a skeleton with long black hair wrapped around his hands and throat.
She stopped as I chuckled.
“This sounds familiar. Like that Kobayashi movie, Kwaidan. ‘The Black Hair,’ segment I think.”
Melissa eyed me consideringly and then burst out laughing. “Or Mizoguchi’s Ugetsu. You’re the first person who ever caught that.” She lifted a dismissive shoulder. “Anyway, it makes a good ghost story.”
* * * * *
By the time I left Basking, the blue skies had turned gray and April showers were falling. The mountains were wreathed in cirrostratus clouds promising snow.
I figured Jake would have to cut short his fishing trip. I didn’t know how long it would take him to get back because I didn’t know how far he had traveled in pursuit of man’s other favorite sport.
Weighing the chances of getting snowed in with Jake, I had to wonder whether that would be a good thing. Not if we ran out of supplies, I concluded with a glance at the paper sacks in the back seat. Lots of red meat, lots of chilled beer — it was like feeding a lion with a drinking problem.
At the mouth of Stagecoach Road I parked, got out and checked the mailbox.
The rain was coming down hard now; everything green was somber and glistening. The scent of pine and wet earth filled my nostrils.
Rain ticked on the mailbox as I opened the door.
I’m not sure what saved me. I heard something above the rattle of the rain — another rattle, a sizzling sound almost. I had an impression of motion inside the box, a couple of circulars moved. I yanked my hand away and jumped back.
The snake struck at the empty air.
As I stood there gaping I recognized the distinct triangular head of a rattler.
I backed up another foot or two, rubbing my hand, double-checking that I hadn’t been bitten. I was so shocked I didn’t even yell. The surprise was that my heart didn’t give out then and there. In fact, once it started beating again, it was almost steady. Keep thinking those happy thoughts, I told myself, watching the rattler withdraw into the junk mail of the mailbox. From its hiding place it watched me, tongue flicking out.
I got back into Jake’s car, found my cell and dialed for help.
In less than half an hour the now familiar black and white truck pulled up, giant tires shelling gravel and mud. Billingsly and the ever-present Dwayne fell out wearing yellow rain slickers.
“I might have known it was you,” Billingsly said gloomily.
I explained the situation. As though it was perfectly commonplace, Dwayne reached back in the cab and pulled out a long hook-like rod. In a few minutes they had the snake out of the mailbox and on the road where they promptly dispatched it. So much for the Save the Wildlife Fund.
Billingsly scratched his skunk-toned beard. “Just a little one,” he reassured me, “though their bites can be the worst. The young ’uns don’t know how to judge. They shoot you the whole damn dose.”
“Kind of a weird thing, that snake in there,” Dwayne observed to his chief.
“Yep, that is weird, although I’ve seen weirder. I remember one time —”
“You’re not telling me you think this is a — a natural phenomenon!” I broke in.
Billingsly frowned at me. “What do you think it is, English?”
“I think someone put that snake in the mailbox.”
He shook his head at my ignorance. “You’d be surprised at the places snakes crawl into. Dwayne had a snake wrapped around the towel bar in his john once.”
“The upstairs john,” Dwayne told me as though that should settle it.
I said, incensed, “A snake could not climb up into a mailbox and shut the door after itself.”
They stared at me. Rain dripped off the brim of Billingsly’s hat. “So what is it you’re suggesting? You think someone deliberately dropped that snake in there? Why? To bite somebody? Maybe the mailman? Or maybe you?”
I hadn’t thought about the mailman frankly.
“To bite me. Hell, I don’t know! Maybe to scare me. I only know that snake didn’t get in there by itself. Or by accident.”
The sheriff said vexedly, “You know, nothing like this ever happened here before you came along.”
“This is my fault?”
“I’m just calling ’em like I see ’em.”
And apparently he couldn’t see further than the end of his gin-blossomed nose.
I said as calmly as I could, “Thanks for your help. I take it you don’t want to write a report or anything?”
Dwayne drawled, “Oh, we’ll be writing a report.”
I was already moving toward the car. Billingsly’s next words froze me mid-step.
“Not so fast, English. We were coming to see you anyway.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. I didn’t like standing here getting wetter and more chilled by the minute. I longed for the comfort and safety of home, my quiet shop, my ordinary boring life where my biggest problem was if I was ever going to find someone to share my ordinary boring life.
“What’s up?”
“We’re trying to put a name to that dead body you found.”
“Which one?”
He let that pass. “Missus Jimson at the general store says you told her Friday morning that you were expecting company that night. Now, I know it wasn’t your buddy the cop because I called him myself Saturday night. So where is this other guest of yours? What happened to him?”
My mouth dropped. I stood there, letting the rain in while I gaped.
“There wasn’t one. I made him up.”
Billingsly and his deputy exchanged a look and moved in — actually I think Billingsly only shifted his weight, but I was rattled.
“But surely ...” My voice unexpectedly gave out and I had to try again. “The postmortem will tell you how long he’s been dead.”
“Yep.”
Yep? What did that mean? Not that I was any expert, but the dead man looked as though he had been there awhile. Longer than a week.
Good-bye to pride, good-bye to dignity. I babbled, “You’ve got to believe me. There was no one else. I said that because it’s isolated up here. I said it in reflex. I was jumpy. I’m used to living in LA.”
They stared as stolidly as the white-faced beef cattle by the side of the road. An effect heightened by Dwayne chomping his tobacco cud.
Billingsly said slowly, grimly, “You’re one of them funny boys, ain’t you?”
It was hard to speak, what with my heart trying to climb out of my mouth. For every gay man this question comes at some point, in just such a tone, if not in those actual words. I don’t know if real courage lies in storming barricades or simply not denying the truth. I know it took every ounce of strength I had to say, “I’m gay, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Your pal, Riordan. He one too?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
Dwayne spat a stream of tobacco juice an inch from my boot.
They continued to stare at me.
Why wait for the law? Let’s string him up! Except that they were the law.
“I’ll tell you flat, I don’t trust you, English,” Billingsly told me flat.
“Listen,” I said, “Why would I make a point out of the dead man in the barn not being the same man I found Thursday night? Why would I direct your attention to him if I’d killed him? Is that smart? Is that logical?”
“How the hell do I know how smart and logical you are?”
Seeing that I didn’t have an answer to that, Billingsly added, “I done some checking. This ain’t the first time you’ve been involved in a homicide.”
“A homocide,” clarified Dwayne.
“Someone tried to kill me.”
“That happens to you a lot.”
Dwayne laughed as though that were no wonder.
“Okay, okay. What about the gun he was shot with? I don’t own a gun. You can search the place if you want.”
I knew this was a mistake as the words left my mouth. My grandmother had a rifle and at least two handguns somewhere in that house — assuming Ted hadn’t pawned or stolen them. But surprisingly the sheriff didn’t jump at this offer. Indeed, he got a suspicious look on his face as though he’d just been dealt his fifth ace.
“Sure, you’d like that. Then you could sic your ACLU shysters on me.”
“We could get a search warrant,” Dwayne suggested. His ears and nose were turning red with cold. It felt like snow in the air.
Maybe the words froze in my throat. Or maybe I honestly couldn’t think of anything to say. It doesn’t happen often. I just stood there as though struck dumb.
Billingsly jabbed his finger my way for emphasis. “Don’t even think about leaving town, English.”
* * * * *
“The only thing worse than opera is someone who hums along with opera.”
It was nearly five before Jake walked in. He was sunburnt, wet, and smelled faintly of fish. Sexy as hell. Don’t ask me to explain.
I stopped typing. “Turn it off.”
Jake reached over my shoulder and turned off the CD player, cutting Bocelli off mid-high note.
In the silence I could hear rain drumming down on the roof.
“Get a lot done?”
“Sort of. Jake —” I started to turn in my chair.
He folded his muscular arms around me. “God, I’m starving.” He pressed his mouth against my throat and growled from deep down in his own. The bristle on his cold jaw scraped my own.
My nerves being a tad frayed, I jumped a foot and nearly clipped him under his chin. He let go of me and laughed.
“How about fish for dinner?” His grin seemed more lopsided than usual.
Shit shit shit. The timing was all off. I was zigging, he was zagging.
“Fish is good if I don’t have to clean it.”
“I’ll clean it,” he said. “Hell, I’ll even cook it if you take K.P.”
“Deal.”
He was heading back to the kitchen. I got up and followed him.
“Jake?”
On the other side of the kitchen he paused, his hand on the door to the yard.
“I — uh — there was a rattlesnake in the mailbox today.”
He took it without blinking.
I plowed on. “I called the sheriffs and they didn’t take it too seriously, but — well, Billingsly told me not to leave town.”
“Told you not to leave town?”
“Right.”
I was waiting for the nuclear reaction, the meltdown. Jake said very calmly, “That’s bullshit. Unless he’s actually charging you, no cop can order you not to leave town. What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Where’s this mailbox?”
“On the highway.”
“What were you doing on the highway?”
I tried to keep it light; offered a smile. “This feels like an interrogation.”
“Why were you on the highway?” Crisp and clean and no caffeine.
“I drove into town to pick up some groceries and a copy of Titus.” At his blank look I said, “Titus Andronicus. The play I’m basing —”
“You were playing detective.”
“Not really.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I did a little research, that’s all. At the library. And Royale House.”
He stared stonily.
“I know you think that I’m imagining things —”
Jake walked out. The screen door swung shut behind him with just a suggestion of a bang.
* * * * *
“You’d better tell me what you found out,” Jake said pushing his plate away.
I had been staring down at the remains of my dinner, studying the fishy eye of the trout lying there. Jake’s voice jarred me out of my none too pleasant thoughts.
Dinner had been civil but strained. The food was good, but I had no appetite. Jake fried up the fish, cooked rice with garlic, cilantro and green onions. Someday he was going to make some woman a wonderful wife. I tossed together an unimaginative salad of spinach and wild lettuce, and uncorked one of the unexpectedly nice bottles of California wine I’d picked up at the market. I thought the wine would help. Or at least dull my awareness of Jake’s disapproval.
We moved around each other in the big kitchen, not speaking except when he asked me where something was.
I got the silent treatment during the meal too. I didn’t like it. It reminded me of the way Mel used to clam up when he was angry. I reacted by drinking too much; it didn’t help as much as I’d hoped.
I tossed my napkin over the remains of the fish. “Answer me this first. Suppose someone wanted to protect Spaniard’s Hollow?”
“From?”
“Exploitation. Desecration? The hollow was considered a sacred place by the Kuksu.”
“What’s the Kuksu?”
I think it was Mark Twain who said, “Get your facts straight, and then you can distort them as much as you like.”
“A secret society of men and women, a religious cult whose members dressed in elaborate costumes representing ghosts or divinities.”
“Impersonating the spirits of the dead?” Jake tilted back his chair, drained his glass. He was knocking the booze back himself, but he’d gone straight for the twenty-year-old whisky in the liquor cabinet.
“Right. The Kuksu is associated with the Miwok, the Miwok being one of the predominate tribes in this area. That story Melissa told us last night is a Miwok creation legend.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“Melissa is a member of the Miwok.”
Nothing from Jake.
I pushed on. “There’s something else. When we were kids Melissa used to talk about going on rattlesnake hunts with her father. I know that’s probably just a little kid bragging. I know it’s circumstantial, but ...”
Jack said impatiently, “It’s hearsay. It’s jack shit.”
“Look, I’m not accusing her of anything. You asked what I found out.” I decided to wait until later to tell Jake about my conversation with Mel.
“You think Melissa put the snake in the mailbox? Do you think she also killed the vagrant in the barn? Why?”
“I’m not saying that. I don’t want to think Melissa is involved. I’m theorizing. Maybe the two things are not connected. Maybe the snake was only meant to scare. She doesn’t know I’ve got a bad heart. Those stories that she told last night were sure designed to scare. Everything that’s happened at that camp has been designed to scare people off.”
Jake was silent. He shook the ice in his whisky glass. It made a chilly angry sound. At last he spoke, his comment being, “How did you not get snake bit?”
“Luck. It was cold inside the metal box. I guess the snake was sluggish.”
No comment.
“I’m not sure why you’re pissed about this,” I said.
He seemed to choose his words. “I’m not.”
“No?” I couldn’t help the sarcastic note.
“Let me finish. I think you’re in over your head. And that creates a problem for both of us.”
“It doesn’t have to. I didn’t ask you to come up here. I’m not asking you to stay.”
“Yeah. Right. We both know I can’t just walk away.”
I kept my temper. Barely.
“Fine, Jake, what do you think I should do? Go home to LA and forget about the fact that two men have been murdered?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Is that what you would do?”
“You’re not me.”
“But that’s what you think I should do?”
Some kind of internal struggle seemed to take place.
“Adrien, people get killed all the time. Since when is it your job to find out what happened to them?”
“I’m not usually suspected of murdering them.”
“You have been as long as I’ve known you.” The dry humor of that caught me off guard. Jake said, “Do you have a plan? Or do you just intend to hang out here until someone puts a slug in you?”
Now there was a happy, positive thought to focus my heart’s energy on.
“Do you understand that you could be arrested?”
I stared down at my empty glass. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Would you grow up? For Chrissake! What’s happening to you? You have a business to run. You have to earn a living, remember? You leave town without a word. You hide out here — have you bothered to check in with Angus since you arrived? Have you bothered to find out if your shop is still standing? Have you even called your damn mother?”
“My mother?”
But Jake was on a roll. “You want my take? I don’t know what you’re doing up here, but it seems to me like you’re hiding out from something.”
“Well hell, Jake, you missed your calling. You should be a shrink not a detective.”
His chair slammed down on all fours. “Someone put a snake in your mailbox because you are going around asking questions. Do you get that? There’s a direct correlation.”
“Yeah, I get that,” I returned caustically. “I’m surprised you point it out though, since according to you I’m making mysteries out of molehills.”
He stared at me. “Who are you? I feel like I don’t know you.”
“You don’t know me,” I bit out. “But then you don’t know yourself.”
His face became a mask. Hard bone and tight skin. No emotion, no thought — except for the eyes behind the mask. They were bright with fury.
I waited for him to say the bitter words trembling on his tongue, the words that would kill this frail stunted thing linking us together. My heart pounded with dread, my hands felt cold and clammy. I had ended it. I’d ended it without thinking through whether I really wanted to end it.
I waited.
Jake said tersely, “I’m going to bed.”