by Laird Barron
I told him I’d read the essay and asked why he hadn’t cashed in on a big fat New York book deal. The story was loaded with the good shit American readers crave: sex, violence, and exoticism six ways from Sunday.
“Idealistic, ambitious, stupid. We signed waivers stipulating that Toshi Ryoko and Howard Campbell owned every iota of that expedition. Those raconteurs kept an iron grip on the rights.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Ever catch the documentaries of the mission?” he said. “The original film is raw and honest, although you’d be surprised how much the camera omits.”
“Or a director,” I said. I’d screened the cult classic documentary and a more recent, family-friendly retrospective. “Yeah, I saw it. By the way, ever hear of Anvil Mountain?”
He paused before answering.
“Some in my circle call it the Black Mountain. Why do you ask?”
“Part of a case I worked on recently. This talk of expeditions from days of yore made me curious to see how small the world is after all.” In the Small World After All category, Zircon, via a subsidiary, funded multiple research projects conducted by Campbell and Ryoko, beginning with their trip to Bangladesh. More recently, Campbell appeared as a consultant on the Jeffers Project in the fine print section of the credits.
“You’ve had other adventures beyond Bangladesh,” I said.
“Nothing as titillating. I did fieldwork in England. Our department found this enormous Viking coprolite in a marsh. Eleven, twelve hundred years old, fossilized dung. Could split a pot helmet with it. Speaking of helmets . . . We also recovered a chainmail coif with an intact skull. Amazing.” He dexterously extracted a fresh cigarette one-handed and lit it with a gas lighter. The sort of fancy doohickey you got as a retirement gift. “Synchronicity that you mention the Bangladesh essay. Sean was a child when I embarked with the doctors on the quixotic voyage. In its aftermath, I worked at a private research facility in Santa Rosa.”
“I take it you had a personal relationship with the doctors,” I said.
“Yes. June and I rented a house in Santa Rosa and maintained regular contact with Campbell and Ryoko. The men were confirmed bachelors. They doted upon Sean as the child neither would ever have.”
“So, you saw them often.”
“We routinely drove to their house for various get-togethers,” he said. “They were nomadic and the latter 1980s is possibly the longest the duo ever settled in one place. Wherever they reside is akin to a portable museum. Fossils, bones, ancient weapons. Sean was positively dizzy with wonder. He grew rather attached, especially to Dr. Campbell. The feelings were mutual—Howard became Sean’s de facto godfather. June and I eventually returned to New York, to our roots. Our children scattered to the winds. Sean attended Sonoma State and made California his permanent home.”
“Well, you mention synchronicity. This is more than synchronicity, Dr. Pruitt. I’ve examined Sean’s college essay defending the anthropological work of Campbell and Ryoko. The men exerted a significant influence on him well into adulthood.”
“Every step leads a man toward his end.”
“It takes a village,” I said. “Badja Adeyemi said that Sean pressed him for a position with the project. I note that Campbell and Ryoko are listed as consultants. There’s a connection, perhaps?”
Dr. Pruitt nodded.
“Nothing occurs in a vacuum. This valley is rich in folklore, as you can attest. During college, Sean visited Campbell and Ryoko regularly. Became a fixture at the California villa. Wherever those two reside is known as the villa. He majored in anthropology in homage to their more popular aesthetic. Did nothing with it, sadly. From would-be Livingston to a rent-a-cop.”
“Met a girl, got hitched . . .”
“Love snared him. Meanwhile, the doctors traveled extensively, were absent for years at a stretch, and retired to an estate in Massachusetts.”
“A bizarre research project, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Considering their wingnut record, that’s quite a mouthful.”
Franz struggled against his leash, determined to investigate a scent trail.
“Come,” Dr. Pruitt said. “Let’s see where this goes.”
* * *
■■■
The dog led us to the perimeter fence, where he victoriously urinated to mark the spot. Reflecting on that last tall cup of joe, I kind of envied Franz.
Murals decorated sections of the fence; accomplished work, vibrant colors muted by the elements and the slow burn of decades. Vaguely Native American renditions of the sun and moon and totems. Some illustrations went darker. Stylized monster birds descended talons-first upon stylized stick-figure men. The grandest and most dreadful of the flock resembled a beautiful winged woman laughing as she brandished a spear. Herds of skeletal black horses stamped and reared and beheaded stick figures. Grotesque skulls (the height of tall trees and disproportionately broad) emerged from mountain caves on stunted legs, waving stunted arms; crowds of stick people bowed in veneration. Seldom-trimmed branches and encroaching brush obscured and defaced the artwork. The fence had struggled to hold off the wilderness for decades and buckled in exhaustion.
“On the ominous side.” I indicated a giant monster head. “Your city council had a fever vision in the seventies.”
“The Saga of the Terrible Faces. Tourists seldom visit this spot. They are, in fact, discouraged. The mural is for us.” He tapped a stickman suspended in the claws of a mountain demon. The demon’s maw unhinged in anticipation of its delicacy. “This part is you.”
“Huh, I look fantastic. What tradition are these illustrations? Seneca? Mohawk?”
“Nothing of the sort.”
Several teenagers entered the opposite end of the park. The kids gathered around the backstop. I couldn’t discern finer details except that the boys wore crimson letter jackets and the girls wore white and crimson sweaters and bronze skirts; similar to the colors of Valley High, which were red and pale gold. Franz cocked his head. His ears twitched and he growled.
“You live in Horseheads Village,” I said to Dr. Pruitt while keeping an eye on the kids. He’d seen them too and was doing his best to pretend otherwise.
“Yes, I rent a studio. June called and said you were by the house. She has confidence in you.”
“Kind of her.”
“Thank you for your civility. My June exhibits the warmth of a freezer.”
“She feels similarly about you. What I’m getting at is it’s an interesting choice, to meet in this park.”
“This is a forgotten place, though it exists in plain sight. No one comes here.” He ignored the presence of the high schoolers. “You might profit from the ambiance.”
“The ambiance?” I glanced around skeptically.
“Geography shapes the mind. For weal or woe.”
“Dickey might’ve agreed with you.”
“Burroughs said of this continent, ‘Evil is there, waiting.’ Immortal words.”
“Those words outlived his wife, no argument.”
“I considered anthropology as a major,” Dr. Pruitt said. “We are standing upon Vulture Bluff, dubbed for the turkey vulture population’s affinity for roosting among the trees.” He gestured expansively. “This is the Nameless Field. Native legends aver grass is the only thing that has ever grown here since the Stone Age. It’s either a sacred place or cursed.”
I didn’t inform him I already knew about the vulture part. He enjoyed holding forth, and in that I was sure he and his wife were well suited as a couple.
“Not much of a difference between the holy and the profane,” I said. “Although if I were to lay money on who corrupted the scene, I’d lay it on whitey.”
“General Sullivan, slaughterer of Indians.”
“And equines.” I nodded toward the mural’s carnivorous black horses. “Was he simply defending himse
lf?”
“Either way, he was a heroic benefactor of the turkey vultures.”
“There’s an unwelcoming vibe in this neck of the woods.”
“You’re feeling the oppression of Christian hegemony in conflict with native animism,” he said. “Self-righteous, puritanical men seized this land. You’re also feeling the eyes of the vultures evaluating the sweet texture of your skin. The eyes of many animals. Animals endure.”
“You hate it here.”
“I don’t hate this valley.” He lowered his gaze. “I hate the fuck out of it.”
Why did he remain if that’s how he felt? Simple—it isn’t necessarily love that shackles us to people or places.
“Did Sean and Linda have a strong marriage?”
“Are you asking whether she might’ve been too eager to collect the insurance money?”
“I’m asking how they got along.”
“I’m sure June told you. Sean was a fragile child who grew into a brittle man. No, it wasn’t a strong marriage. He left her alone for days at a stretch rather than confront her dissatisfaction. At the end, they fought quite frequently.”
“Where’d he go when he abandoned ship?”
“Jeffers Colony,” he said. “Seek and ye shall find it on the opposite side of the valley in the hills in the vicinity of Morrow Village.”
“I should take a gander. What’s there?”
“Deserted houses. Mice. Ghosts.”
“Your wife didn’t mention it.”
“Then it’s one more detail of which she remains blissfully unaware.”
“She said you adamantly considered his death a closed case. I’m getting a different take.”
“I’ve never accepted that Sean’s death was his own doing.”
His comment caught me off guard.
“Dr. Pruitt, your wife—”
“Believes I’m a coldhearted bastard. We’re not in love. However, because I love her, I protect her. Try to protect her.”
“How do you protect her?”
“Badja paid a man to look around on the QT, two years ago. Detective Griese. He was injured in a street altercation and retired from the investigation midstream. Heavy drinker, I presume. Precisely the kind of thug—no offense—my brother-in-law attracts.”
“To be fair,” I said, “I don’t get the impression many legitimate investigators were clamoring for this job. What happened after Griese dropped the case?”
“Nothing. Badja admonished me to remain patient.” He anticipated my next comment. “We didn’t inform June or Linda about hiring the detective. The news would’ve fueled more paranoia. June was erratic, absolutely erratic.”
Okay, this might not qualify as a bombshell. It did confirm why Adeyemi resorted to hiring me. My detective skills weren’t of the slightest concern; he’d valued my potential to play the role of a bull in a china shop. Irresistible force, meet immovable object.
“If I could chat with Mr. Griese—”
“I’ll consult my records, forward you the information.”
“Thanks. Why didn’t you tell your family about the detective? Why conceal your suspicions?”
“This valley and those who own it are capable of terrible deeds when provoked,” he said. “June has evidently forced Badja’s hand. You’re here, conjured, summoned. Pandora’s box is opening.”
I studied him, gauging his sincerity.
“Is it possible Sean had an enemy? Something not in the file?”
His expression flattened. The sun steadily dropped below the trees and a reddish glow caught in the panes of his glasses.
“I’d be most inclined to scrutinize friends and associates. A seducer, a corrupting influence. Impossible to say if Sean peeked through the keyhole or whether someone, a dweller in the dark, threw the portal wide and ushered him across the threshold.” His tone was off. He had definite ideas about who might’ve “seduced” his darling boy.
“Hit me with names,” I said.
He sighed and leaned down and patted his dog. Franz pressed against him, shivering, his gaze riveted on the small crowd. The high school kids had arranged themselves in a line of seven. Four jocks, three cheerleaders. None wore a hat despite the chill. They stood motionless as carvings. The presentation disquieted me because I didn’t understand what it meant. It annoyed me because I knew that was the point of the exercise.
Dr. Pruitt continued to dismiss their existence.
“June says that Badja knew what he was getting when he hired you.”
“Time will tell, sir. It always does.”
I rolled my neck and shoulders and ambled toward the students in their battle line.
“Wait,” he said. “You don’t want to fool with them.”
Oh, but I did.
Franz growled. He barked ferociously. I glanced back; the dog reared on his hind legs, barely restrained, lunging and snapping at the air. The sun was nearly down and the light in the trees congealed. Dusk tightened on the surrounding woods like a lover grasping a fistful of hair.
“Those aren’t children,” Dr. Pruitt called over the barking and snarling. I think that’s what he said.
Among my hidden talents is the ability to move quickly without seeming to increase stride. I rushed the group and it broke apart before I’d covered a dozen steps. Five drifted for the gate. A cheerleader and her guy pal stayed put until I’d closed within a few yards. Their uniforms were antiquated and the mascot was wrong—instead of a cartoon horsehead, it was the silhouette of a horse skull, except stretched and sinuous, curving back upon itself, jaws snapping at its own trailing spinal cord. The pair laughed at me, clasped hands, and split. I let them go. Debatable whether I could’ve caught them anyhow. Fleet as deer.
Dr. Pruitt was right. They weren’t kids.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
American gangster lore delights to depict the mob as an unstoppable force. A capo sends his goons to beat on a guy; they beat on a guy. Capo decides it’s curtains for a schlub; the schlub eats a bullet. That’s well and good, except not everybody who’s gotten crossways with the Family sits around waiting to catch a beating or an ice pick to the spine. People hide. People fight back. More people resist than you might think. Often, it doesn’t help much in the end, and yet it happens.
The Buffalo arm of the Outfit took a cut from traffic in Elmira and the satellite towns, albeit haphazardly. So much for the good old days. The mafia foothold in the north had radically declined since 1980. Pressure from the Feds, Russian mobs, and Native American gangs figured into that decline of splendor. The Family concentrated its activities on the City of Lights, the Great Lakes, and smuggling contraband across the Canadian border in cooperation with foreign criminal syndicates.
The Redlicks were the closest thing to a stable organized crime presence in Horseheads, and they had nothing to do with street-level work. Crooked deals went down in smoky back rooms and alleys, same as it ever was, but only a few loosely affiliated thugs exploited the market. Made my task a little more difficult since there wasn’t a central authority figure to lean on. So, I leaned on whoever didn’t scuttle away before I got my hands on them. Typical PI jobs are tedious because rich dirtbags and average joes require subtler tactics; they’re a protected class, as it were. Street- and trailer-park-level scum are cake. Traditionally, I’ve strong-armed hustlers and pimps with impunity. Who will they complain to in the absence of a syndicate? The cops? City hall?
All week as I interviewed the faculty, I’d scoped the situation at Valley High, on the prowl for the resident lowlifes and drug dealers. Located three blocks south of a dying shopping center, the school occupied a hill overlooking town. The sprawling campus was on the seedy side. It hadn’t been completely renovated since the 1950s or ’60s; planners kept adding wings and ancillary structures willy-nilly throughout the decades. Kind of run down, kind of weary, and overcrow
ded. Budget shortfalls forced frequent school closures and the bulk of student consolidation fell to Valley High.
Lunch period bell signaled a stream of kids plodding to and from the shopping center. Same spot each day, a blue 2000 Camaro parked on the street near an exit with a clear view and a potential head start on converging security, not that security could be bothered. A bunch of kids visited the driver. He let the more adventuresome girls sit in the car with him as he doled out his wares. I bribed a passing sophomore to fill me in on the details. Confirmed that it was what I thought before rushing in half-cocked. My nerves were still raw from my visit to Vulture Bluff the previous afternoon.
I waited for a lull, then walked over to the Camaro’s owner as he sat on the hood, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Under thirty, lanky, and built for flight. Spendy wraparound shades NBA stars were promoting. Light insulated jacket, unbuttoned to display his gold chains and tats. Track pants and matching sneakers. Drug-money shoes. The car windows were rolled down and the stereo cranked an eclectic selection of hip-hop and gangster rap.
“Hey, Superfly. Got a minute?”
“No.” He dragged and then blew smoke in my face. “You a cop or somethin’?”
“Has life ever been so kind?”
“I don’t know you. Don’t wanna. Keep steppin’.”
I glanced around, sidled in nice and intimate, and showed him the pistol under my coat.
“Well, maybe you’ve got less time than that.”
“You crazy? You wouldn’t shoot me, homes—”
I rapped the top of Superfly’s dome with my brass knuckles. His shades fell off.
“Why would I shoot you when I can slap you around until my arm gets tired?”
Here’s something real: Don’t buy the jive about violence as a last resort because I’m better than that. No. Violence is only a last resort when it’s a last resort. Realistically, it’s often a first, second, or middle resort. The Superflys of the world speak the language fluently. Besides, hitting a jerk feels good. It has to feel good, or else I wouldn’t be able to stomach it. That dopamine rush I’d gotten addicted to in the Outfit was difficult to kick, so I weaned myself slowly.
