“Saskia Blackhawk’s got a good reputation as an attorney. Maybe you’ll win.”
“Our luck, she’ll die on account of this accident, and we’ll never even go to court. Anyway, she probably lied about our chances. You know how it goes: lawyers, developers, politicians. Indian or not, they’re all alike. Lie to us every day of the week.”
Jimmy D still hadn’t surfaced by the end of the lunch shift, and the man Angela had sent to the house off County Road Thirty reported that his truck was gone. “I’m worried,” the waitress told me, “and I suppose I oughta go to the sheriff, but if Jimmy’s just off on one of his binges, he’ll have my ass when he comes back and finds out I’ve sicced the law on him. Besides, the deputy’d probably laugh me outta the substation.”
“Why? A missing man isn’t a laughing matter.”
“Well, Jimmy likes his whiskey, and he’s been known to drop outta sight before.”
“All the same, somebody should do something about this.”
“I’ll think on it. I don’t want to cross Jimmy. He’s mean as a snake and twice as poisonous.”
The phone was ringing when I got back to the cabin. Mick, with the results of his checks.
“Pretty slim pickings, Shar. Sunday’s a bad day for this kind of thing; I can’t get hold of most of my contacts.”
“Well, give me what you have.”
“Bearpaw was born June seventh, 1946, in Alturas. Parents were Vida Warren and Travis Bearpaw. County property records show they owned land on Sky Road.”
I unfolded my map and began looking for it. “Go on.”
“The only other record for the parents is their death certificates—Travis in Alturas, December of ’eighty-seven, Vida in Salinas, August of ’ninety-two.”
I placed my finger on Sky Road; it wasn’t far from Cinder Cone. “What about a criminal record for Jimmy?”
“It exists, but isn’t much of one. I asked your friend Adah at SFPD to run his name through CJIS. Mostly it’s DUIs and D and Ds. Did some time in Monterey County jail for petty theft in ’ninety-one. I checked property records down there—nothing. He’s owned the café up there since ’ninety-two.”
“No marriages or divorces?”
“None that I could find.”
“So we don’t know if he’s got children.”
“Uh-uh. And I drew another blank on that town, Cinder Cone. It doesn’t show on any maps, past or present.”
I sighed. “It was only a wide spot, and not much of one at that.”
“Anything else you need?”
“A lot, but nothing you can give me.”
I was back at the café when it reopened for dinner. “Still no Jimmy?” I asked Angela.
“No, and business is falling off because of that damn Harry’s cooking. Most Sundays, the old folks’re pouring in here right away for their early-bird dinners.” She held up the carafe of coffee, looked questioningly at me.
I shook my head. “I’ve been thinking—maybe I can get a line on Jimmy for you.”
“Oh yeah? How?”
“Well, I used to know this cop, and he told me that the key to finding a missing person is usually in his background. Have you known Jimmy long?”
“Most of my life. We went to school together. Jimmy quit as soon as he could, joined the Navy. Was stationed someplace down south and stayed there a long time before he came back and bought the café with his mom’s life insurance money.”
“Where down south?”
She frowned. “I’m not sure. Maybe one of his mom’s old cronies could tell you. After she left old man Bearpaw—he was a worse drunk than Jimmy—she moved down there to be near him.”
Salinas area, then.
“Was Jimmy in the Navy the whole time he was away?”
“No. After he got out he had a lot of different jobs. Commercial fishing. That he liked till he wrecked his back and had to quit. And he worked for some company that did soil testing for farmers. I guess he must’ve been a fry cook, too. How else would he’ve learned?”
“That company that did the soil testing—do you know its name?”
She shook her head.
“Agribusiness? Does that ring a bell?”
“Not really. I don’t see how any of this is gonna help you find Jimmy.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve steered me in the right direction.”
Back at the cabin, I sat down on the porch facing the distant Warner Mountains with a glass of wine in hand and began isolating the facts that bothered me. Examined each one and began asking myself the questions that I should have asked others much earlier. Finally I went inside, took out the picture of Saskia, Fenella, and Austin and studied it.
Yes, there was the thing I’d overlooked.
Quickly I changed to a heavier sweater, grabbed my flight jacket as fortification against the encroaching night, and went to take another look at Cinder Cone.
7:18 P.M.
The dilapidated cluster of buildings was wrapped in shadow. I drove past the gas station and store and parked in the yard of the house beneath the pines. It crouched under their wind-whipped branches, lonely and forlorn. I got out of the truck, located the flashlight at the bottom of my purse, and went inside.
Immediately the feeling of wrongness that I’d experienced yesterday overwhelmed me; it was in the walls, the floors, the air. I stood still, shining my light around and trying to identify its source, but there was nothing to see here except the shell of what had once been a home. As I crossed to the bedroom, I tried to shake off the feeling. It wouldn’t shake.
The cardboard suitcase lay under the bed as I’d left it. I pulled it out, raised the lid, removed the hair comb. Neither plastic nor ivory, as I’d originally thought, but buffalo bone. Like the frame of the photograph Elwood Farmer had given me. I took it from my bag and compared the comb to the one Saskia wore in the photo; they were identical.
I put the comb and the picture into my bag and set out to search the house inch by inch, looking for a clue to its owner. Most of its contents had been trashed or stolen, but in a handful of receipts caught behind a kitchen drawer, I found one made out in July of 1956 by Alturas Hardware to Ray Hunter.
Hadn’t Austin referred to the favorite uncle whose home he and Saskia had fled as Ray? True, Hunter was a common surname, but given the presence of Saskia’s comb—and most likely her suitcase—in this house, it was where they’d come. Why hadn’t Austin told me he knew the area because of that visit? And what had happened to Ray Hunter?
Maybe Mr. Easley at the Wilderness Lodge would know.
I hurried out to the truck and started back the way I’d come, but when I passed the volcanic crater across the road from the old gas station, I remembered something I’d seen there the day before. I backed up, pulled the truck close to the crater, and got out, shining my flash around. Its beam highlighted the overgrown dumping ground at its base, and I made out the rusted nose of a truck protruding through the vegetation.
I went over and pushed the vegetation aside; the vines, scrub trees, and sagebrush were brittle, dead or dying. Miscellaneous debris was piled around the truck as if to hide it: boards, the remains of a mattress, an oil drum, some furnishings. Rodents had eaten the stuffing from the mattress, and the oil drum had corroded and leaked—which probably accounted for the vegetation dying. One more hazardous waste site on the planet.
I pulled some of the debris aside and clambered over to the buried truck. Its license plate was nearly unreadable, but it looked to be the type issued in California in the fifties. I squatted down, ran my finger over the raised date. 1958.
Pulling aside some boards, I went around to the driver’s door. It wouldn’t open, so I smashed the window, removed most of the glass, and leaned inside. On the steering column was a registration card encased in plastic, as owners used to display them. When I held the flash close to it, I could make out faded letters: RAYMOND T. HUNTER.
Why had he abandoned both his home and a truck that, from the looks of i
t, had then been relatively new?
Of course. He hadn’t.
I backed through the window and straightened. Looked around. My eyes moved to the volcanic dome looming some dozen feet above me. Its mouth wouldn’t be large enough to accommodate a vehicle, but…
I left the thicket and began climbing the side of the dome, leaning forward on the steep slope, hands braced on the ground. The newly risen moon’s light gleamed off patches of rippled obsidian among the rough basalt. I moved slowly, counting each step, breathing at a measured pace. Tried not to think of what I might find or what might have happened here over forty years ago. When I reached the crater’s rim I stood for a minute, taking in the clean night air. Then I shone the flashlight beam down inside.
A bottomless spiral of darkness. Black walls, glassy in some places, broken and eroded in others. Moss, lichen, small plants that thrived in dank places. And, farther down, a ledge protruding where part of the crater’s wall had caved in. On it I saw a flash of white. Bat droppings?
I lay down on my stomach and extended the arm with the light as far into the pit as I could. Stared at the ledge with squinted eyes. The white blur took on definition, as if a man were lying prone there.
Not a man, a skeleton. Perfectly formed because no predators could disturb it in its volcanic tomb.
I drew back too quickly and my hand smacked into a rock. The flashlight flew from my grip. I watched its beam flare off the crater’s walls as it bounced and clattered into the depths.
I was driving past the part of the lava beds where the formations stood the thickest when the truck’s left rear tire went flat. It had felt out of alignment all the way to Cinder Cone, and now I knew why. I braked, got out to check it. A nail was driven straight in and had caused a slow leak. Normally I’d have thought little of it, just changed the tire and gone on my way, but in light of my discovery and yesterday’s fan-belt incident, it struck me as suspicious.
I crouched next to the tire, looking around. The warped rock formations hulked against the moonlit sky; the chill wind whistled among them. My imagination conjured up a band of fleet-footed Modocs darting across the stubbled plain and vanishing as if the earth had swallowed them. I heard faint sounds as they signaled to their comrades with words and gestures I couldn’t comprehend. They were—
Don’t fantasize, McCone. Change the tire.
That wasn’t going to be easy to accomplish in this darkness, without a flashlight. I went down on one elbow and looked at the braces where the spare was supposed to ride. Empty. I scrambled into the pickup’s bed, saw the lockbox was too small to hold a tire. Checked it anyway for a can of that gunk that temporarily inflates one and plugs the leak. No quick fix here, just extra motor oil, spark plugs, miscellaneous parts. Pete Silvado had prepared for every emergency except this one.
Or had someone taken the tire? The same someone who had cut the fan belt and driven the nail in?
I slipped from the bed, watching and listening. Nothing moved except the wind. How far to Sage Rock? Ten miles or so—a long hike, but I’d walked farther. The moon’s light was strong enough to show the way. I took my flight jacket from the cab and shrugged it on, removed my wallet from my bag and stuck it in a pocket, leaving the bag on the seat. Then I unlocked the glove box and lifted out Hy’s .45. He’d left it with me because he’d be connecting to a commercial overseas flight at SFO and wouldn’t be able to take it along. It was heavy, unwieldy, but I maneuvered it into the jacket’s deep slash pocket. Much as I disliked carrying a gun I didn’t have a permit for, its weight was a comfort.
The road had once been paved, but now it was mainly dirt, pumice, and cinders. I could feel the latter through my shoes, hear them crunch. It was growing colder, the wind gathering strength. I kept to the side of the road, scanning the darkness for someone who might be hidden nearby. Listening for a footfall—
A whining noise, and then a stinging on my left ear. The shot boomed as I dove for the roadside ditch and burrowed deep into the tangled vegetation. Blood dribbled down my temple; the bullet had grazed the tip of my ear.
Jesus, another fraction of an inch and I’d’ve been dead, same as in Boise!
In the distance a man’s voice shouted something unintelligible. I burrowed deeper, hoping he hadn’t seen me go into the ditch. The man didn’t shout again, and for a while all I heard was the whistle of the wind among the rock formations. Then other sounds whose origins I couldn’t place filtered through: a rustling, a crunching. Coming closer.
The gun was useless. It was too dark and the shooter was probably out of range. I had to make a move quickly. But what? And to where?
The lava beds. The Modocs used the ones over by Tule Lake for survival. I can use these.
I began inching up the side of the ditch. The vines around me rustled, but that could have been caused by the wind. My head cleared the top and I took a look around. I couldn’t make out anyone, anything, except the twisted forms scattered across the barren plain.
The man yelled again. Again I couldn’t make out his words.
I pushed up, scrambled to my feet, and ran.
Another bullet whined, another shot boomed. Gone wide.
I dashed for a formation that was shaped like a gigantic hunchback, slipped around it, and took shelter, panting. The ground gleamed black and shiny; fissures stretched jaggedly in all directions. The man remained silent now. He was out there, stalking me.
One of the fissures zigzagged toward a huge outcropping—jagged hunks of rock hurled high against the sky. I crouched down, followed the crack. Touched the formation and found an arch—the mouth of a cave. I ducked inside.
Cold basalt walls and a sudden respite from the wind. I leaned beside the opening, aware of my rasping breath and the distant drip of water. At first the darkness was total, but gradually I made out details that were highlighted by moon rays coming through cracks in the cave’s ceiling: black blobs and dribbles on the walls where the lava had flowed and hardened; white calcium lace where water had dripped and evaporated; a tree root reaching down thirstily from above.
Another shout—close by.
Keep going. In as deep as you can.
The cave’s floor sloped steeply. An eroded column divided it like a pillar in a classic building. I slipped around into total darkness, moving with my hands outstretched like a blind woman. They touched smooth glass, rough rock, insubstantial and repellent things like slime and bats’ nests. The sound of dripping water came closer, receded. The ceiling sank lower, until I was crawling on my hands and knees. Then it rose again, but the walls narrowed and became a lava tube. I squeezed through its twists and turns.
The floor sloped uphill then, uneven and fissured. My foot lodged in a crack and I twisted my ankle. The blood on my cheek had caked, was sticky under the jacket’s collar; my ear throbbed painfully. The air was close and cold; the walls were rimed with tiny icicles.
One step. Another. Stop and listen for sounds. Step, step, listen. On and on for what seemed like hours—
A dead end.
No! I haven’t gone far enough.
I pawed frantically for an outlet. Solid rock wall. Dark subterranean trap, so dark I could feel it, hear it, smell it. Taste it, even. Now I knew what hell was like: not fire and brimstone, but complete, endless darkness.
Get a grip, go back, see if you can find another lava tube.
I retraced my steps, fighting back tears of rage and frustration. Then, to my right, I caught a faint glimmer of light. Turned that way, crawling over a two-foot obstruction, and followed this secondary tube to another dead end. Except here there was no ceiling.
I looked up. Stars. The moon. Fresh air. Freedom.
Relief made me lean limply against the cold rock. But not for long.
Where’s the shooter?
Gone by now, or keeping a vigil at the cave’s mouth. If he’d blundered inside, I’d’ve heard him. Better to surface now while I still had hours of darkness to protect me.
The wall was s
mooth and glassy. I took a few steps back, felt around till I found spaces that I could use as hand-and footholds. Started climbing.
A foot, two feet, slip back one. Two feet, three, four—slip all the way to the bottom.
I closed my eyes, trying to convert despair to anger. When I’d built enough heat, I used it as fuel to start climbing again.
Three feet, four feet, rest.
Five feet, six—and my head was level with the ground.
A little more. Slow and careful.
I shoved up, braced my arms on the hardscrabble earth. Rested again, gathering strength. Then I pushed off the wall behind me and rolled onto the surface.
A voice behind me said, “About time. I been waiting for you.”
The chill that took hold of me was colder than the wind. I raised up and slewed around—a cornered animal.
Jimmy D. Bearpaw stood over me, legs spread wide, a rifle trained on my head. He was grinning, as if somebody had just complimented him on his bacon and eggs.
“Didn’t count on me knowin’ these beds like the back of my hand, now, did you?” he said.
I didn’t say anything. Tensed, waiting. Feeling the weight of Hy’s .45 pulling at my pocket.
“Stand up,” Jimmy said.
I stood slowly, trying to counterbalance the gun. But Jimmy noticed. He reached forward, patted the pocket, snagged the .45’s butt. “You’re well prepared, I’ll give you that.”
I watched as he tucked my last hope into the waistband of his jeans. He was still grinning. I relaxed slightly. Asked, “Where’ve you been since last night?”
“Watching you.”
“Why’d you disappear from your house before we got there?”
“Idea was to separate you from your husband, but the two of you stuck like glue. I was kinda wasted, anyway, so when you left I knocked off for the night. Where is he, by the way?”
Listen to the Silence Page 17
