Dead Seed

by William Campbell Gault

  “What else?”

  “You!” she said wearily. “Once a peeper, always a peeper.”

  I said nothing.

  Silence the rest of the way, silence while I parked. She made no move to get out, staring through the windshield.

  I went around to her side and opened the door. “Well—?”

  She looked up at me. “I have really been bitchy lately, haven’t I?”

  I shrugged.

  “I knew what you were when I met you,” she said. “I despise women who marry men and then try to make them into something they aren’t. You never tried to change me.”

  “Why would I? If I wanted a different kind of partner, I would have married one. You had a lot of offers, remember. Personally, I think you made the right choice.”

  “So do I. I’m going to be nicer. I’m going to work at it.”

  “Don’t do it for me. I love you just the way you are. You, feisty, are my favorite person.”

  I had clam chowder, she had broiled red snapper. She had Pinot chardonnay, I had beer. Calories, calories, calories.

  “We’ll get as fat as pigs,” she said.

  “Ma’am, if you were as fat as Mrs. Lacrosse, I would love you still. And look at the big fish she hooked.”

  “You don’t know what she looked like when he married her,” Jan pointed out. “It had to be about eighteen years ago if the boy is his son. She might have been thin then.”

  “It isn’t her weight so much. She looked so—so sloppy.”

  “Maybe he does, too. I’ve never seen a picture of him.”

  True enough. I had been building patterns again. The sensitive artist, the flaccid wife, the rebellious son; I had been writing a scenario in my mind.

  The van was still on the driveway when we drove home. Maybe she was shacked up with Kelly. Maybe she didn’t have enough money to go to a motel. Kelly had been a crooked cop. It was possible some crooked cop friend of Kelly’s had recommended him to her when she was down at the police station. Stop it, peeper!

  There was music coming again from the Medford house when we got home, soothing music.

  “Do you think they’re home again?” I asked Jan.

  “I doubt it. The maid tunes in to the same station. What is the name of that song? Something about yesterday, isn’t it? ‘I remember yesterday, all my troubles seem to fade away.’ Is that it?”

  I nodded. Carol Medford’s troubles hadn’t faded away. Her yesterdays might be coming back to haunt her.

  FOUR

  I PHONED BERNIE AT home next morning before he went to work. I told him about the van being parked on Dwight Kelly’s driveway.

  “So what?”

  “How do I know so what? You were the guy moaning about never being able to nail Kelly. I am trying to be of help.”

  “Okay, I’ll run over there and arrest Kelly for having a van parked on his driveway. You’re mental, you know it?”

  “I try to be. Why not use your brain for a change? How would that woman from Arizona find out about Kelly the deprogrammer?”

  “I have no idea. I am waiting patiently for your theory on it.”

  “She was at the station yesterday, wasn’t she? Maybe she got the word down there.”

  “Oh, God—Callahan’s crooked-cop complex again.”

  On our first case together we had uncovered a crooked cop who was now serving time for murder. I didn’t mention this.

  “Why don’t you enjoy your ill-gotten wealth,” he asked me. “Why don’t you practice your natural Irish sloth?”

  “Because I follow the Benedictine rule.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “ ‘Idleness is the enemy of the soul.’ From Saint Benedict. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  “Not lately. Why don’t you coach another Little League team again? You can’t finish last every year.”

  “Sorry to have bothered you,” I said. “Good-bye.”

  “Wait!” he said. “I know you meant well. I’ve got a desk full of paperwork waiting for me at the office, but I’ll check into it. One of Kelly’s best friends is still with us.”

  One of Kelly’s best friends. I would put him into the scenario when I learned his name. This did not seem to be the best time to ask for it.

  Jan told me at breakfast that she had decided not to turn her recalcitrant client over to Audrey.

  “I’m glad,” I said. “You’re no quitter.”

  “Quitter,” she said. “That’s a dirty word to jocks, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “To me, too,” she said.

  We had found another area of agreement, my love and I. She went back to the war in Solvang; I went back to reading the Times.

  It had clouded up last night and the forecaster had promised us rain. A shift in the wind had made him a bad guesser. The sun was out again.

  The only clouds in sight were imaginary, a presage not of rain in our area, but of trouble.

  I phoned the Medford house to ask if the lovers had returned. They had not. The butler told me that they had phoned yesterday afternoon and explained that they had cancelled their reservation at the lodge in Carmel. They would phone him again over the weekend to keep in touch.

  It was a clear warm day, a nice day for a drive. I headed for the San Marcos Pass Road. The route to it took me past the house of Dwight Kelly. The van was still on the driveway.

  Bernie had told me Kelly’s clients were rich. Mrs. Lacrosse did not seem to fit that category. Could it be that her body had interested Kelly? I didn’t dwell on the image engendered by that fantasy.

  Up the San Marcos Pass Road I drove, climbing and turning. A narrow, rutted road led off of it halfway to the top of the pass and a small white sign with gilded letters identified it as the entrance to The New Awareness. This had to be the cult that Bernie had mentioned. I turned into it.

  The road got ruttier, rockier, and narrower. The Mustang labored on, groaning. But she is no quitter. We arrived finally at a wide pair of gates in a high Cyclone fence topped with barbed wire.

  A short, wide and ugly man in corduroy pants and a sweatshirt was sitting in a captain’s chair inside the gate, reading The Racing Form. He got up as I came from the car.

  “You got an appointment?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. “My name is Lester Tryden. I am a cousin of Carl Lacrosse. He phoned me from Bern last night and asked me to come up here and talk with his son.”

  He frowned. “Bern? Where’s that?”

  “In Switzerland.”

  He studied me doubtfully. Then, “What’s that name again?”

  “Lester Tryden.”

  He went back to the chair and picked up a phone next to it. He talked for about a minute and then came over to unlock the gate. “Go straight up this road,” he told me, “past those redwood barracks to that small white building at the end. That’s Mr. Sarkissian’s office.”

  The road inside the gates was wider and paved. Not a human being was in sight as I drove past a long two-story redwood building to the small white stucco building at the end.

  The white was trimmed in gold around the doors and windows. The sign next to the door read: Vartan Sarkissian, Founder.

  The door opened into an outer office. A slim and flaxen-haired girl in a simple charcoal denim dress was typing at a desk in there.

  “Mr. Tryden?” she asked me.

  I nodded.

  She pointed to a door in the far wall. “Go right in,” she said, and pressed a button on her desk.

  He was standing by his desk when I entered. It was a shock. I was looking at the spitting image of another of my old cinema idols, Tyrone Power. He was dressed in somber gray flannel.

  “So you are a cousin of Carl Lacrosse,” he said.

  I nodded. “You know the name?”

  “I should. I worked in a camera shop for four years. His middle name is Tryden, isn’t it?”

  I nodded again. “But I’m not really a—a first cousin. It’s kind of c
omplicated.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Tryden,” he said.

  I sat in a straight-backed chair at the end of his desk.

  “You are telling me, then, that Joel Lacrosse is Carl’s son? He denied any relationship when I asked him.”

  “From what little I know, I guess he would. Carl doesn’t spend much time in Skeleton Gulch. To be frank with you, Mr. Sarkissian, Carl and I have never been close. I’m surprised that he phoned me.”

  “But the fact remains that he phoned you. He must have some concern about the boy’s welfare.”

  I shrugged.

  “What is he doing in Bern?”

  I shrugged again. “Maybe checking his Swiss bank accounts.”

  He smiled. “It’s strange but, despite his reputation, I never thought of Lacrosse as being rich.”

  “You can’t prove it by me. He was never real commercial, but my Aunt Lilah always claimed Carl still had the first nickel he had ever earned.”

  He nodded absently. He looked past me into space. “Since we moved up here, Mr. Tryden, we have been under constant harassment from our neighbors. That is why we need the high fence. But this is not a racket. This is a true religion.”

  I smiled. “And who has more right to the title? Weren’t Armenians the very first Christians?”

  He smiled back at me. “My parents always claimed they were. You know about Armenians, do you, Mr. Tryden?”

  “Very little,” I said. “I had a chauffeur years ago named Levon Apoyan and I learned that from him. And one more thing—they hate Turks.”

  He sighed. “With reason. That was a holocaust the history books have slighted or ignored. You may tell your cousin that his son is in good hands.”

  “I will. Could I speak with him for a few minutes?”

  He shook his head. “Not for at least two weeks. He is now in his incubation period.”

  “I get it,” I said. “He is being reborn. Would it be all right if I came back in a couple of weeks?”

  “Of course,” he said. “But phone first, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” I said. “And thank you for your courtesy.”

  The flaxen-haired girl in the outer office smiled at me as I went through. “Peace,” I said. “Love.”

  “Why not?” she said. She winked and held up a circled thumb and forefinger.

  Vartan had better put that one back in the incubator. Unless she was in on the take.

  The man at the gate was still reading The Racing Form when I pulled up there. He opened the gate and let me through.

  I leaned out the window to tell him, “If you get rain and a wet track, and you spot a horse named Galloping Ghost running at Hollywood Park, lay on him heavy.”

  “A mudder, huh?” he said. “You been charting him?”

  “I own him,” I said, and started down the rocky road.

  Below me, the city glittered in the morning sun. Around me, the grass and shrubs were gray and lifeless. And dry. We needed rain!

  I didn’t go home. I went down to the station. In Bernie’s office the room was blue with cigarette smoke, his desk piled high with papers.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “I came in to report, sir. The cult you mentioned yesterday is called The New Awareness. It is run by a man named Vartan Sarkissian. The Lacrosse kid claims he is not related to Carl.”

  “You talked with him?”

  “Nope. He is in seclusion at the moment, in his incubation period.”

  “What is he, an egg?”

  “More or less. In two weeks, his shell will crack open and we will have a reborn chick, ripe and ready for the new awareness.”

  “Oh, God—!”

  “And one other item,” I added. “Mrs. Lacrosse’s van was still parked on Dwight Kelly’s driveway this morning. It was probably there all night. Either she’s richer than we thought or Dwight Kelly has a lust for big mamas.”

  He shook his head. “What a busy little bee you have been. And what is your interest in all this?”

  “I have none. I hereby turn it over to you. Want to go to lunch?”

  “I brought my lunch. I’ll be eating while I work.”

  “Okay, see you around,” I said and started for the door.

  “Don’t rush off,” he said. “Go get us a couple of Cokes or coffee, if you’d rather have that, from the machine in the hall. I’ve got extra sandwiches.”

  “How nice!” I said. “A picnic! Could I open a window?”

  “You get the drinks. I’ll open the window.”

  When I came back with one paper cup full of coffee and a bottle of Coke for him, he handed me a tuna-fish sandwich and said, “Start at the beginning and tell it in detail.”

  I gave it to him almost verbatim from our trip to Charley’s Chowder House to my tip on Galloping Ghost.

  He shook his head when I’d finished. “Oy! If we honest cops could work like you, our jobs would be a breeze.”

  “Huh!” I said.

  “Huh what?”

  “Does your vice squad work in uniform, or undercover? Don’t any of you practice entrapment?”

  Nothing from him but a scowl.

  The only creature Bernie hated more than a murderer was a crooked cop. Not that Bernie wouldn’t cut a corner here and there in building a case. But he figured his allegiance was to the taxpayer, not the crook. He would have made a lousy welfare worker.

  I took a less intransigent view of the boys on the seamy side of our society. I’d had to work with them in Los Angeles. And I didn’t share Bernie’s devout belief that ninety-nine percent of all cops were honest. He had never worked in a big-city department; San Valdesto had been his only bailiwick.

  “May I go now?” I finally asked.

  He started to light a cigarette and then threw it angrily out the open window. “Those damned things!”

  I stood up.

  He stood up, too, and stretched. When he looked at me again he seemed less tense. “You were right about what you said this morning. I’d love to nail Kelly. But I’ll need an okay from the Chief if you’re going to get involved. I’ll do some discreet questioning this afternoon and drop in for some free booze on the way home. Okay?”

  “Okay, buddy. And stop sulking about that captaincy. You don’t need the extra money.”

  “To hell with the money. I just like to know I’m appreciated.”

  FIVE

  IT WAS HARD FOR ME to believe that the dashing hero of my youthful dreams, the man who did his own stunts, would run from trouble. It had to be Carol he was protecting. When the showdown came, I was sure, he would unsheathe his sword of destiny and protect his princess.

  Showdown. Why had that word almost triggered some dim memory in me? It had almost reached the surface of recognition—before fading.

  There was no place to go but home. I went there. A dusty Plymouth two-door sedan was parked where the van had been parked before; I didn’t recognize the car, but I knew the youth behind the wheel.

  He had come to me a year ago for advice. A few months later, when he was twenty-one, I had helped him get his investigator’s license. It was Corey Raleigh, the boy detective, a tall, gangly kid.

  I went in to tell Mrs. Casey I’d already had lunch and then went down to the Plymouth. “What are you doing here?” I asked him.

  “You know better than to ask that, Mr. Callahan,” he said stiffly.

  I opened the door on the curb side and slid in next to him. “Didn’t I tell you to stick with insurance claims and credit checks? Why this Sam Spade bit?”

  Nothing from him. He didn’t look at me, staring rigidly ahead.

  “Are you waiting for Miss Medford to come home?”

  “Don’t ask,” he said.

  I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the Sheriff’s car pulling up behind us. I said, “Okay, Corey. If you won’t answer my questions, get ready for his.” I reached for the door handle.

  He looked in the mirror. His voice was shaky. “Don’t go. Stay! Please?”
r />   “All right. Let me handle it. You’re too young to start lying.”

  The same young deputy who had questioned me came to Corey’s side of the car and looked down at us. “Well—!” he said.

  “Something wrong, officer?” I asked him.

  “We got a call from next door again,” he told me.

  “From Charles?”

  “Who’s Charles?”

  “The butler. Corey came here to talk with me.”

  “Is that so?” To Corey, he said, “Could I see your driver’s license, please?”

  “He wasn’t speeding,” I said. “I can attest to that.”

  The young deputy glared at me, his jaw muscles rigid. Corey handed him the license. The officer glanced at it and handed it back. “Have you known Mr. Callahan long?” he said.

  “That,” I said, “is none of your business.”

  He said harshly, “I was talking to him.”

  I took a deep breath and said evenly, “If you want to run us down to the station and book us, we’ll go. We will answer no more questions. And I resent very much this invasion of our privacy.”

  There was a long silence while we glared at each other like a pair of adolescent nitwits. Then he said, “We got a call. I answered it. We answer all calls. I don’t relish, being lectured on invasion of privacy by a man who made his living by invading privacy.”

  “And I don’t relish being slandered,” I told him. “I’ll go in and phone my attorney and we can all go down to the station together. Mr. Raleigh will be my witness for the slander charge. I’ll be right back.” I opened the door and started to get out.

  He said tonelessly, “There’s no need for that. As I said, we answer all calls. I—apologize for the remark.”

  He went back to the car and drove away.

  “Man!” Corey said. “You are one great liar!”

  “You’ll learn the art, and so will he. Have you had lunch?”

  He nodded. “I brought a couple of sandwiches. This could shape up as a long stakeout.”

  “You should have brought a tent and a week’s supply of groceries. Come in the house and we’ll have a beer. You can still watch the Medford driveway from there.”

  We sat on the patio where we had a view of the driveway and sipped our beers. “What are you charging these days?” I asked him.