Point Deception

by Marcia Muller

  The driveway ended in a large paved area where over a dozen vehicles were parked, and another dozen spilled over onto the grass beyond. A crowd was gathered in a side yard, and Deputy Wayne Gilardi stood on a platform improvised from cordwood, calling out names. As Guy and Rhoda approached his eyes flickered with surprise and disapproval.

  Guy scanned the crowd, noting familiar faces. The bartender from the hotel, a clerk from the supermarket, a waitress from the Oceanside, the maid from the Sea Stacks. Will Scurlock and his tenant, Clay Lawrence, stood next to the platform. Lawrence spotted Guy and nodded.

  “Okay,” Gilardi said, “take a look at those maps we passed out.”

  Xeroxed sheets of paper fluttered as people consulted them. Guy glanced at one the man next to him held. It was a hand-drawn map marked off in grids.

  Gilardi went on, “Group One’ll cover the area south of here. Your leader’s Clay Lawrence. You take your direction from him. Group Two’ll move east across the ridge. You follow Will. I’ll lead Group Three from here to the highway, then north to the property line. Your leaders have walkie-talkies, so if you find anything, tell them and they’ll communicate it to the others. You’ll be hearing planes overhead, because Westhaven’s pilots’ association has volunteered to make an aerial search, but they tell me we’ve got a better chance of finding Virge than they do. So you’re it, folks. Any questions?”

  Rhoda called, “Why only north to the property line, Wayne?”

  He frowned. “What’s that, Swift?”

  “Aren’t you going to search Cascada Canyon?”

  Some people had been talking in low tones while Gilardi gave his instructions, but now silence fell.

  The deputy glanced at Will Scurlock, who shook his head. Wayne said, “It’s not necessary. Virge would never go there.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  Again Gilardi glanced at Scurlock, who made an impatient gesture. “Swift,” he said, “are you volunteering?”

  A ripple of uneasy comment spread through the crowd.

  “I’ll be team leader for that area, yes.”

  “Well, Mr. Newberry there’ll have to be your team. Everybody else is assigned.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Then let’s get started.” Gilardi shot Rhoda a hard look before stepping off the cordwood.

  Rhoda turned and began walking toward her truck. Guy followed. People gave them a wide berth, several casting puzzled or uneasy glances. When they were driving along a dirt track toward the north end of the property he asked, “Why’re you doing this?”

  “We’re looking for Virge.”

  “You heard Wayne. She’d never go to the canyon. Her husband looked as though he agreed.”

  “You know, Guy, my former husband always thought he knew exactly what I would or wouldn’t do—and more often than not he was wrong.”

  A downed tree, many years down, judging from the smooth, silvery sheen of its bark, lay across the track in front of them. Rhoda stopped the truck and said, “From here on we walk.”

  Guy got out and followed her, noting the stiffness of her spine, the jerkiness of her gait. On edge and under rigid control, he thought. Scared? He wondered if she’d planned beforehand to go to the canyon or if her volunteering was strictly impulsive. Whichever, it must be difficult for her to return there after these many years.

  They moved through forestland on ground thick with needles, where pinecones lay in abundance and large bright orange mushrooms grew. A car backfired on the highway, and momentarily Rhoda’s steps faltered. A plane’s engine droned low overhead. The trees grew taller, denser, and then Guy spotted the first of the giant redwoods. His eyes were drawn upward along their deeply striated trunks to sunlight filtering hazily through their branches. He stopped, but Rhoda walked on, into a clearing. When he caught up with her—

  “What in God’s name is that?” The arrangement of rusted, twisted metal rose amidst the trees. It resembled a half dozen electric drill bits, their shanks embedded in concrete.

  “One of Forrest Wynne’s sculptures. There’s another in front of their geodesic dome. He was supposed to be a genius, but…” She shrugged.

  Guy recalled the eggbeater controversy that prompted the Wynnes to flee San Francisco. The artist had had an unfortunate affinity for common household objects. He walked around the sculpture, trying to make sense of it.

  “D’you know what this was called?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose it matters now.”

  Rhoda didn’t reply. She was standing with her hands thrust in the pockets of her sweater, head turned toward the canyon. Steeling herself, Guy sensed, for a return to what they both knew to be an evil place.

  Rho motioned to Guy and started toward the slope that led down into the canyon, adrenaline coursing through her. She didn’t really believe Virge Scurlock had gone there, not to the birthplace of the demons that plagued her. But Rho’s demons had been born there too, and she’d reached the point where she needed to confront them. Needed also to show this man the canyon as she knew it.

  Damp needles made the downslope slippery, and she moved with care. Behind her she heard Guy slide and right himself with a grunt. Ahead she saw the row of poplars that grew along the stream, their golden leaves moving fitfully in the breeze. Water splashed over rocks, glinting in the sunlight, running faster than she remembered. A weathered humpbacked footbridge spanned the stream bed.

  The bridge was what Heath Wynne had been running toward when he was shot.

  Rho stopped, taking a deep breath. Guy came up beside her.

  “This canyon,” she said, conscious of a tremor in her voice, “is named for the waterfall near its end, that generates this stream. There’s a second stream on the far north side of the property near the well house.” Before he could comment she turned and moved across the bridge. Its planks were spongy under her weight.

  “We’re in the center of the property now,” she went on. “Thirty-one acres. This bridge is on a triangle with the Blakeley house and the drug lab. The Wynnes’ dome is directly ahead of us through those trees.”

  “Why are you talking like a tour guide?” Guy asked.

  “Am I? I’m sorry. But I want you to understand this place, if you insist on writing about it.”

  “We’re not looking for Virge Scurlock, are we?”

  “Not really. That was an excuse to get you here. I knew none of the others would come along.”

  “You didn’t need an excuse. You could’ve just asked me.”

  “I suppose so, but I know you’ve been here before. I was afraid you’d already drawn your own conclusions and wouldn’t want my input.”

  “I don’t work that way.”

  “Good.” Now she was aware of a curious detachment, as if someone else had taken over her mind and body. She began walking along the stream bed. Everything was familiar—that rock, that tree, this curve of the bank. Etched into her mind many years before, yet she felt no connection. The graveled path that had led to the bridge had mostly washed away during a dozen rainy seasons, yet…

  She stopped, faced Guy. “This is the spot where Heath Wynne died. In my arms.”

  He looked down at the ground, then up into her eyes. Silently. His eyes, she saw, were changed, as if something in her experience had communicated itself to something in his.

  “If you’re to write this story,” she said, “there are things you need to know. You have to get it right. To do justice to the victims, our town, and my department. I can tell and show you those things.”

  “Do you want me to write it?”

  “I think so, but even if I didn’t, I know I couldn’t stop you.”

  “Probably not. The Harrisons, Susan Wynne’s family, want it told. For, I think, the same reasons you do.”

  “Closure.”

  “And answers. There are answers hidden here. And I’ve a reputation as a man who can get them.”

  Guy stood with Rhoda next to the eggbeater sc
ulpture in front of the geodesic dome and experienced the night of the murders through her halting words.

  “In her nine-one-one call, Virge said the shots she’d heard definitely came from the canyon. I was first on the scene and found the Blakeleys’ bodies in their house. I called for backup and an ambulance and was on my way here to check on the others when I heard someone moaning.”

  “Heath.”

  She nodded. “He was close to death, and there was nothing I could do except try to comfort him, but I think I talked myself into believing that somehow I could make him hold on. You know how you do that under certain circumstances? Imagine your will is so strong that by force of it you can prevent the inevitable?”

  Oh yes, he knew. When Diana was shot he’d thrown his body across hers, imagining he could protect her, even though the bullet had already entered her brain, even though she was already gone.

  “What is it?” Rhoda asked.

  She’d seen his pain. He turned away from her, stared up at Forrest Wynne’s enormous sculpture. He’d never spoken with anyone about that subject except on the most factual and superficial of terms, and he certainly wouldn’t go into it with a relative stranger.

  He said, “Your experience is becoming very real to me.”

  “Is it? Ever since we came into the canyon I’ve felt as though I’m sleepwalking.”

  “That’s natural. You’re insulating yourself. How quickly did your backup get here?”

  “Very. We’ve got a good response rate. Wayne was first. He found Heath and me, directed the EMTs to us. Afterwards he and I found the little girl who survived. I’ll show you where later.”

  “That was Heath’s sister, Oriana. Where were their parents?”

  “In the dome. Dead of multiple gunshot wounds. Because of that, and the fact that each of the Blakeleys was shot only once, we assumed at first that the Wynnes were the shooters’ primary targets. But when Wayne and another deputy found Bernhard Ulrick…”

  “He was in his drug lab?”

  “Yes. Wayne saw a light burning up canyon and they went to investigate. I stayed down by the Blakeley house with Oriana. She wouldn’t let anybody but me touch her. Anyway, Ulrick had been shot repeatedly with a semiautomatic weapon. His body was literally shredded.”

  “How did Wayne handle the situation?”

  “He was badly shaken. We all were. None of us had ever encountered that kind of crime scene. But you know, he maintained fairly good control until he went into the Blakeley house to see how the evidence collection was going. When he came out he ran through the trees to that old car that’s still sitting there and beat on it with his fists.”

  That could mean Claudia Blakeley had been more than a casual lay to the deputy, Guy thought.

  “Why’re you asking about Wayne?”

  He didn’t want to tell her about Gilardi and the Blakeley woman, not yet at least. “I guess because, aside from you, he’s the only person I’ve met who was here that night.”

  “He’s the only person who was here, aside from me, who’s still alive or in the area. Station Commander Warren died six, seven years ago. Detective Lieutenant Marx, who headed the investigation, got a job with Yolo County. The others are working in other parts of the state or out of law enforcement entirely. That investigation really cost the department.”

  “Because the murders were never solved?”

  “Yes. And because the FBI made it plain that they considered us both inept and corrupt. And because people didn’t want to live in a place where something that horrible had happened. But we weren’t inept or corrupt. We were human. We made mistakes.”

  “Such as?”

  “When I interviewed Virge I got the sequence of what she heard screwed up. Wayne misplaced the blood samples from the scene of Ulrick’s death. We all overlooked things, didn’t secure the scene properly. But even big, experienced law enforcement agencies make those kinds of errors. I’ve always thought the real fault was in Sheriff Caxton’s failure to bring in the FBI right away. He had a big ego, wanted his people to solve a case that made national headlines. It wasn’t until the victims’ families pressured that he gave in, and then it was too late.”

  Rhoda looked so pained that Guy shelved his line of questioning and started toward the geodesic dome. Its windows were filthy, and it resembled a deflating balloon, gradually caving in upon itself. When he turned the knob and pushed, the door stuck in its frame, swollen by moisture.

  Initially the room beyond was disorienting, its curving walls giving him the impression he’d stepped under an inverted bowl. A kettledrum fireplace with seating around it stood at its center, and beyond that pie-shaped areas devoted to various activities were separated by low partitions. The kitchen was small but well equipped, the play area overflowing with toys. Archways opened to the additions he’d seen from outside. As in the Blakeley house, a thick layer of dust overlay everything, as well as the handiwork of spiders and rats. Two chalked outlines showed faintly on the floor by the fireplace, and—

  Guy squatted down and sighted along the linoleum. Old footprints, like those he’d noticed at the Blakeley house the day before. Similar large size, similar tread. A persistent thrill-seeker, or someone with a real purpose?

  “What’s that you’re looking at?” Rhoda asked.

  He hadn’t heard her come up behind him, and when he started, he realized how badly the scene had him spooked. “Somebody’s been here recently. There’re footprints in the dust. At the Blakeley house, too.”

  “How recently?”

  “Not in the past twenty-four hours, if that’s what you’re thinking. But within the past year.” He stood. “I see where two people died. Forrest and Susan?”

  “Right.”

  “What about the sister?”

  “In the bathroom, hiding in the shower.” She motioned at one of the archways.

  “You come inside here that night?”

  “No, but later I saw the photographs. I had to stay with Oriana till the county social services said they couldn’t send anybody out for her. Then I took her to the Scurlocks’, where I interviewed Virge and she spent the night.”

  “So she let Virge comfort her?”

  “Oh, yes. Virge has a special way with children and she relates to another person’s pain. She and Will lost their only son to a drunk driver when he was fifteen.”

  Pain. Loss. Death. Jesus, why was he here in this gruesome memorial to wasted and truncated lives? Why, when he had finally begun to heal from his own pain, loss, and death, had he placed himself in a situation where he was forced to confront these things all over again?

  “Guy?”

  He pivoted, scanning the room with a professional eye. Forced himself to separate his own emotions from those that must be trapped here. At the Blakeley house he’d felt fear and panic, but now…

  “Guy?”

  He shook his head, motioned for her to be quiet.

  It felt different here. Fear and panic were present, yes, but there was something else. He pictured Susan Wynne’s empty dark eyes as they appeared in the second photograph he had of her. Pictured Forrest, and realized the reason behind his apparent lack of humor. It was present in the musty air, as strong as if they had died only yesterday.

  Resignation.

  Susan and Forrest had gradually been giving up on life, perhaps since the day they arrived in the canyon. Work had slackened off into idle talk and drug use, and the accompanying death of the spirit. That last night they’d heard the shots at the Blakeley house and realized what was coming. Susan had the presence of mind to send her children away, possibly to tell Forrest’s sister, Devon, to conceal herself, but otherwise they’d done nothing.

  “Guy?”

  He turned. Rhoda was looking at him with the same surprised expression as must be on his own face.

  She said, “They just gave up. You feel it too, don’t you?”

  Chrystal: Before

  Friday, October 6

  12:11 P.M.

/>   Running down the canyon like a scared little kid. Like me and Heath did that day. Gotta get a grip—

  Jesus! What’s that noise?

  Oh yeah, one of them hawks. Real screamers. Make awful sounds like they’re being tortured. Like the scream I heard when I came down the hill on the deer path that last night. Only it wasn’t no hawk.

  No, Chryssie, don’t go there.

  Yeah, like I could stop now.

  Jude and Leo left me alone in our cabin that night. They were going down to the canyon but they said I couldn’t come along because they had to talk about grown-up things with the others. They were real serious, kinda nervous too.

  After a while I got scared. They hardly ever left me alone at night, and it was windy outside. All sorts of sounds, and even though I knew it was just the trees and stuff, I hid under the covers. The cabin really creeped me. It was so old and crummy and smelly, no wonder nobody minded us squatting there. After a while I decided anyplace was better, even outside in the dark, so I got up and put on my jeans and a sweatshirt and headed for the canyon.

  The moon was out, so I could see the path where the deer wore down the grass real good, didn’t even need a flashlight. When I came up on the pond, I scared off a couple of does that were drinking from it. That was when I started to hear something that sounded like Fourth of July firecrackers. And people yelling.

  They were having a party down there, I thought right then, but Jude and Leo hadn’t taken me along. Everybody was having a good time but me.

  At first I wanted to cry, but then I got mad and started walking faster. It wasn’t fair. I hadn’t done anything bad. Why was I left out?

  After the pond, the path went under some trees. It was awful dark in there, and I kept tripping over roots and stuff. I walked straight into a tree trunk and smacked my forehead. It bled, and then I did cry. But not for long because I heard a booming sound, closer by than the others. And I knew it was a shot. I’d heard lots of those. Leo had a gun and he liked to plug beer cans on the stump behind our cabin.