by Susan Slater
“The same, I guess. Hannah was ticked that she had to open the trading post this morning. But where would Sal disappear to?”
“Who knows? The only sure thing is I’m up to my ass in a homicide, and I let the guy who did it go.”
“Are you thinking Sal left you the knife and then skipped out?”
“That’s my best guess. He could be halfway to Mexico City by now.”
“His truck’s still at his trailer,” Ben said. “It looks like he’s been working on it recently.”
“I saw it. That’s what makes me think he took off for the badlands on foot or borrowed a car.”
“El Malpais?”
“Yeah. He could hole up for awhile, do penance, then work his way toward the border.”
“But why would he give himself away? Give you the murder weapon?”
Tommy shrugged. “He could have been told to do it—to come clean. Probably had a ceremony and, according to Indian ways, the priest told him to get rid of anything having to do with the dead man. Maybe he was being bugged by the old ones. Sal was complaining of bad dreams when he was in jail. He told us he saw supernaturals. It could be, he just needed relief.”
Ben nodded. But it bothered him. Sal seemed too honest. When they had questioned him, Ben thought Sal seemed uneasy—who wouldn’t be, under the circumstances. But taking off? That certainly hadn’t been Ben’s impression of what he might do.
“Now what?” Ben asked.
“I put out an all points. Luckily, we got some mug shots when he was in jail a couple weeks ago. We’ll get a packet out. One thing’s for sure, he’s a hundred or so miles away from here by now.”
+ + +
“Boy, are you popular. So much for your trying to catch up on any work over the long weekend.” Rose had stepped into his office just as Tommy was leaving. “I had hoped that we might have a minute to talk but they said it was an emergency.”
“Who’s they?”
Rose waited until Tommy was out of hearing. “Sal’s sister and wife.”
“What do they want? Have they found Sal?”
“I don’t know. They seem pretty upset.”
“Send them back.”
The first thing that struck Ben was how old the two women seemed. Yet, both were probably in their early fifties—the same as Hannah, but there the comparison stopped. These were matrons—women who got their short hair regularly permed, let the gray show, and chose navy polyester slacks, anklets, flat-heeled oxfords, and plain blouses that pulled taut across ample bosoms and rounded abdomens. Each held an oversized vinyl purse on her lap, across plump legs that dangled over the edge of the chair, feet just brushing the floor.
Sal’s sister introduced herself as Daisy Sandoval and seemed to be the spokesperson, indicating Sal’s wife might want to see him by herself later on. But when Ben looked over inquiringly, the other woman stared resolutely at the floor. Some sixth sense nudged him that this wasn’t going to be easy.
“There’s something very wrong,” Sal’s sister began. “Sal was supposed to have dinner with us last night. My son just returned from California. I had invited Mary,” Daisy gestured toward Sal’s wife with her chin, “and my son’s girlfriend. I had fixed paper bread. Sal’s favorite. After dinner, we were going to watch the fireworks at the Civic Center. He never showed up.”
“If something had come up, would he have called?” Ben asked.
“More likely, he’d drop by. He’s always coming over. I saw him Friday morning. Sometimes I help him with his laundry. They live apart, you know.” Once again, Daisy indicated the woman beside her. “So, he doesn’t have anyone to take care of him.”
Ben couldn’t help compare the picture being painted of a helpless Sal with his own situation. There was no way he thought Julie would take care of him, well, at least, not in the way Daisy was describing. That wasn’t his definition of a wife—laundress and cook—but old ways die hard on the reservation.
“He hasn’t come back for his clothes. He left three pairs of jeans, six T-shirts, socks and the sheets off of his bed. Now, you tell me, what did he sleep on Friday night?”
Sal’s wife nodded. Obviously, it was common knowledge between the two that Sal only had one set of bed linen.
“I see why you’re concerned.” What else could Ben say? Should he broach the subject of Sal’s being implicated in a murder? He really couldn’t say anything until Tommy gave him the okay. But maybe if he asked general questions ...
“Do you have any reason to think he might have left the village?”
“And gone where?” Daisy scoffed. “You don’t know Sal very well. He’d never leave. He takes what you’d call a vacation not five miles from here and meditates but that’s more for cleansing, ritual reasons before a ceremony.”
“I dreamed he was buried,” Sal’s wife said.
Daisy’s head jerked abruptly in her direction.
“What?” Ben thought he had misunderstood.
“He sent a messenger to me in a dream. He’s been buried alive.”
Ben realized he was staring, what an attention grabber. Daisy was the first to speak.
“When was this?” Her tone was sharp.
“Last night.”
“Tell us what you saw,” Ben said. It wasn’t that he believed in this type of telepathic communication. But, then again, he didn’t rule it out. He noticed Daisy’s brows knit in a frown. This must be news to her, too. And he sensed she didn’t like to be surprised.
Mary moistened her lips. She’s enjoying this, Ben thought, center stage, all eyes focused on her. Would she fabricate a story for this attention? He’d watch for clues.
“I didn’t go to bed until after the news. I always watch channel seven.” She shifted her purse and methodically folded the handles inside the flap of a pocket attached on the outside of the bag before continuing. “I usually can’t get to sleep easily. Sometimes I get up and down three or four times. I live by myself. I, that is, we, Sal and I never had children. I live in Sal’s parent’s house to the right of the plaza.” She paused to glance quickly at Ben. “Sal has lived at the trading post since he started working there.”
There was no indication of how long ago that was, but Ben seemed to remember someone saying Sal had been there for fifteen years, a long time to be separated without divorce. He wasn’t sure how important this was to the story; he had the distinct feeling his Indian listening habits were being tested.
“But the house that comes from his family has his spirit. He is of the badger clan, one of the thirteen matrilineal clans of the village.”
Did he need a history lesson? Better yet, could he get out of one? Ben relaxed. This wouldn’t go any faster with urging— even if he could give it.
“Sal’s spirit called me by my Indian name, Maiatitsa, little blue bird, and warned me of the snowy owl.” She paused for effect. The owl was a portent of death, Ben knew, but why the winter color of white, an absence of any hue in the middle of summer? What was even more interesting was that her voice had taken on onerous tones and she was rocking, ever so slightly, back and forth.
“Look to that which reflects the light of day, has no color of its own and keeps the sun from penetrating below the ground by blanketing the earth, deadening the spirit.” She droned on, staring from under lidded eyes. “And be wary of the snow maiden who lives to keep green shoots from reaching the warm rays, who guards against life escaping from her watchful eye, whose hoary breath can paralyze—numb the stinger of the bee, the claws of the bear, the heart of the hunter.” She paused for emphasis, then shook her head, blinked her eyes and suddenly returned to normal. Yet, Ben had the distinct feeling he had experienced the spirit that spoken through her. It was eerie. He felt shaken.
“Sal’s spirit cried out to me. He’s being held underground by the snowy maiden.” She indicated she was finished and slumped back in her chair, eyes averted.
No one spoke. Ben wasn’t real good at metaphors but you didn’t have to be a literature majo
r to think of Hannah. He couldn’t check an involuntary shudder. But wouldn’t Sal’s wife naturally suspect Hannah? Want to implicate her, get her in trouble? Could you lose your husband to another women and not feel some animosity—an anger that even years couldn’t erase? Ben stole a look at Daisy. If anything, her frown had gotten deeper. She seemed speechless, just stared at Sal’s wife. Wasn’t it truly possible that all this was just for attention like he first suspected? And as far as that went, hadn’t it worked?
“We must consult the priests,” Daisy said.
Not ‘I believe you’ exactly. But she wasn’t saying that she didn’t either. How tactful, Ben thought. Both women stood. Daisy thanked him for his time and then they left. He heard himself making lame promises to keep in touch, let them know if anything came up and for them to be on guard.
And then he sat back down at his desk. He couldn’t stop himself from putting some credence in what Sal’s wife had said. At least, he was certain she was telling the truth. The truth as she saw it. The supernatural so easily intertwined with life sometimes. If his grandmother were still alive—
“I always hate to interrupt a trance.” Rose was kidding, but she must have been standing in the door for a moment.
“Come in.” Ben blinked then pushed his hair back off his forehead with two hands. It was difficult to dispel the mood Sal’s wife had created. And he was irritated at having to talk to someone right now. “What’s up?”
“Well, this may be nothing. I probably shouldn’t be bothering you—”
“Hey, I’m already bothered.” He tried to sound like he was joking but saw Rose hesitate. “No, really. Here’s a chair.” He walked around his desk and pulled one of the chairs closer. “Now what’s all this about?” He sat down across from her.
“This, I guess.” She held a video tape in her hands. “Yesterday, we caught the kids who had been raiding the pop machines.”
“That’s great. Was it someone after some firecracker money?”
“More like cigs and beer, or pot.” She gave him a look that said he might be out of touch with teens. She was probably right.
“But that’s not exactly why I’m here.”
Ben waited. Rose was fidgeting with the tape, reluctant to talk. But why?
“You know, it might be easier if I show you what I saw. Let you see for yourself, decide for yourself.” She grinned. “See if you think I’m ’round the bend.
He followed her to the nurse’s lounge, which held an old TV and ancient VCR machine. Lunch seemed to go faster for some with the soaps on. Funny how civilization intruded upon the reservation. Did that mean As the World Turns might have universal application? He didn’t know. It just seemed so incongruous out here.
He watched as Rose pushed the cassette into the machine and fiddled with the knobs. The screen came up a fuzzy gray drizzle then snapped to a clear picture of the reception area. He watched a still life of the pop machine, the six straight-backed chairs, the hanging pots of wandering Jew and philodendron, the Yei rug, tile surfaced coffee table, magazines haphazardly tossed on top ... all in black and white. So what was he supposed to see? He started to say something. Rose shushed him and pointed.
He could just make out Hannah and .22 walking up to the front door, pushing it open. This must be Saturday morning before the testing. Then Dr. Lee came out from the back. As Ben watched, Dr. Lee bussed Hannah on the cheek. A kiss. Now that was interesting. Suddenly, Rose put the tape on fast forward.
“Not that this isn’t worth watching but let’s get to the good stuff.” She released the fast forward and the tape slowed to normal speed.
“What am I looking for?”
“You’ll see. Or, at least, I hope you will.”
Now it was Hannah alone, Hannah chewing her cuticles, pulling at a hang nail, Hannah looking out the window, suddenly hopping up as .22 enters from the back with Ben. Ben motions for .22 to stay and Hannah to go back to his office with him. Now there’s only .22 playing on the floor. He picks up the Ferrari and runs it back and forth along his leg.
Looking around he lets the toy car fall. And then he stretches. Fingers clasped, he pushes his arms above his head and yawns, then digs in his pocket and, bounding upright, walks to the pop machine.
“Stop the tape.” Ben didn’t mean to yell. “Can you replay that part—start with the yawn?”
“It gets better. Let me continue and then we can go back, okay?”
Ben nodded and then sat forward leaning against the conference table, trying to stop his brain from whirling in confusion, stop the questions, just watch ...
.22 puts one quarter in the slot but drops the other, which rolls back into the center of the room. He deftly turns, retrieves the quarter and then flips it. With thumb and forefinger he sends it spiraling into the air, catches it and smacks the coin against the back of his hand. Heads or tails? Ben couldn’t tell which. But did it matter? Because ... but wait. Suddenly, .22 appears to go limp; his arm jerks forward. The soda is obviously forgotten as he slumps to the floor, all the while nervously facing the camera. Did he hear someone coming?
Ben watched .22 wet his lips, reach in his pocket, then rub at his eyes, which suddenly water. As if in slow motion, .22’s jaw falls open and his upper lip starts to twitch just as Dr. Lee reenters the picture to squat beside him. Dr. Lee’s back is to the camera, blocking .22, but it’s obvious that he’s asking questions from the way .22 nods or shakes his head. He ends by patting .22 on the shoulder before leaving the room.
“That’s about it,” Rose said just as the screen went fuzzy. “Replay?”
“You bet. But I’d like to stop a couple places, mind if I man the controls?”
Rose handed him the remote after pushing rewind.
“I’m so relieved that you think something’s fishy, too. I don’t always check the tapes in detail, just record over; but I needed to adjust the camera and figure out why Friday’s tape kept jumping around—see if I’d gotten it fixed by Saturday. It’s like watching two different people, one retarded, one okay—even if only for a couple seconds.”
Ben nodded. He probably couldn’t say it better himself, and he wasn’t thinking multiple personality.
“Do you know .22?” Ben asked.
“Not really. Everyone knows about him, how his mother tried to kill him and Tommy’s mother saved him. Tommy’s mother used to call Hannah the Indian word for evil. She used to swear she could prove Hannah tried to kill the boy and not just once.”
“Why wasn’t anything done?”
“I guess it was, sort of. Ed Rawlings sent his wife away. So, what do you make of all this? Why would .22 pretend to be more incapacitated than he is?”
Ben didn’t answer just shook his head. He was looking at a replay of .22 letting the plastic car slip from his lap. He slowed the tape.
“Do you mind if I have a copy made?”
“No problem, but you can keep the original.”
“Thanks, and thanks for saving it. It brings up some questions, that’s for sure.”
“You would know. Didn’t you test .22 on Saturday? Yellow Skin said you planned on it.”
“Yeah. And I’m not sure my findings match what I’m seeing.”
“There’s probably some medical explanation. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I better get back to work. Yell if you need me.” Rose walked back out front.
Ben pressed Play. He was engrossed in what he saw. He knew what he suspected. But what did he really have? One minute —probably less than one minute of tape that showed a young man going from impaired motor control to what appeared to be more normal in the blink of an eye, and then slip backward again. Now he struggled with movement, controlling his tics, his arm; now he was tossing a coin in the air, perfectly in control; now he was slumped on the floor, eyes watering, lip twitching. Ben switched off the machine and leaned his chair back against the wall.
He had either watched an academy award winning performance or ... or what? What explanation was there for
this apparent respite, however brief, from affliction? And would others agree with him? Rose saw a difference. But was it big enough to do something about? Was it documented anywhere that .22 didn’t have normal moments, times when he was more in control? Was there proof that he couldn’t have flipped a coin or stood upright, tall, head not thrust forward? And did it say anywhere that he couldn’t bend over, pick up a coin and not lose his balance?
But wasn’t it more about his facial expressions? For a few seconds, his face lacked any reminder of the Cheerio-eating frog demonstration Ben had watched at breakfast. For those few seconds on the tape Ben had seen the eyes of an intelligent human being, not someone who struggled with a sixty-five IQ, but a man who—if you ignored his shaved head, the scabs covered by ointment, the pimpled chin and watering eyes—might be handsome. But again, who was to say that .22 couldn’t go in and out of his impairment—waver—have lucid moments with good motor control then back to struggling? Had anyone documented that? And who could he ask? Not Hannah. But maybe someone at the school or, perhaps, Dr. Lee.
Ben sat quietly. He had to face it. Was this just his own ego struggling to find an answer—help Ben save a little face since he had been the one to test .22? What was it Rose had said, if anyone would know, he would? Could he have been so thoroughly duped? Wouldn’t he have suspected? He had been complete in the testing. Just because it was a trial run to assure Hannah wouldn’t be cheated out of her inheritance didn’t mean ...
Ben let the chair crash forward. The inheritance. Of course. There were a few hundred thousand dollars riding on .22’s abilities, or lack of, as the case might be. Why couldn’t Hannah have gotten someone, an actor, to impersonate .22? But, damn it, he looked like Hannah—those same watery blue eyes, blond hair—wouldn’t that have been hard to match?
So why couldn’t Ben shake the feeling that he had been used? If he wasn’t who Hannah said he was, wasn’t it a stroke of genius to set up a test of his skills? Didn’t they need to make sure .22 would pass—but not just in skills, in believability? What better way than run the act by a shrink ahead of time.
