“What the fuck, Gus?”
Gus shakes his head. “Hey, I got a vision about her yesterday. I’m having a vision right now. I don’t think there’s an overlap. But I don’t know.”
“Right.” The detective dials. Everything about him is frantic.
The wait is fairly excruciating, but Gus tries to go inward and see more, if only to mitigate the protracted silence that sends shivers up his spine. He sees nothing but blood. Come on, Bridget, answer.
“She’s not answering,” Alex says.
Gus sees the stillness of death, of murder consummated. It’s over. A lifeless body in the black yawn of a cave.
Gus, having emerged from the vision, is back watching the detective. Every few seconds the man is hitting a button and muttering “fuck.” He meets the detective’s eyes. The detective peers back. Gus imagines taut elastic between them, about to snap. And then the detective sighs deeply, blowing out exasperated breaths. “Bridget, Bridget,” he says rabidly. “I’ve been trying to track you down.”
Gus Parker watches now as Detective Alex Mills tap dances across the stage of apologies. “No,” Alex tells the woman. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m really sorry, but I needed to ask you something about . . .”
He looks up at Gus as if he’s reaching for a lifeline.
Gus juggles his empty hands and whispers, “I don’t know.”
The detective winces and begins to lie. “I wanted to ask you about the story in this morning’s paper,” he says to the woman. “Have you gotten any follow-up calls from reporters?”
All Gus can hear from the other end of the call is a voice that sounds like sharp fingernails skidding across the surface of a blackboard.
Alex says, “I realize that, Bridget. But I want you to know that you are to make no further statements until you hear from me or Woods. That’s right. Decline to comment. You’re not the spokesperson for the department.”
The detective is shaking his head as he hangs up.
“Well?” Gus asks.
“I guess she’s alive,” Alex says. “But that was embarrassing. She’s finishing up a hike at Squaw Peak. Says her cell service is in and out.”
Officially, the mountain is not named Squaw Peak anymore. Officially, it’s called Piestewa, the result of a modern name change made about fifteen years ago. But everyone still calls it Squaw, which apparently is offensive to Native American women—or so say white people who think about these things too much. Gus simply calls it the Peak, as do others who prefer neutrality. He also calls it Camelback’s angry cousin because it stands there with its jagged omnipotence just to the west of the resting camel, which is higher in elevation actually and far more the mascot of the valley. The Peak is striking, though, with those ancient fingers ripping shreds of blue, its hues grayish and steely. The colors begin to swirl around Gus. He’s on a trail, climbing in circles, up a spiral, and the colors are unraveling too fast.
And then it all turns white. A white out. A blank page. A turning page and Gus sees the story. This is the scene of the crime. A man has killed a woman here. He is fleeing now. He has fled into the valley. His footprints are everywhere, but he’s nowhere to be found.
He tells Alex.
“Are you sure?” the detective asks.
Gus nods.
“I guess Bridget is lucky it wasn’t her,” Alex says.
“Can you get a search party to the Peak?”
The detective looks at his watch, then shakes his head. “Not at this hour, man. It’s six thirty. By the time I’d get a crew up there, it’ll be dark.”
“Or you don’t want to send a search party based on my visions?”
Alex balks. “It’s not that. I’m the fucking case agent. I can do whatever I want.”
“Then do it. First thing in the morning, Alex.”
“Yeah, well, the Peak is a big place.”
“Then the earlier the better.”
The detective does a mock salute and a “yes, sir” and turns to leave.
Gus calls after him. “If anyone asks just tell ’em you got a really good tip.”
Alex stops defiantly. “I told you, man, I can do whatever I want. I don’t need to explain to anyone.”
“Right,” Gus says. “Tomorrow. First thing. And don’t eat the fish.”
“Fish?”
“The fish your wife is buying right now at the supermarket. It will make you sick.”
The detective raises a hand and waves him off. Then he gets in his car and drives away.
11
Alex Mills sees a crazy-looking car wind through the maze of the parking lot, a flower bobbing from the antenna. He squints but can’t make out the driver. The heat is rippling off the pavement. It’s way too hot for an October morning at Squaw Peak. He needs to stay hydrated. He needs everybody up here to stay hydrated. But after last night, Mills needs fluids to fight off the food poisoning.
The car comes to a stop, the flower still dancing a jig, and he sees Gus Parker step out of the passenger side. Gus looks like Gus would look on a morning like this. He’s wearing a T-shirt and shorts and, again, those ridiculous sandals.
Who the hell is with him?
Mills approaches the car. Gus gives him a hearty handshake, and then they both turn as this little urchin climbs out of the Karmann Ghia. Mills wants to laugh out loud because this person looks like a cartoon character, so petite, so lithe. He vaguely remembers her. Who could forget such a creature?
Gus introduces them.
“Good morning, Ms. Blossomheimer,” Mills says.
“Vossenheimer,” Beatrice corrects the detective.
“Sorry,” Mills tells her. “Must have heard wrong.”
“I’d say ‘nice to meet you,’ Detective, but I do think we met the last time you took Gus on an escapade,” the woman says.
“We did.”
“Besides, I never forget a handsome man.”
The detective laughs. “Quite an automobile you’ve got there,” he tells her.
She gives him a rosy smile. “It’s vintage. Like me.”
Gus turns to Mills. “I hope it’s okay that I’ve brought Beatrice. I mean, she and I share all that psychic stuff. She’s really been my mentor.”
“You got some hiking boots, Gus?”
“In the car.”
“Put ’em on.”
As Gus turns back to the car, Beatrice grabs the detective by the arm and pulls him toward her. Her face is a pinch away when she says, “I don’t really do crime. I have a thriving practice.”
“How nice for you,” Mills whispers to her.
“And I love to see Gus work, if you know what I mean.”
Mills doesn’t know what she means. He inches away from her slowly and pivots toward Gus. He can’t help looking back. Beatrice Vossenheimer is a bit bedazzling. She’s wearing lacy gloves (in this heat!) and multilayers that cinch at the waist and seem to form a dress; the layers are gauzy and thin, and she looks like a gypsy.
“I’ve been calling you all morning,” Gus says, all laced up in his boots now. “To ask if I could bring her.”
“I was still in the bathroom,” the detective tells him.
“The bathroom?”
“All night,” he whispers to Gus. “So was Kelly.”
Mills stares at the psychic, his eyes urging Gus to connect the dots. But Gus just stands there looking blank.
“The fish,” Mills says between gritted teeth. “You were right about the fish.”
Then Mills sees the seventy-five watts go off in the man’s eyes, and Gus says, “Oh. I’m sorry. You feeling okay now?”
“Well if my ass didn’t get enough punishment all night,” Mills says, “there was plenty waiting for me this morning. The sergeant chewed my ass out when he saw the newspaper.”
“The newspaper?”
“My kid’s arrest on the front page.”
“Didn’t you tell him about it?” Gus asks.
Mills nods. “Right, but the headline didn�
��t say ‘Cop’s Son Caught with Pot.’ It said ‘Cop’s Son Arrested for Drug Dealing.’”
“I’m sorry,” Beatrice says. “I saw the story.”
“So, the sergeant calls me and I tell him about the search, and he says, ‘Maybe you ought to stay home and take care of your kid.’”
“You argued with him,” Beatrice remarks.
“That’s a nice way of putting it, Ms. Vossenheimer.”
“Please call me Beatrice.”
“We don’t have a body yet,” he tells them.
“I know,” Gus says. “And I don’t think you’ll find one until I really get some vibes here.”
“Well, tell your vibes to hurry,” Mills warns. “Woods made it clear he has no patience for this.”
“What he really means,” Beatrice says, “is that he has no patience for you, Detective. He’s threatened to take you off the case, hasn’t he? Thinks your son’s troubles will become a distraction. . . .”
“Not in those words,” Mills says, regarding them both. “But something like that.”
Gus drifts toward the trailhead. Alex and Beatrice follow. Dust and sand are blowing everywhere and so are the tentacles of Beatrice’s dress. “If you’re not careful,” Gus whispers to her, “we’re going to see your underwear.”
“Assuming I’m wearing any.”
Both men hear her response. Gus recoils. The detective fights back a yelp of laughter, clears his throat, and says, “We have men on every trail.”
“No women?” Beatrice asks.
“Actually, there are three women out there,” Mills replies. “Sorry for the omission.”
Mills says the patrols all met up about eight, didn’t get started until nine-ish, and completed a loop of each trail at least once. Now the crews have swapped, he explains, retracing each other’s work, getting a fresh set of eyes on every trail.
“What’s the cave situation like?” Gus asks him.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean are they reporting back to you the location of caves?”
“Yes. We’re mapping them. But even so . . .”
The detective doesn’t finish his sentence, and no one, it seems, is paying attention anyway. Gus is staring at the mountain trancelike, and Beatrice is studying the sand around her feet. Mills feels a small cramp in his stomach, and he starts counting backward from one hundred to will the pain away. If he still has the runs from last night, well, there is nowhere to run. He approaches Beatrice. “I don’t suppose you people have any kind of healing powers. . . .”
“You people?” she asks.
“You know, psychic people. . . .”
“Right. Well, no not really. We can heal with our answers because sometimes our answers soothe an aggravated mind or an unsettled soul.”
Then, instantly, the cramp disappears.
“Are you feeling badly?” Beatrice asks.
“Actually. I’m fine,” he tells her, convinced her voice sent a message to his colon.
Then Gus Parker speaks up. “Okay,” he says. “I think we need to look on the south side of the French Trail.”
Mills points to the map posted on the trailhead sign. “That’s number 302. We’re close. But the 302 is like one big circle around the peak.”
“Right,” Gus says. “The body isn’t on the peak. It’s in a cave off that loop. I can see it as clearly as I can see the tattoo on your ass, Detective.”
“I don’t have a tattoo on my ass.”
“Well someone does,” Gus insists. “And there is a cave up there that we need to explore. You can send your chopper up to confirm.”
“But how would the murderer get his victim to the cave?” Mills asks. “He’d have to force her off the trail.”
“Or coax her,” Gus says.
Mills can’t argue.
“Maybe,” Beatrice says, “the killer acts likes he’s just discovered something fascinating in the cave. He gets his victims all excited to see something off the trail. . . .”
“She’s right,” Gus says. “Our killer has a charade. He’s a storyteller.”
“That’s Ivan talking,” Beatrice says.
“Who’s Ivan?” Mills asks.
“My dead uncle,” Gus replies.
Mills smiles and shakes his head. “I don’t even want to know.”
“You see,” Gus continues, “the killer has a story of his own that he’s been subverting for years. I don’t know what that story is, but I guarantee you he’s rewritten it to appeal to his victims, to capture them, to conquer them.”
Beatrice links arms with Gus. “That was brilliant,” she tells him.
“Maybe,” Mills says, “but you’re a psychic, Gus. Are you getting a psychic vibe about all this, or are you trying to give me a profile?”
“Both,” Gus says. “My psychic vibe, as you call it, is giving me this sense of the killer’s MO. In part it’s textbook; in part it’s novel and horrifying.”
They meet up with Officer Powell at the trailhead. She’s a tall, muscular blonde whose arms seem thicker than Gus’s legs. She tells them the only cave on the south side of the French trail is about two miles in. “To the east,” she says. “The peak will always be on your left. The cave is down about seventy feet from the trail, and it’s steep. Very steep.”
“Great,” Alex says. “We need gear?”
“No,” Powell tells him. “No one’s rappelling today.”
Gus is relieved.
“You’ll be good if you go down slow,” the officer adds. “Keep your eyes ahead of you.”
Alex shakes his head. “I don’t know. If I’m going over a cliff I don’t know that I should be taking a civilian with me.”
Gus’s eyes bounce with surprise. “You have to go,” he insists. “And I have to go with you.”
Alex shakes his head again. “I don’t think that’s how it’s going to work.”
Beatrice shuffles over to the detective and puts a hand gently on his lower back. “This is how it has to work, Alex. Gus is no use to you unless he sees the crime scene for himself. Surely you know that. And you are no use to anyone unless you go with Gus. I mean that in the nicest way possible.”
Beatrice pauses, shifts her face to the mountain, scanning the muscular rock and the fringes of cacti. She says, “This is not a place that gives up its secrets easily. The fact that Gus was able to penetrate this place and find this cave is rather remarkable. Maybe you’ll find something down there; maybe you won’t. But, Detective, the fact that you’re intelligent enough to trust Gus is fairly remarkable, as well.”
The detective nods. “Let me just call the sergeant and let him know what we’re up to.”
As he drifts away, Beatrice leans into Gus and takes his chin in her hands. “Are you okay? Are you up for this?”
He lifts a hand to meet hers. “Yes,” he says. “Of course.”
A hawk flies overhead, banking sharply to the left and then curving the opposite way in a graceful arc. Gus can see a chopper hovering way up at the peak of the mountain, and he wonders what the hawk thinks about that, whether it’s pleased to have the company, or whether it’s feeling somewhat competitive, if not territorial. The hawk calls out loudly with a whoopish song, and Gus senses that the bird is communicating with him, perhaps answering his question.
And then Gus settles on a boulder and shuts his eyes. He sees it all immediately and clearly. The trail, the mountain face, the way his eyes will perceive the infinite rock, and the bottomlessness of the whole endeavor.
He hears Beatrice. “I have no reason to doubt you,” she says. “Go over the cliff.”
The climb begins with a hike. A roundabout trek as the trail gently ascends around obstacles. He likes to climb. He likes the sound of his own breath because it is proof of life, proof of a heart and lungs. Often on a hike or a climb, he enters a sort of regressive Zen: Who must have walked this terrain before? Who first discovered this very spot? Did the sky look the same as it does today? And if so, is he not sharing the v
ery same sky with people who came millions of years before him; is he not having an experience so similar that he transcends time, and history, in that moment, negates itself?
About twenty minutes later they reach a clearing that looks over the southern side of the mountain. He spots a wide indentation fifty feet or so downward. The cave. Gus loves the height, the sense of stepping off the world; his body shakes for a moment, and he senses that Alex notices the tremor. “Not to worry,” he tells the detective. “No fear. That was a psychic shake.”
“I’m not worried,” Alex says back.
“I mean, I’m having some kind of physiological reaction to my vibe, here. We’re going to find a body there. I feel it in my blood and my bones. And I can even hear it in the wind. Or maybe that’s just the wind. But I’m getting a confirmation right here. The killer chose this cave for a reason.”
Moments later they’re scaling the slope downward. Alex’s feet hit the rock with precise impact. Gus sort of scatters his feet, creating small avalanches, while the detective never pushes a pebble out of place. Okay, so Alex is más macho. But Gus is not ashamed. He’s a great hiker, skier, snowboarder, surfer, whitewater rafter, kayaker, and canoeist. You’d never know it by observing him now, he realizes, but he’s a very accomplished outdoorsman. Plus, he’s a good bowler when he has to bowl.
“Dude, you okay?” Alex yells to him.
Gus catches his breath and yells back, “Yeah. No problem.” He even gives the detective a thumbs-up, which, of course, compromises his balance, but the teeter is barely noticeable.
They settle on a ledge extending from the cave. Gus is grateful to be on a flat surface, any actual surface, and he wants to sit for a moment and reconfigure his breathing, but he knows he can’t. He steps immediately into the cave. It’s deeper, much deeper than he’d imagined. He sees nothing beyond what the sunlight will yield. Alex brandishes a flashlight and waves him forward.
“How far into the mountain does this go?” he asks the detective.
“I have no fucking clue, Parker. I thought we’d just drop in and find what we were supposed to find.”
“What about oxygen?”
With a laugh lodged in his throat Alex says, “We’re not going that far in, dude. If we don’t see anything in fifty feet or so, we’ll know your visions took a detour somewhere.”
Desert Remains Page 10
