Desert Remains

by Steven Cooper

  “I guess.”

  “I’m not the psychic here, but something’s up.”

  “That’s why you’re such a good detective.” Gus describes a surprise visit from Bridget Mulroney. “She was gone when I got up.”

  “I admire your self-control,” Mills tells him.

  “Well, she is a bit crazy, isn’t she?”

  “She might be,” Mills replies. “But I’ve fucked crazy before.”

  “Before Kelly. . . .”

  “Yes,” Mills says emphatically. Then he says, “I’m not going to tell you to stay away from her. I’ll just say proceed with caution.”

  “I’m not proceeding.”

  “Maybe you should focus on whoever was following her,” Mills says. “I think we need to look at that closely.”

  “Yeah,” says Gus. “I’ll do that.”

  Mills tells him he’ll drop Trevor off at six.

  That gives Gus pretty much the whole day to hunt down those books. First, he takes Ivy for a long, hearty walk. Then he’s off to Turning Pages. It’s a total clusterfuck of a bookstore in Tempe that has everything ever written by anybody about anything, new and used. That’s an overstatement, of course, but that’s what it feels like every time Gus walks in and smells the assorted breeds of paperbacks and hard covers that are piled from floor to ceiling. He likes getting lost in the musty coves and dungeons of the place. There is no real first floor, no real second floor, just ramps that take you from one nook to another. And there’s a basement. He likes the basement a lot. The isolation of it gives him silence from the world. He often has visions in here for the utter lack of distraction. And he often finds really good biographies, too. About real people—not just celebrities and hacks—who did historic things, like Dr. David Livingstone, the Scottish explorer who named the great falls in Zambia after the queen. Gus isn’t a big fan of the British explorations in Africa, but that book was so damned well written, like a great novel.

  He lets himself get lost for a while, loses track of where he is, what he’s looking for; he stares at a book called Sew, A Needle Pulling Thread: Life of a Hollywood Costume Designer. He has absolutely no interest, but figures if Turning Pages has this obscure book, they should have what he’s looking for.

  He stops by the café and orders an exotically named coffee. Good buzz on the first sip. Then he goes to the customer service desk and asks about the book on desert artifacts. “It’s a photo book,” he tells the clerk. He sees her name on the tag attached to her blouse. Joy. Such an optimistic name. With a heavy burden. How can Joy ever be sad? And get away with it? Her smile is a knockout, he has to admit, not dopey and gaping but really smart and radiant. She’s pretty, in a Whole Foods sort of way. Joy’s skin is pale. Joy doesn’t really have any breasts, which doesn’t surprise Gus considering her tiny frame. She reminds him of a hatchling.

  “Name?”

  “Gus.”

  “I mean the book.”

  An instant heat rises to his face, and he musters a dopey smile of his own. “Right, of course.” He pulls the notepaper from his pocket. “Lens of Time: Artifacts from the Southwest,” he tells her.

  She takes him to the photography section. They meander through two rows of stacks until Joy finds the book and removes it from the shelf. “Just one copy,” she says. “Anything else?”

  “There’s another book that’s out of print,” Gus says. “I figure if I can get it anywhere, I can get it here. It’s called A History of Symbols.” He gives her the scrap of paper.

  She looks at Gus coyly. “I’ll check for you,” she tells him. Her eyes are green.

  Gus feels a shiver. “Uh, I’ll be over at the café going through this,” he says, holding up the photo book.

  “I’ll find you there,” she says.

  He orders another cup of Lion Thunder African Hill, or something like that, and starts perusing. The images don’t tell him much, and the text is limited, identifying only the artifact, the tribe, place of origin, and date. There is some explanation about how some pieces were used, like the carved wooden stick (a pipe for smoking), bowls of pottery (preparation of meals; no surprise there), and a small wooden tube and a stone dish (extracting dyes from berries and other desert growth). Gus flips to the index to see if there’s an entry for symbolism. There isn’t. He wonders if there actually exists some kind of very magical, very spiritual, very sacred symbolism that the tribes have simply chosen to keep to themselves. After all, from what Timothy Chase has learned from the professor at ASU, there doesn’t seem to be some universal glossary of petroglyphs.

  “A History of Symbols by Theodore Smith.” It’s Joy, standing over him.

  “Oh,” he says, looking up. “Thanks.”

  “We don’t have it. We don’t have a record of ever having it,” she says grimly. “I’m sorry.” She hands him the rumpled notepaper.

  “No, no,” he tells her. “Thanks for checking. Really, I appreciate it.”

  “You do know it was self-published.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which probably means it had very limited distribution. And it was a long time ago.”

  “Right.”

  “But I bet if you look it up on Amazon you can probably find someone trying to sell a used copy. These days Amazon has everything we don’t.”

  She looks defeated, and all at once Gus Parker understands that she’s a lover of books who stands witness to the digitalization of expression, the foreign code of binary numbers taking the breath out of imagery and storytelling. Those are her words, not his. He’s sort of reading her mind.

  “I can check Amazon if you’d like,” she tells him.

  That’s the last thing she really wants to do, he knows. “That’s very kind of you, but I can do that later myself,” he says. And then he hears himself add, “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  Her face turns red. She smiles and says, “I really don’t get a break for a while. I have to get back to work.”

  “Okay,” Gus tells her. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Maybe,” she says and drifts away smoothly, gracefully, like a joyful muse looking for a suffering artist.

  He scans through more pages of the photo book but gets an overwhelming sense that, while interesting and quite beautifully compiled, the collection of photos is not revealing anything of importance to him—nor is it provoking anything psychically. One curious thing does, however, catch his attention: a photo credit to Theodore Smith. He checks the notepaper again. Same name as the self-published author. He examines the photo. It’s a photograph not of an artifact but rather of a painting of artifacts. Smith used the hues of clay as his canvas, and upon that canvas placed his crude rendition of artifacts (pottery, tools, weapons) and framed it all with symbols that evoked the petroglyphs of the desert. Gus can feel a huge smile emerge on his face, a tingling in his cheeks as if he just bit into something tart and tangy.

  The caption reads, “Desert Remains, a painting by Theodore Smith. Photographed by Theodore Smith, 1956, Phoenix, AZ. Smith was a graduate student in fine arts at Arizona State University and donated this painting to the university collection upon receiving his master’s.”

  Gus asks one of the café workers for a pen and makes some notes on the scrap paper, jotting down “1956. Desert Remains. Smith. ASU.” And then he returns the book to the shelf and leaves.

  22

  “It’s been a long time,” Kelly Mills says, standing behind Alex and Trevor. “Thanks for doing this,” she says with an earnest smile. “We’ll have you over for dinner some night soon. Okay?”

  “No problem,” Gus tells her. “It’s good to see you.” He extends a hand to Trevor. “Hey, Trevor. What’s happening?”

  Trevor Mills ignores the hand and enters the house.

  “Get back here,” Alex snaps. “And shake the man’s hand.”

  “That’s okay,” Gus whispers.

  “It’s not okay. Trevor?”

  Trevor returns and shakes Gus’s hand. “I don’t ne
ed a babysitter,” he says.

  The kid has really grown up. It’s been a few years since Gus has seen Alex’s kid, and he looks like the years have been healthy. Trevor is muscle-bound and handsome, the prom king, the big man on campus, but the sneer on his face looks indelibly adolescent.

  “I didn’t offer to babysit,” Gus tells him. “But I’m not going to bullshit you. If I were your mom and dad, I wouldn’t be leaving you alone at home either . . . all things considered.”

  Trevor almost smiles but self-corrects by squaring his jaw and rolling his head until his neck pops and cracks. It’s a pregame locker room gesture. Stoic for the sake of being stoic.

  “He has tons of homework,” Alex says. “He won’t be a bother to you.”

  Gus looks at Alex and Kelly. “It’s okay if he is. I don’t mind the company.”

  “If he gets his work done you guys can toss a ball around,” Alex suggests. “You got your football, kid?” he asks his son.

  “It’s in my backpack,” Trevor replies. Then he turns around and struts into the living room.

  His father calls to him. “In your backpack? With all your homework?”

  “That’s right, Detective,” the kid yells back.

  “Hey, you two enjoy your night,” Gus tells the couple. “I’ll make sure he gets dinner. Pizza okay?”

  Kelly nods. “Really, Gus, you’re doing us a huge favor. He’ll eat whatever you put in front of him.”

  Gus walks them to their car. Alex ducks in, reaches for the compartment between the two front seats, and grabs a small cardboard box, then hands it to Gus.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  Gus lifts the top off and finds a gold pendant resting in a cloud of cotton. He pulls it up by the chain. “A lightning bolt?”

  “From our last victim,” Alex says in a stage whisper. “Go crazy.”

  Holding the lightning bolt in his hands, Gus watches as Alex and his wife drive off. Ivy barks a hefty good-bye.

  “Let’s go say hello to our guest,” he tells the dog, stuffing the small box in his pocket.

  They find Trevor sitting perfectly in the middle of the couch staring at the television. He has a book in his lap. Notebooks are scattered to his right; his football is tucked under his left arm. Two things are clear: no one is welcome to join him on the couch, and ESPN trumps homework.

  “Whatcha reading?” Gus asks.

  Trevor holds up the book and says nothing.

  “Great Expectations? I love that book,” Gus says. “You know, I think that is my book.”

  “Huh?” the kid mutters, his eyes unable to migrate from the television.

  “Did you get that book from your father?”

  Finally, Trevor turns, curls his lip, and says, “I guess. It’s been on the bookshelf at home forever.”

  “Oh. I lent that to your dad a long time ago.”

  Trevor shrugs. “I’m reading it for English. Is it okay if I keep it for a while?”

  Gus sits on the arm of the couch. “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

  “Thanks, man.” Trevor turns back to the broadcast.

  Gus says, “You’re welcome.” And then he asks, “Can you concentrate okay with the TV on?”

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  He tells Trevor he’ll be out back with Ivy if he needs anything. The kid nods as if he’s hypnotized.

  I don’t know what the fuck I’d do if he were my kid, Gus tells himself as he ushers Ivy out to the pool. All these years Gus has longed to be a dad, thought he’d make a really great father, but now with this case study parked on his couch, he’s not so sure. He probably wouldn’t have the patience for it. Probably would be deeply wounded to watch a kid grow out of love with him. You know, one day they can’t get enough of being thrown up in the air, and the next day you’re threatening to throw them out of the house. Dogs on the other hand . . .

  “Jump in if you want to jump in,” he tells a tentative Ivy who wobbles at the edge of the swimming pool. She looks at him expectantly. “No. I’m not coming in tonight,” he adds.

  He pulls the small box out of his pocket and removes the gold chain and dangling pendant.

  A strike of lightning.

  He hears the crackle of electricity and the crash of a storm.

  He imagines the gold shard against a black sky. He hears drumming, but maybe it’s thunder. He hears music, but there is no music. Gus lowers himself to a lounger. He twirls the bolt, and then he lets it float like a pendulum. A list. A list! A list!! So many things come at him, a burst of visions in rapid-fire flashes.

  A raging fire.

  Rage in the eyes of the killer.

  Green eyes.

  A child screams, “Daddy!”

  A woman goes down, her hands hitting stone, her head oozing blood.

  Love, raging love.

  Gus clenches his fists, but the bolt drops to the ground. He’s breathing heavy. His heart is pounding, and his body is awash in sweat, cold sweat. What the fuck?

  He stares at the pendant and tries to stare it down. Rarely does the psychic energy scare him. It scares him now. He feels a bubble of panic. Like a killer is close, watching him maybe, like if he doesn’t act fast there will be blood and horror everywhere. A child screams, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

  “Hey, Mr. Parker?”

  Like whiplash to his brain, Gus snaps to attention. He turns and sees Trevor Mills standing in the frame of the slider. He rises. “What’s up, Trevor?”

  “I was just wondering if you have anything cold to drink.”

  “Of course.”

  Gus gives Trevor a choice from the refrigerator. The kid actually makes a play for a Heineken, but Gus simply says, “Seriously?” and Trevor removes a bottle of Aquafina instead.

  “How are you coming along with your work?” he asks Trevor.

  “All right.”

  “Let me know when you want dinner.”

  Trevor nods and returns to the couch. Gus calls Beatrice, tells her about the lightning bolt, and listens to the silence as she conjures up an answer. He hears the drumming again, but this time it’s coming from her end of the call. He also hears the jangling of wind chimes. “Something is going on this weekend,” she finally says. “From last night in Tucson to your lightning bolt tonight, I do think there’s another murder happening in our desert.”

  “Yeah. So do I.”

  “The killer may be on to you,” she says tonelessly.

  Gus squints, as if the sun is in his eyes. “I don’t see why or how.”

  “I don’t know, Gus. You’re in deep, as they say. It’s all around you.”

  “That’s reassuring,” he says flippantly.

  “Of course it is. It means you’re close.”

  “Somehow I’m not sure. I went to the bookstore today. I think maybe I stumbled upon something. Probably an odd coincidence.”

  “We’ll do some research together, Gus,” she says. “You come over for dinner tomorrow night.”

  It’s an instruction, not an invitation.

  Later Gus finds Trevor asleep on the couch. He clears his throat, hoping to wake the kid. That doesn’t work, so he snaps his fingers and directs Ivy to hop, which she does with a happy pounce upon the kid.

  “What? What the f—” Trevor yelps. “What happened?”

  “You fell asleep.”

  “Bored to death more like it.”

  “Hey, why don’t you take a break? Let me order dinner, and while we’re waiting we can toss the ball around.”

  The kid shrugs. “Whatever.”

  Gus dials Giovanni’s and orders a pie with as much garbage as it will support. He leads the teenager out front.

  Trevor is about to throw, his arm drawn back, his hand caressing the football, but he stops and says, “I didn’t figure you for football.”

  “Oh. What exactly did you figure me for?”

  Trevor laughs. “I don’t know. Yoga.”

  Gus snickers. “Pass me the ball. You
must be rusty.”

  “Why?”

  “I heard you’ve been taken off the team.”

  Trevor whips the ball at him. Gus leaps and catches it, but he’s stunned for Damn, there is such rage. a moment and so are his hands. Gus solidly and smoothly tosses the ball back. His hands are still tingling. Trevor catches it expertly. And starts to dash. “You gonna take me down?” the kid hollers.

  “Uh, no. I don’t tackle minors. If that’s okay. . . .”

  “C’mon, dude, my dad and I do it all the time.”

  “Right. And if he breaks your elbow no one’s going to sue.”

  Trevor is running serpentine and doesn’t stop. Instead he aims for Gus and brushes him. “Take the handoff,” Trevor says.

  Gus scoops the ball and cradles it tight against his abdomen. Trevor dashes on.

  “What if I tackle you?” Trevor yells across the yard.

  “I don’t think so, Trevor. Let’s just toss it around, okay?”

  “Don’t be a pussy, Gus.”

  Gus feels every muscle stiffen. “A what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I’m done.” The ball spirals to Trevor.

  “Aw, come on, man, I didn’t mean it like that,” Trevor calls, his pitch elevated.

  Gus looks at his hands. Something isn’t right.

  The ball comes soaring back.

  “I said we’re done, Trevor.”

  He leaps anyway and catches the football high, tries to tug it to his waist, but loses his balance and falls to the grass. Clutching the ball, now, he sees everything.

  “You okay?” Trevor calls.

  He sees a locker room. The blackness behind the basement windows suggests to him it’s night. There are voices of young men like Trevor. Only one of the hanging lights is lit, casting a yellow murky hue over two parallel benches where the boys sit opposite an older man. The man is wearing a cap. He’s got small hands but a tight, strong grip on a wad of cash. The boys follow him outside.

  Gus squeezes the ball tighter.

  “Get up,” Trevor shouts.

  A trunk opens. A bale of pot is loaded. Then another. As if the boys are tossing luggage into the belly of an airplane. Their cargo is wrapped in blankets. Weighted with football helmets. The older man smiles. Pats one of the boys on the shoulder. The kid shrugs.