Three hour’s hike up the path, Anna sat on a rock near a creek where the water cascaded down over large, mossy boulders. She thought about her father and what he would think about her marching off into danger to right his wrongs—possibly to her death. Would he feel sorry? Would he forgive her? Could she ever forgive him?
She thought not.
Anna’s pink cheeks glowed, both sweaty and cold at the same time. She took out her map and spread it across her lap, which was a mistake. While she swigged from her makeshift canteen, the wind lifted the map and blew it onto the bank of the creek. Anna swore. “Biscuits!” She hopped off the rock in pursuit, but heard the clip clop of a mule coming up behind her. She abandoned the map and scrambled behind an oak tree, hiding in case the traveler was a bandit or other person of mal intent.
The traveler was Joe Singer. He wore denim waist overalls, a Stetson hat, and a red bandana. She watched him pass on a mule that he had undoubtedly commandeered from the pack station. To her dismay, he swung a leg over the beast and jumped down, bending over to fill a canteen at the creek. Anna made an involuntary sound of grief, a sort of feminine snort.
Joe’s head whipped around. “Sherlock?”
Anna said nothing.
He stood and turned toward the source of the snort. “Sherlock, I know you’re there. I can see your feathers.”
Anna stepped out from behind the tree, feathers snagging on pine branches. “I suppose you’ve been to see the missionary girls and they told you about the hunting cabin. But that’s no surprise, under the circumstances.”
“Anna, are you crazy? You can’t go up into the wilderness pursuing a criminal on your own. He could be dangerous. Not to mention the cougars and the bears.”
It was true, of course, but Anna felt rather reckless with her life at the moment. And if she wasn’t a sleuth, what was she? Nothing. “Please stop telling me things are dangerous. I know. I’m not stupid. I can take care of myself, and I brought a gun.”
Joe sighed. “I don’t suppose there is anything I can do to make you go home.”
“You should go home. I was here first, and it’s unseemly for you to be with me.”
“Not a chance.” He trudged over to where she stood, took the cashmere bundle from the end of the stick, relieving the burden on her shoulder. He rubbed the soft, thick blanket between his fingers, looking amused. “Isn’t this a little fancy for the back country? What did this cost? A month’s salary?”
“I don’t know, but it’s warm.”
The mule drank from the stream. Joe left her side, walked over to the beast, and tied Anna’s bundle to a saddlebag. She picked her way out of the brush, deliberately avoiding the clumps of mistletoe that hung overhead. Her map was gone, undoubtedly blown into the water and floating down stream. She lifted her chin. “Do you have a map?”
“No. The man at the pack station said I didn’t need one. The trails are all signposted. Want to ride the mule?”
“I don’t need any favors.”
“I’m guessing you must have tried riding astride before, when your daddy wasn’t looking.”
“Riding like a man is child’s play. It takes far more skill to ride side saddle.”
“No doubt. Are you sure you don’t want to ride? The man at the pack station said that hunting cabin is a good twelve miles, maybe further.”
Anna blinked. It was a greater distance than she had anticipated. Still, she had no intention of riding his beast. “I’m sure.”
“Suit yourself.” Joe swung onto the mule in one smooth motion.
It occurred to Anna that if she were riding the mule, Joe Singer would have to walk twelve miles. This would make up for any discomfort she felt at accepting his favor. “I changed my mind.”
Smiling crookedly, Joe dismounted. Anna put her foot in the stirrup, and though she didn’t need help, Joe put his big hands on her small waist and lifted her. Her slit skirt bunched up around her knees, baring her police matron bloomers. He handed her the reigns. “Here you go, partner.”
Anna didn’t thank him.
Joe walked on ahead while Anna rocked along in the saddle. Her eyes left the stony trail and focused on Joe’s backside. She cleared her throat. “Was there any trouble at Chinese New Year?”
Joe kicked a rock. “One hoodlum shoved an officer, but she got away.”
“I’m sure he sorely deserved it.”
“He’s just trying to make a life for himself.”
“I wish him luck, truly I do.”
Joe turned and looked at her, brows drawn together. “You do?”
“Of course.” Anna lifted her chin. “So, did you make a collar?”
“I broke up a fight. Caught a couple of white guys pilfering souvenirs from a shop. But there wasn’t any shooting. Not at people anyway. And there were so many cops in Chinatown, we were competing for troublemakers.”
“How disappointing.”
“Wolf caught a crazy man with his pants down on Main Street.”
Anna stifled a laugh. Joe turned and grinned at her.
Several miles up, the trail became steep switchbacks, and Anna was glad for the mule. Oaks gave way to pines, and the path forked. A post stood sentry, but there was no sign. Joe stopped and wiped a drip of sweat from his cheek with his bandana.
“Signposted, are they?” She pulled the mule to a halt.
Joe pointed to a charred board in a fire pit—the remnants of the sign. “That’s not my fault.”
She untied her cashmere blanket, found the whiskey bottle, and uncapped it, taking a swig of water. “We’ll simply take one trail, and if it doesn’t lead to the cabin, we’ll double back. It can’t be that far.” She put a finger to her chin. “Except, we don’t know how far it is. We won’t know if we missed it, or if we just haven’t gone far enough . . .”
“I have a better idea. Let’s go off trail and follow the streambed. You can climb on rocks, right? If his cabin is on the creek, we are bound to run into it. No doubling back. No missing the cabin. I’ll collar Chan Mon, if he’s home, and we can sleep there. Our coats will be warm enough if we’re inside.”
“But we’ll have to leave the mule.”
“He’ll be all right.” Joe led the mule off the trail, and tied it to a tree. He took the food out of the saddlebags and put it in his pack. “If we leave food, it will attract bears.”
Anna noticed he added his toothbrush. She grabbed her own toiletries from her cashmere bundle and hurried over. “If we’re spending the night . . .” Handing him the comb and mirror, she accidentally let go before he’d grasped them. Joe caught the falling comb, but the mirror tumbled onto a rock, and the looking glass cracked. He frowned. “Sorry. I’m sure it was expensive. I’ll get it fixed for you.”
Anna stared at him wide-eyed. “You can’t fix seven years’ bad luck.”
He smirked, placed the comb and mirror in his bag, and slung it on his back.
Joe and Anna followed the streambed up the canyon, hopping from wet rock to wet rock, avoiding the poison oak that grew near the water’s edge. Joe was climbing the rocks like a human fly. Anna struggled because her bicycle boots, great for avoiding snakebites, had low heels and smooth soles, making rock climbing difficult.
The saturated air smelled of crushed, wild mint. It cooled her nose and heightened Anna’s senses. Her boots were slippery on the algae-slick granite, and twice she fell in, scattering trout and water bugs, her skirt billowing out in the frigid current. Joe pulled her up with his strong, calloused hands, and she carried on, her wool coat heavy and dripping.
Anna fell in again, scraping herself on a stick, ripping her police bloomers and skinning her leg clear up to her thigh. Joe picked her up again and plunked her down on a boulder. “Give me your foot.”
“Why?” Anna obliged, raising her right ankle.
Joe cradled her foot in his palm. “Because you’re wearing the wrong shoes.”
It was true. Her heels were slippery, and made her sink backward as she walked. She
had blisters, and the wet would only make them rub worse. But she didn’t know what he could do about it.
He reached one hand into his pocket for a knife, flipped open the blade, wedged it in the sole of her shoe, and popped off the heel. He began to score the sole to roughen it, and then repeated the operation on her left shoe.
“Thank you kindly for ruining my boots. These were custom made by François Pinet.”
“Sherlock, they were ruined already.” Joe let go of her foot, and it fell like a lead weight. She started to shiver. She consulted her wet pocket watch, which no longer ticked. Anna frowned hard. The little hand had stopped at four, and they hadn’t yet found Chan Mon’s cabin. The sun now hung behind the mountains, casting the canyon into shadow. The winter sun would set in two hours.
Joe looked concerned. “Let’s go back to the mule. You have gotta change into dry clothes.”
“I didn’t bring dry clothes. I’ve accepted that I’m going to get influenza.”
“It isn’t influenza I’m worried about. People die from cold, Sherlock. You’d know that if you were raised somewhere with a winter.”
“Everyone dies sometime.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Not you. I have blankets on the mule.” Joe plunked down on a rock and took off his shoes. He rose, stripped off his coat, sprung his suspenders, and dropped his pants. He stood before her with nothing covering his bottom half but a pair of clingy woolen underwear. Anna put her hand over her open mouth. God had made Joe Singer well.
It gave Anna a renewed desire to live. “Jupiter.” She bit her lip and said a silent prayer of thanks to Saint Agatha, patron saint of virgins, who was likely behind it.
Joe’s shirt came off. He stepped out of his denim pants, standing in nothing but his tight stripped vest, drawers, and a holster. Anna’s breath caught.
Joe mistook her gasp for concern. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. I’ll be all right. They’re dry. And I still have my hat.” He pitched his clothes, and they came flying at her. “Go put them on.”
Anna caught them with both hands. “That’s very gallant Detective Singer.” She headed for the rocks to change. Rounding a boulder, she peeked back around to stare surreptitiously at Joe. He caught her looking, and she retracted her head. Blushing, Anna hid behind a fern and stripped.
While Joe wore only underwear, Anna now wore none at all. Her sopping chemise, corset, corset cover, garter belt, holster, silk stockings, and two sets of drawers lay in a heavy, dripping heap alongside her skirt, bloomers, and coat. She wrung them out and tied them into a bundle. Only her wide-brimmed feathered hat remained dry and still pinned to her head. It occurred to her that her revolver had gone swimming as well. She unholstered her wet rod and set it on a rock.
Joe’s cotton shirt hung on Anna like a circus tent, touching her body only at her shoulders, her wrists, and two other places. It smelled of his sweat, which Anna didn’t mind at all. His soft denim trousers dangled from a bandana tied at her waist, sliding across her bare bottom with every step. They were warm from his skin. The thought made her feel like hiding. She felt naked, and he had found another love. Donning his coat, she buttoned it to the neck before emerging from behind the rock. In one hand, she held her sopping garments out away from her body so they wouldn’t wet Joe’s clothes. In the other, she held her waterlogged gun.
It was now dusky dark. A pack of coyotes yipped nearby. She’d seen coyotes in the mornings, singles or pairs, hunting squirrels and cats in the neighborhood. She had heard that sometimes they attacked young children. She wondered what they would do in a pack. Anna urgently picked her way through the forest toward the sound of Joe’s voice, eager for the safety that comes in numbers. His back was turned, and he was singing.
“. . . Boy began to sigh, looked up at the sky, and told the moon his little tale of woe.”
Anna sat down on a boulder, and called out, “I’m back.” She opened the chamber of her damp gun, removed the bullets, and put the barrel in her mouth.
Joe turned. “Mother of God.” He came hurtling toward Anna.
Anna blew hard, sending a spray of water out the end of the barrel. Joe grabbed her gun.
Anna made a sound of objection. “It’s wet. If your gun gets wet, you blow the water out, and it works again. I thought you’d know that.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d know that.”
“Well, I can’t have it wet. I might need it.” She snatched it back.
The beam from Joe’s flashlight drifted down Anna’s well-draped body, and she heard him swear again.
“What?” Anna looked down at her ensemble in the spotlight.
“I was just remembering the last time you borrowed my clothes. My hat got trampled, and my best suit went up in flames.”
“I’ll keep them safe. I promise. And, I’ll wash them.”
“No, thank you.”
Anna’s face crumpled. The faithless man she used to love did not even trust her with his laundry.
“Are you warm, now?”
“Sort of, thank you.”
Joe tossed her a candy bar. “Eat.” He rubbed his arms. “Let’s get going.”
As they followed the stream down, climbing on boulders and through bushes that must be poison oak, a mist settled in, making the night colder and the darkness more impenetrable. Above them, the tree-tops shook in an icy wind.
Joe stepped on a green, algae-ridden rock and slipped into the water, wetting one shoe. He swore. “Ding bust it.”
Anna nimbly leapt to his side. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but we’re going to have to leave the streambed before you get wet, too. If we head in the right direction, we’ll hit a trail. It won’t be too far from water. We’ll either hit the cabin or the fork in the trail where the mule is.”
“Agreed. Right or left?”
“I don’t know. Right.”
They trudged into the brush, perpendicular to the streambed. Joe led, whacking at the bushes with a stick, forging a way through where there was no way. She kept the flashlight aimed at his feet, following closely in the circle of light, so close that when he stopped she bumped into him. He had goose pimples.
“Are you very chilled?” asked Anna.
“I’m all right.”
She pushed her flask into Joe’s hand. “Have my whiskey. It will keep you warm. Drink all of it. I don’t care.”
Anna put the flask in his hand, which felt Siberian cold. He swigged deeply and stuck the flask in the waistband of his skivvies. “Thanks, Sherlock.”
“Drink more.”
He mouthed the flask, bent his neck back, and swallowed.
When they came to the hill, he took the flashlight. “You’ll need both your hands.”
Anna abandoned her bundle of wet clothes because they impeded her ability to climb. She felt sorry to lose the coat with the soft mink collar, but the water had ruined it, and it would soon be out of vogue anyway. Side by side, they scrambled up a hill, pulling themselves up on branches, dislodging mud, rocks, and leaves in little landslides. Joe held the flashlight in his mouth. Finally, as the flashlight began to dim, Anna and Joe hit a long, narrow path, which snaked along the side of the hill.
Joe took a spare battery out of his pack and replaced the old one in the flashlight. “What do you think? Right or left?”
“I . . .” Anna looked up at the faintly visible mountain ridge. “Right.”
The light from Joe’s flashlight shimmered in the fog, illuminating only a few rocky steps ahead of them. The groomed trail represented a new kind of danger—the human kind. Inside every shadow, Anna imagined a killer. She wanted to cling to Joe, but her dignity prevented it.
Somewhere in the night, she heard a prolonged, high-pitched scream. They stopped. Anna put a hand on her gun. “Jupiter.”
Joe whispered, “It’s a cougar. A female.”
“What do we do?”
“Keep moving.”
It was frigid cold. They walked in silence. After an
hour, the beam from Joe’s flashlight began to tremble almost imperceptibly. After two hours, it was shaking. To Anna’s relief they reached the fork in the trail not far from where they’d tied the mule. Joe dropped the light. He bent to pick it up and fell over. He mumbled something that sounded profane. Anna extended her hand, suppressing a smile. “How easily you are felled, Detective Singer.”
He stood up. “I’m hot.”
“That’s dopey.” She stretched out her hand and laid it across his brow. “You’re shivering.”
He grabbed the hem of his vest in both hands and tried to lift it over his head, revealing his belly and an intriguing strip of dark hair.
Fear slapped Anna in the face. “No you don’t!” She pulled his undershirt back down. This was just like the conductor had said on the trolley. Joe was dopey, irrational, and hot when he was very cold. That whiskey hadn’t worked at all. Would he die, then? Because of her?
Joe began to unbutton his drawers. She swatted his icy hands away from the waistband. He went back to lifting his vest.
“No, no, no,” she said, wrestling with his frigid, trembling fingers.
He glowered. “I’m so hot.” He yanked his body away from her.
She darted behind him, knocked out his knees, and shoved him sideways. He crumpled onto the forest floor. “Hey!”
She shouted at him. “If you don’t keep warm, you’ll die. You said so.”
Joe rolled over on his back and began to fumble with his vest again, trying to pull it over his belly. Anna dropped to the ground and sat on him. She swatted his shaking hands away, and smoothed down his undershirt. “You need to keep your clothes on. Okay?”
Up went his shirt. Anna straddled him for better leverage and yanked his shirt down. “No,” she said sharply, as if reprimanding a little dog.
The Woman in the Camphor Trunk Page 18
