"When you began," I said. "But now?"
"Now it is the same," she said quickly.
"Is it? Then why did you have to approach Elaine to replace Charlotte Vardis? She didn't even want to go." The answer was another dig with the gun barrel. "Charlotte wanted the pictograph too, didn't she? She wanted it bad. She would have done almost anything to get it. But you thought she had given up, didn't you, Sylvie? She went home to
Oklahoma for the winter. But then she showed up again. What did she offer in exchange, Sylvie? To keep her mouth shut about the Cult?"
"You keep your mouth shut. Find the pictograph. No more talking."
"And if I refuse? You'll deal with me like you did Shiloh and Charlotte?"
"If I have to."
Elaine gasped. I looked at her across the stack. "In front of Elaine. She'll be a witness. Or will you kill her too?"
"Elaine won't say anything, will you?" Elaine shook her head. "Then get out of here! Now!" Elaine put out her hand toward the door handle. "And don't say anything to anyone or I'll come after you next."
The door scraped open. Elaine slipped through and shut it behind her. We could hear her feet pounding toward the house, and her sobs as well. With a deep breath, calm on the surface at least, I turned and faced Sylvie.
"You don't mean to kill me or you wouldn't have let her go. She's probably in there calling the police right now."
A flicker crossed Sylvie's face. "So open the box with the pictograph. Now."
I shook my head. "It's not here. Elaine and I went through all the boxes. Shiloh must have hidden it somewhere else." I smiled at her and the gun she held loosely in her hand. Her wrist was bent, pointing the gun toward the boxes. I thought of running but she tightened her grasp on it then, pointing it toward me again.
"I don't believe you."
"Look for yourself. Here," I said offering her my flashlight.
"Use mine."
Sylvie stepped forward and grabbed my outstretched arm at the wrist, twisting it fiercely. She poked the gun into my stomach. I gasped, feeling the barrel against my diaphragm, the cold reality of it. Then the hot breath of Sylvie, expelled through her clenched teeth, made me blink, fear rippling through me.
"You will find it right now or have a hole in you big enough to walk through." She was so close I felt her saliva on my chin as she spat out the words. She loosened her grip enough to spin me around toward the boxes. Her gun took up a position over my kidneys.
The loud scrape of the door opening sounded like the gun going off. I flinched, waiting for the searing pain of the bullet. Only after blinking did I realize that the garage door had been opened. A man stood silhouetted in the streetlight at the end of the driveway.
"What are you doing, Sylvie?" Marcus Tilden stared at us, his bulging black eyes uncomprehending. His deep voice seemed out of place.
"M--Marcus. Get out of here." Sylvie tightened her grip on me, digging the gun barrel in.
''What have you got there?" Tilden took a step forward. "Is that a gun?"
"Get out of here, Marcus," she repeated. "I'm looking for the pictograph. If you leave I will find it for you. For us."
He took another step forward. "Elaine says you killed Shiloh. Did you, Sylvie?"
"Please, Marcus. Leave," she pleaded.
"Why, Sylvie? Why did you kill Shiloh? She was like a daughter to me." His voice broke and I saw the tears well in his eyes.
"More than a daughter, I'd say." Sylvie's voice was back to its original venom level; she ground the gun into my rib cage. "I knew about you and her. You didn't think I knew, but I did. You just couldn't leave them alone."
"You're tired, Sylvie. We haven't had much sleep. Give me the gun."
I felt her arm shaking. "You screwed them all, didn't you, Marcus? You don't even have the decency to deny it! When we began the bluejay dance I thought I could help you, bring you back to me, be a part of your life. But you just kept screwing them, didn't you?"
"Sylvie, please. Give me the gun," Tilden said smoothly.
"Give him the gun!" I pleaded in a whisper.
"Give, give! I give you everything, Marcus. Everything!" Her voice began to break. "And what do you do to repay me? Fuck everything with two legs. Even that bitch Shiloh. She was going to ruin you, Marcus. She would have told everyone you stole the pictograph."
"No, she wouldn't. Shiloh cared for me." Tilden's voice sounded strange suddenly.
Sylvie shoved me against the boxes. I felt the corner of one in my gut, expelling my air. The hand I had in front of me kept me from tumbling headfirst onto the cement.
"SHE cared for you?! HER?" Sylvie backed away from Tilden, waving the gun wildly. He dodged its trajectory but kept his advance.
"Stay away from me, Marcus! You don't care about me."
"I do care about you, Sylvie. Put down the gun."
"You don't care." Her hard face began to dissolve in misery. "I did so much for you. I killed her for you, don't you see?" She was crying now, tears streaming down her cheeks. She held the gun with both hands. "For you, Marcus. So we could go on together. Just you and me, Marcus."
"We can still go on if you put down the gun," he said with no emotion.
"No, no, we can't now, Marcus," she cried, still backing slowly away. I turned, sinking lower against the boxes. "It's too late. You never cared enough. And now it's too late."
In a swift movement she turned the gun around and put it in her mouth. Time stopped for a second. I will never forget the blueness of her eyes, the whiteness of her skin in the eerie light of the dank garage. The artificial blue-black glints of her hair in the outrageous braids. Outside the city lights reflected off the low clouds, giving everything a close, claustrophobic intensity.
There was no time for Tilden to grab her, to stop her from pulling the trigger. He yelled "NO!" but she was right. It was too late.
She was gone.
Gasping, deep, pained, and rhythmic. In the dark I couldn't be sure if it was me or someone else. Sirens pierced the night. Feet pounded on the cement, then a cry took up its place in the unholy scheme of the night.
My eyes were shut. I sat trembling on the floor, my back to a box, my hands over my face. I didn't want to see. I never wanted to see again. But when Mendez came, rubbed my arms to bring me back to life, pulled me up onto his chest and held me there, when the sounds began to crowd out the silence and chaos, confusion, shouts, cries, voices everywhere filling the old garage, my eyes opened. I saw her. I couldn't help myself.
At the police station I tried to keep my eyes open all the time. That way the visions of gray steel tables and chairs, flat white walls, and policemen smoking cigarettes and taking notes blotted out the memory. Even a blink was enough to open the window to the memory that clung behind my eyeballs like an old piece of gum that you never can get off your shoe. Scrape all you want but it'll still be there. Use some fancy cleaner and the stain remains. Only time, and a lot of walking, can erase it.
Melina came, sitting with me as I told the story again to a different set of cops. They asked me questions. I told them everything I knew, babbling on like they were interested in my father's old Impala that sailed into Flathead Lake or my hunches that caused the eventual arrest of the Andy Warhol forgers back in '87. They nodded and brought me back to the subject. I could see them, hear them doing it, yet I talked on.
Melina called Hondo, who sat close to me, pressing my knee whenever he wanted to interrupt. He did that a lot; it took most of the night. At three they all left the room except Melina and me. She sat with her head propped against the wall, eyes closed. I wanted to tell her how I hadn't wanted Sylvie to die, how I didn't know that would happen. But
I remembered she had heard me tell the police the same thing.
Mendez stuck his head in the room. I smiled at him. My eyes were getting harder and harder to keep open. He slipped in, his brown eyes weary. His uniform had lost its creases long ago. I touched a button on his shirt pocket. He glanced at Melina and
whispered, "I think we're done for tonight. Elaine told them everything that happened." He shook his head. "She's pretty hysterical." He rubbed my leg tenderly. "How are you doing?"
"Okay," I whispered even though on the inside a horrible battle raged, a battle that would continue at least through the night. A maelstrom of guilt and justice, of victory and agonizing defeat, of relief and searing pain. He looked into my eyes. I wondered if he could see it raging.
"You sure?" he asked. I nodded, looking away. I didn't need any soul-searching eye contact tonight. He rubbed my neck the way he had the other night. I closed my eyes at how good it felt but opened them quickly again as the memory of Sylvie came flooding back.
I took his hand, pulling him around in front of my chair. He sat down next to me. His fingers were so soft. "What will happen to Tilden?"
He shrugged. "They're questioning him about the other two deaths. But he probably wasn't involved. Except that he was boffing them, of course." He pushed my bangs back off my forehead. "I'd say his career at the University is over." Detective Knox came into the room then and cleared his throat. Mendez dropped my hand and stood up.
"You're free to go, Miss Thorssen," Knox said. "We know how to reach you." He turned and left the room. Mendez took my hand again and drew me up. "I'll take you home."
"What about Melina?"
She opened her eyes. "I can get myself home. I'll see you there, Alix." She gave me a small kiss on the cheek and shuffled out.
We took the EI Dorado. His shift, even the extra one, had been over hours ago. I was thinking again about the call I'd made to him before everything happened. It was an afterthought, and even then I hadn't gotten him directly. Had to leave a message with the dispatcher. If only I'd tried a little harder, maybe Sylvie would still be alive. Could I have saved Sylvie from herself? From the demons that tormented her? From the husband who neglected her? Hadn't she already made those irreversible decisions herself?
Mendez said nothing. If he had his own questions about my role in Sylvie's death, he didn't say. We sat at the curb in front of the house on Blaine Street. His eyes widened in surprise as I pulled him close, ran my hands up under his shirt to feel his strong back, and licked his ear. I needed him. He filled the emptiness inside me for a moment.
We made love in the backseat of the EI Dorado. My eyes stayed open.
28
WADE'S INDEPENDENCE DAY.
Even though it was the fifth of July-not the fourth-it still made me smile. So did the nearly flat, placid waters of Flathead Lake, the cool breeze that cut through the mountain sunshine, tossing the mule's ears' bright yellow daisy flower heads to and fro. A day to be free, that it was.
And Wade was free. Hondo had driven us up late in the morning as soon as the paperwork had been filed for dropping the charges. Melina and I had gathered Wade up, gotten in the old red boat of a Cadillac and driven to the west shore of the lake. We had spent an hour filling Wade in on the events of the last few days. The sun had warmed us as we finished eating dill pickles and ham sandwiches that Melina had packed.
Wade moved up on one elbow from his prone position on the blanket. He was thinner but happier than I had seen him in a long time. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "So what did this Charlotte Vardis have to do with Tilden?"
"She got hooked up with the cult somehow. I guess she found out about the bluejay pictograph and got fixated on owning it," I said, shading my eyes to look at him. The bright daylight seemed to be melting the bad memories out of my brain. "She found the best way to get to Tilden was in the sack. But he still wouldn't give it to her, I guess."
"So she went home to Oklahoma," Mel said, "then came back this spring?"
"She spent some time up here last summer communing under the full moon with the bluejay shaman. Maybe she tried to forget about it but couldn't. At any rate she came back about the time that Shiloh got murdered."
"That was just coincidence?"
"I guess. Tilden said she called him earlier in June and wanted to meet him as soon as he got back from Seattle. Which was not the date he told the cops."
"Why did he lie about that?" Wade asked.
"He came back early to meet Charlotte. Sylvie got wind of it and followed. But she thought it was Shiloh he was with and so killed her. Tilden had been with Shiloh but not that particular weekend."
"I'd like to see his date book," Wade grinned. Melina gave him a playful kick. I was happy to see them together again at last. It made me wonder about what would happen this fall when Melina was to start her doctoral program back East. "So then what happened to Charlotte?"
"She must have found out about Sylvie's doings. That's what I think. She offered to help Sylvie if Sylvie would help her get the bluejay pictograph. Charlotte didn't know that Shiloh had it at this point."
"How did Shiloh get it?"
"She stole it from Tilden. At least that's what he says."
Melina held up her hands. "Wait a minute. What did Charlotte do to help Sylvie?"
"She called me, sending me on a wild goose chase because I was nosing around."
"But then Sylvie figured out it was Charlotte who was making whoopee with her husband," Melina said. I bobbed my head, still feeling the exhilaration of the pieces falling into place and giving myself over to that feeling. It was better than guilt.
Wade rose slowly, sighing as he got to his feet. He went to the back of the Cadillac, made a fist, and banged the trunk in a certain spot that caused it to pop open. Mel smiled at me. What a guy. I lay back down on the blanket and felt the breeze off the lake tickle my face. My eyes could close now fairly safely, without more than an iota of memory flashing up. Steeling myself, I closed them, feeling the heat of the sun on my lids. I pulled the hat over my eyes.
"Got something for you, Alix." Wade's figure blotted out the sun. He held a large parcel wrapped in brown paper, lumpy but flat, in both hands. Carefully he set it on the blanket in front of me and sat down. "Open it."
"What is it?" I asked, fingering the taped edges but hesitating.
"When did you have time to buy her a present?" Melina wanted to know. I wanted to know too.
"Just open it!" Wade said, waving his hands over it eagerly.
I did as I was told. Inside the brown paper was a newspaper. Inside that was an old towel. Inside that was a square hunk of rock, smooth and red, hacked away at the edges to make it square. On the face of it was the bluejay shaman, legs up in dance, a blue crest and tail on the stick-figure man.
My jaw dropped. I had begun to believe it didn't even exist, that these people had wanted to believe in it so badly that they had made it up. But here it was. I drew my fingers lightly over the painted lines of the birdman. This was what two people had died for?
"Where did you find it?" demanded Melina.
"The cops had it all the time. It must have been in my trunk. When they gave me back all my stuff this was with it."
"But how?" Mel continued. I was still dumbstruck, feeling the stone with all fingers to make sure it was real.
"Shiloh," Wade said. "That's what I figure. The day I was at their camp, remember? We had that argument. But before that I was there a long time talking to Tin Tin. Shiloh must have been worried about the rock getting into the wrong hands or something. She wanted it donated to the university, right? So she stashes it in my trunk. And at the same time--"
"She gets your knife," I said.
"Right. She was nervous, uptight. Maybe Sylvie had taken a swipe at her before."
"She was supposed to have all her things moved into storage that day," I said. "But somebody canceled it for her."
"Somebody who must have thought the pictograph was there," Mel said. "But why didn't Sylvie just break in and get it?"
"Because by then she was terrified because she'd killed Shiloh,"1said. "She didn't want to be associated with Shiloh at all. Remember how strange she was at the memorial service? Detached? I don't think she meant to kill her. Otherwise she would have brought the gun. Maybe Sh
iloh pulled the knife on her, they struggled, and that's when Sylvie killed her."
I had been rubbing the stone painting unconsciously while we talked. As I looked down now I was horrified to see that some of the paint was now on my fingertips, flaked off at my touch. "Oh, my God," I gasped.
"Alix!" Melina cried.
To our amazement, Wade, the passionate professor, keeper of the native flame, friend to Indians across the prairie, only laughed. I had defaced a native icon, a spiritual symbol of an ancient people-- and he laughed! I stared at him, awestruck.
He held up his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry. I didn't set you up. But it took me only one look at this to know it was a fake."
"A fake?" I touched it again, bending closer to the stone. "It looks so old."
"Oh, it's old," he explained. "About 1930, I'd say. No older than that. See this blue paint?" He pointed at the crest and tail of the birdman. "Tribes didn't have any natural blue dyes until they traded with the whites. All their natural colors were black, red, white, a little yellow, like that. No blue. At least no blue that would last in the weather for decades and not fade." He pointed at the crest of the figure. "And the work itself. It just doesn't look Salish. It's not something they would do."
"So who did this?" Melina asked.
"Probably old Seymour Smith, I'd guess," Wade said. "But nobody believed him with all his credential problems underway."
"So he stashed this away somewhere in the anthropology department," I said.
"And Tilden found it, anointed himself bluejay shaman, and began dancing the two-step." He shook his head. "Was Tilden the one responsible for the vandalism too?"
I nodded. "He had the women do some of it. He wanted to wake up the tribe, he said. Make them realize their native religion. Drive out the Catholics. I think Sylvie was responsible for the last of it with the spray paint. And that was just to implicate me."
The Bluejay Shaman (Alix Thorssen Mystery Series) Page 22
