Till the Butchers Cut Him Down

by Marcia Muller

  A week had passed since Josh Haddon destroyed himself and the JetRanger. Within twelve hours of the crash, Suits was back to his old self: downplaying the episode to the press, covering his ass with his moneymen, assembling a new organization from the remains of the old one. He acted like a man with a mission; perhaps he thought that purposeful activity would redeem him, make him worthy of the part of him where Anna still lived. To me he seemed somewhat frantic, hiding from the central issue—namely, that his life had to change.

  As for me, I’d allowed him to cover up the events surrounding Josh’s death. Had allowed him to weave a fabric of truths and half-truths. Josh, the official version went, had engineered the Bodine drug frame with the sole help of Noah Romanchek (half-truth); had shot Bodine when he followed Suits to Lost Hope and assaulted his wife (I had my opinion on that, but I kept it to myself); had begun a campaign of harassment against his boss that culminated in Anna’s death (truth); and had taken his own life while on a routine run to pick up Suits at Hunters Point (again only half).

  Once, I wouldn’t have been party to such a sham, but as I’d told Mick, that was what life did to you. Old loyalties, as well as new ones, were at work there. And it was the new ones that today had prompted me to undertake a mission of my own—one that I’d almost decided would best be left undone.

  Earlier this afternoon I’d visited Moonshine Cottage and confirmed a couple of details. Then I’d driven in to the town of Mendocino and checked the missing-persons reports filed with the sheriff’s department. What I found was further confirmation.

  Now I passed a logging road that cut far back into the timber. Climbed some more and crossed a one-lane bridge over a dry creek bed. The road switchbacked three more times, then straightened and came to a wide clearing.

  Dwellings sprawled haphazardly on either side of the pavement: wooden shacks with iron or tar-paper roofs, old house trailers sitting on blocks, newer prefabs. A sign in front of a pair of rusted Quonset huts said Ridge Reservation School. Next to the huts was a dirt playing field with a pair of netless basketball hoops mounted on standards. The only person I saw was a heavy woman in a flowing orange dress sitting on a lounge chair under a tarp that stretched between two of the house trailers.

  I pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the MG. A couple of brown mongrels bounded over, wagging tails giving the lie to their menacing barks. I scratched their ears, started across the road to the woman.

  She got up and went inside her trailer, slamming its door.

  I stopped, looked around for someone else. Saw a small girl of about seven peeping around a pile of old tires. I smiled at her, and she covered her mouth with her fingers. When I went that way, she drew back and ran toward the Quonset huts. I followed.

  The little girl skirted the huts and took a zigzag path through a cluster of junked cars and trucks. A rubbish heap lay beyond them; she stopped beside it, glanced back, then veered toward the redwoods surrounding the clearing. I ran after her. The rough-barked tree trunks crowded closer together; the kid’s footfalls were muted on the blanket of needles and moss. For a moment I lost her. Then I heard voices—hers and an adult woman’s. I followed their sound and came to a smaller clearing.

  It was the reservation’s graveyard. Low metal fence, the kind you buy at the nursery to border your flower beds. Weathered tombstones and wooden markers, in some cases just piles of stones. Plastic flowers, mostly faded by the sun, blooming in profusion. At the far end on a broken-down redwood bench sat a woman.

  Anna Gordon.

  She had her arm around the little girl. When she saw me, she whispered to her, and the kid ran back toward the trees, giving me a hostile look as she passed.

  Anna had changed markedly since I’d said good-bye to her at Moonshine House: the lines that bracketed her mouth were more pronounced; her hair was unkempt and dull; her jeans and T-shirt hung much too loose. But it was her eyes that told me she’d changed inside as well: self-containment had hardened into self-preservation. As she regarded me down the length of her ancestors’ graveyard, their focus was cold and wary, a flicker of fear in their depths.

  I said, “Nobody knows I’m here.”

  She watched me, waiting.

  “And if you insist, I’ll never tell anybody.”

  After a moment she nodded, motioned for me to join her on the bench. When I sat down beside her, the flimsy structure listed my way—she’d lost that much weight.

  Neither of us spoke for a while. Finally Anna asked, “How’d you know?”

  “The room where I stayed at Moonshine Cottage. When I was packing, you told me you were expecting Franny Silva that day, that changing the sheets would give you something to do after Suits and I left. I went up there in September—Suits holed up at the cottage after the explosion. The sheets were different—blue, rather than the ones I’d slept in. Recently I realized that Suits, bad off as he was, wouldn’t have changed them, and I wondered if you’d been in the cottage rather than in the house when it exploded.”

  “That wasn’t much to go on,” she said. “Certainly not enough for you to drive all the way up here.”

  “No. At first I tried to convince myself I was mistaken, but it kept nagging at me, so today I went to the cottage and found the maroon striped sheets I’d slept in in the hamper. Then I checked with the sheriff’s department in Mendocino. Franny Silva was reported missing a week after the explosion. She’s never turned up. I suppose it was her fillings that your tribe’s dentist identified as his work.”

  Anna winced and closed her eyes. “Franny. No one even told me she was missing; runaway teenagers are pretty commonplace up here. God, I never even knew a body was found at Moonshine House; my people don’t bring back newspapers from the outside, and there’s no TV up here.”

  The outside: she sounded as if she was speaking of a world she’d left for good. History had come full cycle for her, as it had for her parents. I wondered if I was too late to bring her back.

  I asked, “What did you do after the explosion?”

  “Ran. Away from the cottage, I don’t remember where—it’s pretty much a blur. Late that night I hitched a ride on the coast highway, had the driver drop me off at Ridge Road. And then … I came home.”

  “You walked all that way?”

  She nodded. “For a long time after that I was pretty much out of it. I still am, in a way.”

  “Is that why you haven’t gotten in touch with Suits?”

  Her fingers tightened on the edge of the bench. She drew her knees up and hugged them to her breasts. Shivered, even though the warm autumn sun touched her shoulders. She looked toward the gravestones, and I followed her gaze to a wooden marker with plastic roses scattered at its base.

  “That’s where my mother’s buried,” she said. “My father used to beat her. Finally he went off with a woman from the Pomo reservation down on Stewart’s Point Road. I never really expected much from a marriage.”

  “Anna, Suits had nothing to do with the explosion.”

  “I guess I know that now. The guy loves me. And I love him.”

  “So why didn’t you come forward, ease his grief?”

  “Fear. Sharon, he makes so many enemies. Don’t you see that it doesn’t matter who set that explosion? I was almost the victim of an enemy of his once before that; I can’t live with the possibility always hanging over me.”

  “The enemy you’re talking about was Ed Bodine, in Lost Hope?”

  “If you know about that, you can understand why I can’t leave here.”

  I hesitated, framing my reply carefully. “Anna, a lot of things have happened that you’re unaware of. Josh Haddon, for instance.”

  “Josh?”

  “Is the man who ordered the explosion. He didn’t mean for you to die, but he was the one who was harassing Suits.”

  She stared at me, eyes filling with pain and dull horror. “And the person who actually set the charges?”

  “Is dead now. Josh ran him down, probably
to avenge your death.”

  “No …”

  “Josh is dead, too.”

  “… How?”

  “He died in a helicopter crash a week ago.”

  Anna covered her face with her hands, leaned her forehead against her raised knees. In the trees behind us a mockingbird began a monotonous trilling; a harsh chorus of jays joined in.

  After a while Anna looked up. “You’re not telling me everything.”

  “It’s too complicated. I’ll leave that to Suits.”

  “Suits …” The single syllable was full of longing. She stared bleakly at her mother’s grave. “You know, what happened was all my fault.”

  “Your fault? Why, for God’s sake?”

  “I knew Josh was obsessed with me. I should’ve warned Suits.”

  “Josh hated him for other reasons besides you.”

  “I’m sure he did, but I was the big reason. After Monora … You know what happened there?”

  I nodded.

  “After that, Suits and I separated. For good, I thought. And Josh and I … became close again. He’d come to the house when Suits gave him time off. Once I let him make love to me.”

  “So when you and Suits reconciled …?”

  “Josh was upset, but he claimed he could accept my decision. What really tore it was Lost Hope. By then he was pretty sick of having to mop up after both Suits and me. Last summer when those things started to happen to Suits, I went to see Josh and asked if he was behind them. He lied, and I believed him, but I should’ve warned Suits anyway.”

  “Well, that’s behind you now. And Suits need you. He’s aware that he has to make some major changes, and you’re the only person who can help him—and keep him honest.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not all behind me. There’s something about Lost Hope that you don’t know.”

  I didn’t know, but I suspected. And if I was right, this something would have to go unsaid between us. “I know that Josh shot Ed Bodine to protect you,” I told her. “I know that he buried him in the wash with the help of your friend Brenda Walker. The deputy in charge of the case has my statement to that effect, and I’m sure Brenda will back it up.”

  “But that’s wrong. I was down in the wash, going to see the bottle house, and I’d taken along my gun in case of rattlers—”

  “But Bodine overpowered you. And Josh shot him.”

  “Sharon—”

  “That is exactly the way it happened, Anna.”

  Our eyes locked. Finally she nodded and clasped my hand.

  “I’ve got to talk to Franny Silva’s parents, and say my goodbyes,” she said. “It’ll take a little while. Wait for me.”

  I watched her disappear into the redwoods, then got up and moved restlessly among the graves of her people. They’d had little enough to begin with, and over time, harsh circumstance had forced them to accept the notion that life is often a series of givings-up. I suspected they’d understand the compromise I’d made here today. Sometimes the dead must bear the burden of a lie; sometimes the truth must be warped in favor of the living.

  I didn’t suppose Josh Haddon would have minded, anyway. After all, he would have done anything for Anna.

  Touchstone

  December 31

  “I still don’t understand why you wanted to spend New Year’s here.”

  “Why not?” Hy rubbed his palms together, surveying with satisfaction the fire he’d built on the hearth at Moonshine Cottage. “It’s cozier than the cabin in the Great Whites, which we can’t even get to this time of year. It’s got a killer view, and after this storm blows over we can walk on the beach and look for treasure.”

  I took a sip of champagne.

  “McCone, don’t tell me you’re still spooked about the explosion and that girl dying?”

  “Not really. Now that the debris is cleared away, it seems peaceful again. And it was nice of Anna and Suits to let us use the cottage. But we could just as easily have spent New Year’s at my place.”

  “With your nephew? No thanks.”

  “He’s almost always with his girlfriend these days, and he’ll be moving into her condo next week, after her roommate finally moves out.”

  “How’d his folks take the news?”

  “Not very well at first. Then he took her home over Christmas, and now they’re singing her praises. Charlene told me Maggie’s a steadying influence—the implication being that I’m not.”

  “So you’ve got a permanent assistant.”

  “It’s only temporary.”

  “It’ll always be only temporary.”

  I was not to be diverted from the original topic of conversation. “Anyway, as I was saying, we really could’ve stayed in town.”

  “And then we’d’ve been obligated to go to All Souls’s New Year’s Eve party and meet Rae’s computer-freak boyfriends. I’m not ready yet to see little Rae Kelleher in a ménage à trois.”

  “I’m not sure that’s what it is.”

  “How do you define it, then?”

  “It defies description. But I guess you’re right; San Francisco would’ve been a bad idea. But why not your ranch, if you want privacy?”

  Hy picked up his champagne glass and came to sit beside me on the floor in front of the fireplace. “Look, McCone, that wouldn’t’ve been good, either. On holidays there’re still ghosts of Julie stirring around. I like it when we’re together at your place and at the ranch, but what we really need is a place of our own.”

  “Well, a borrowed cottage on the Mendocino coast isn’t half bad.”

  “It’s not exactly borrowed.” He grinned lazily and handed me a sheaf of papers that had been sticking out of the pocket of his wool shirt. “Soon as you sign these, Moonshine Cottage is ours.”

  “… Ours?”

  “Uh-huh. Joint tenancy. I bought it from Anna. Someday maybe we’ll build a bigger house; there’s room for an airstrip, too. But for now this little beauty’ll do just fine for us.”

  “Hy, I can’t afford—”

  “Won’t cost you but fifty cents.”

  “Hy, I can’t take—”

  “I bought it for a dollar.”

  “What!”

  “Anna wanted to offload it, and she wanted us to have it.”

  “Good Lord. Suits must’ve been furious.”

  “He wasn’t too happy; the man’s tight with a buck. But Anna gave him a look, and he backed off.”

  I knew that look and the effect it had on Suits.

  “Oh, McCone,” Hy said, “don’t go getting sentimental on me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You think I can’t see that tear? Brush it away and sign the papers.”

  I signed where he indicated, handed them back to him.

  “Where’s my fifty cents?”

  I found some change in my jeans pocket, counted it into his outstretched palm.

  Hy folded the papers and tucked them away. Stoked the fire and poured more champagne. “Here’s to us.”

  I returned the toast, still somewhat stunned at suddenly owning a piece of the California coastline.

  Hy added, “We’re going to have to change the name of this place. Moonshine Cottage—it’s not us.”

  “No.”

  “So what’ll we call it?”

  A memory of last summer stirred. “How about Touchstone?”

  “Touchstone.” He nodded, and I saw he remembered, too. Then he raised his glass and motioned around the room. “I christen thee Touchstone. We’d break a bottle of champagne over you, but it’s too expensive.” To me he said, “So what do you have planned for the new year?”

  “Well, I’m going to decide what to do about Mick.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “No, really. And I’m going to get my pilot’s license. Then maybe I’ll have you teach me some of the fancy stuff.”

  He grinned.

  “That the Citabria’s capable of,” I added.

  He frowned.

  “And …” I hesit
ated. “And,” I went on, “I’m going to find out what you were up to all last fall if I have to mount a full-scale investigation.”

  “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

  “So?”

  “Not much to it. I had a wild-hair, save-the-world kind of idea. Traveled around running it by people I know who’re in that line of work and discovered I’d need more resources than either the Spaulding Foundation or I have got.”

  “What’s the idea?”

  “Has to do with human rights, helping people who need to get out of tight spots. It came to me after our little adventure last June.”

  “Mmm. So what did you decide to do?”

  “Went to my old buddies Renshaw and Kessell.”

  “Six months ago they were gunning for you; now you’re old buddies.”

  He shrugged. “It’s always been an uneasy relationship. Anyway, they made me a gold-plated offer: ownership position; freedom to call my own shots and pursue my own projects.”

  “In exchange for …?”

  “My availability when a tricky situation like a hostage recovery comes up.”

  I was silent.

  “Don’t frown like that, McCone. The deal doesn’t involve any major compromise on my part. What it all boils down to is that I was getting stale running a foundation; I need to get back to what Gage calls the old action—with a dash of idealism thrown in, of course.”

  I sipped champagne, looked into the fire. I could feel its heat, feel the heat of Hy’s body pressing long and lanky next to mine. For a while I was silent, turning over a question in my mind. And decided that now was as good a time as any to ask it.

  “So what about this old action? Are you going to keep me in the dark forever?”

  “Thought you’d never ask that, either.”

  I stared at him.

  “A while back I decided it was time to tell you about it.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “A man likes to be asked.” He smiled complacently.

  “All right—I’m asking!”

  Hy got up and fetched some pillows. Fluffed them and tossed them to me. Stoked the fire, poured more champagne. Opened a bag of pretzels.