by Neil Mcmahon
The town's main drag was a three-quarter-mile stretch lined by a dozen stores, a couple of gas stations, and several bars. Then we drove on into rural solitude again, punctuated by occasional lights and plumes of smoke from woodstoves. I'd grown up with that piney fragrance and loved it, but here, tonight, it didn't offer its usual comfort. Road signs were shot up and mailboxes bashed in, the sport of young men out drinking and letting off steam.
Abruptly, Renee swiveled to point at a mailbox mounted on a sagging fir post, beside a forlorn dirt track leading into the trees.
"Oh my God," she breathed. Madbird hit the brakes and backed up so we could see it in the headlights.
The name scrawled in crude black letters above the box number read: A SINNER.
I had no trouble believing that a private purgatory lay at the end of that gloomy lane.
The entrance to Astrid's property was unmarked, with no tire tracks or other signs of activity. The gate was closed with a lock and chain so we couldn't drive in, and Renee didn't have any real outdoor clothing, just her expensive street boots and the shearling coat that Evvie and Lon Jessup had given her. But at this altitude, the snow was frozen hard enough so that walking wasn't bad. We climbed the fence and started in on foot, Madbird leading with a flashlight.
The cabin was a quarter-mile farther, nicely situated on a rise overlooking a vista of pristine forest. But I could tell as soon as it came into sight that there was something wrong with its shape. The reason became clear when we got there. About two-thirds of the roof was gone, rafters and all, leaving a big gap open to the sky. Apparently somebody had started tearing it off, then quit. The remainder, without the support of the ridge, had collapsed under snowloads into a ragged-edged pile of cedar shakes and sheathing. The door and windows were also gone, now just dark rectangles that gave the look of a discarded jack-o'-lantern.
We followed Madbird inside and walked around, our footsteps crunching on the snow-crusted floor. It was large and nicely constructed, with walls of thick, uniform, squared fir logs that had carefully dovetailed corners. A big masonry fireplace was obviously the work of a real craftsman. Cabins built for function, like my own, were much rougher-often the work of one man with occasional help, using crude tools and smaller, easily handled timber. But Astrid's family had never lacked for money.
The last room we came to, though empty of furniture like the rest, had to have been the bedroom-the exact spot where Astrid and her lover had spent their last minutes of life. We stood in the doorway while Madbird shined the flashlight around. Its beam found nothing but barren walls and the empty socket of a large window overlooking the pretty meadow sloping down to the creek. I turned away without stepping inside the room or speaking. So did everybody else. As we walked back outside, Renee stayed a little ways off to herself.
Then Madbird said, "We got company."
I caught the sound, the deep rumble of a diesel engine. A few seconds later, a vehicle came into sight, a backwoods redneck's wet dream-a big older-model Chevy or GMC pickup, jacked up so the floor was damned near three feet off the ground. The tires would have carried a semi and the body looked like it had plate armor welded on, including bumpers like sections of railroad track. A winch was mounted on the front and a heavy brush screen covered the grille.
The driver fit the picture to a tee; he was spare, lantern-jawed and handlebar-mustached, wearing a peaked hunter's cap, a threadbare brown duck jacket, and logger boots. He got out carrying a rifle, a lever-action carbine like the Winchester that Chuck Connors had made famous in The Rifleman. He held it the same way, with the barrel pointed down but ready to raise fast.
"You get one warning about trespassing, and this is it," he said in a hard voice.
My first reaction was that he must have bought the property at some point during the past several years. Infuriating though it was to be treated like this, especially with the bullshit prop of the gun, he was within his rights to run us off. Then it dawned on me that there couldn't have been a sale without Renee knowing. Her father's marriage to Astrid would have entailed a title search to clear any claim he might have, and Renee had had his power of attorney since he'd fallen ill.
She was right on top of that, and she came back at him just as combatively.
"This place belonged to my father's wife," she said. "Astrid Seibert."
That obviously startled him. "You're related to her?"
"I just said so. Who are you?"
He recovered enough to swing the weapon's barrel in a short arc toward the road, a commanding gesture like a soldier would use herding prisoners.
"Somebody that don't like trespassers, that's who. Now get on out and don't come back."
"What right do you have here?" she demanded. "I know the Seiberts, and I don't recognize you."
"They got me watching the place."
"I'll find out." She took a pen and paper from her purse, marched over to the big truck, and wrote down the license number.
"The Seiberts give you a key to the gate?" Madbird said. "Or maybe that's your own lock you put on there."
The rifleman swung to glower at him. "You look like you belong on the rez. What you doing around here?"
Madbird neither spoke nor moved-just locked gazes with him.
The guy's mouth opened to speak, then closed. A few seconds later, he tried again. Still, nothing came out.
Madbird finally turned aside and spat into the snow, releasing his invisible choke hold. He put his arm around Hannah's waist and they started walking toward the road. I did the same with Renee.
"That ain't something to be proud of," the rifleman yelled after us-probably meaning Renee's relation to Astrid. We kept going and there was no more sound from him.
But Christ, did my skin crawl from imagining those rifle sights on our backs.
As we drove away, Hannah said, "I've heard about that guy. He's just got a little place but he acts like he owns everything around it, and he's obsessed with keeping strangers away. He's threatened Forest Service workers on federal land. He parked a backhoe across a county road to block it off."
We talked for a few more minutes about him and the sad condition of the cabin. Then we fell quiet, with Madbird unusually so. That happened when he was seriously pissed.
Like my father, he'd never told me much about his military experiences. I knew he'd been a Marine forward observer in Vietnam-one of those men who slipped far behind enemy lines, alone, to radio back firsthand reports on the accuracy of artillery and air strikes. A lot of Native Americans had gravitated to that sort of particularly hazardous role; it fit with the skills that many had grown up with and the temperament that many possessed, including an unconcern for danger and even an enjoyment of it. That wasn't a trait I shared with them.
But once in a while, usually in the context of hard drinking, Madbird would let something out. Tonight's encounter made me recall one of those incidents, on the troop ship carrying his unit overseas. A couple of Merchant Marine officers had also been aboard. On a single occasion, he had thoughtlessly failed to salute one of them-not out of insolence, he just hadn't been paying attention, and the merchant seaman's appearance hadn't punched the same automatic buttons as a regular military officer's always did.
Maybe the guy was a martinet or just a prick; maybe bigoted; maybe he'd had a hard-on about being surrounded by combat Marines on their way to war. He'd gotten Madbird thrown in the brig for the duration of the voyage-eight days in a tiny stifling cell, where he'd been chained around the waist and forced to stand at attention sixteen hours out of twenty-four.
"Few years after I got back, I heard that guy was living in San Diego," Madbird had said.
That was the end of the story.
21
We arrived back at Renee's around eight o'clock, although it felt later. She invited everybody in for a thrown-together dinner, but Madbird and Hannah wanted to get on home and I figured I should do the same. They took off, leaving Renee and me standing in front of her house. I rem
inded her that she should check into a motel, and offered to help her find a room and escort her there.
"I've been thinking about that," she said. "Why don't you just stay here?"
There wasn't any pressing need for me to get back to my place. The tomcat was fine on his own; he foraged for himself, and I always left an open sack of dry food where he could get at it. I'd be spared the long drive there and back to town next morning.
"Well, if you're sure," I said.
"I'm glad for the company."
I was, too. Especially after seeing Astrid's cabin, the thought of a solitary night in my own was not appealing.
"Hang on a second," I said. I went to my truck, got my.45, and slipped it into my coat pocket. I'd intended to go inside with Renee anyway and look around to make sure nothing was amiss, and I figured I might as well have the pistol with me. Like with the bobcat, I felt slightly melodramatic. But between the Ackermans and the rifleman up in Phosphor, I was well reminded that criminals and sociopaths weren't all that hard to find.
When we walked through the house, she didn't notice anything out of place and the rooms and closets all seemed clear. But the signs of Ward's tenancy were painful to see-cracked plaster from objects being swung or thrown, scars on the floors, bathroom linoleum buckling from a sink that must have leaked for years. All the bedding and upholstered furniture was ruined; she'd had to buy a new mattress for her stay here, and had found a used Hide-A-Bed couch and armchair just so the living room wouldn't be too bleak.
We finished our tour and ended up back in the kitchen. "I'm starving, and you must be, too," she said. "I'll see what I can rustle up. Let me just see who called."
I poured us drinks while she checked the anwering machine-which she'd also had to replace, along with the phones, since Ward and his buddies had ripped off or destroyed the originals.
"Hi, Renee, it's Travis Paulson," a man's voice said briskly. "You know, we really didn't get to talk much, and I feel like we've got a lot of catching up to do. I'd love to take you to dinner." He left three phone numbers, starting with his cell.
Her face showed her distaste. "He must be kidding," she murmured.
The machine's beep signaled a second message.
"Hi, sweetie. Are you there?" a different man said. He paused, as if expecting her to pick up. "Okay-it's six-fifteen here. Give me a call." This voice wasn't pushy, but it carried a quiet authority. I didn't have to wonder who it was.
"I'd better return that one," Renee said apologetically. "It might take a few minutes."
"Actually, I'd appreciate a shower." It wasn't that I'd gotten dirty working today, but freshening up sounded good, and it would get me out of the way while she talked to her fiance.
"Of course," she said. "Use the upstairs bathroom, it's decent. There are towels in the cupboard."
I'd only glanced into the bathroom on our walk-through, just the same quick once-over I'd given the rest of the place. But when I stepped in this time I was hit on all sides by feminine presence, charming and intimate-the fragrance of soap and perfume, a melange of cosmetics and lotions, an aqua-colored razor on the bathtub's rim.
I hadn't lived with a woman since my divorce, just about ten years ago.
The hot water felt wonderful, reaching deep into my flesh to ease the chill that lingered in this kind of weather. I gave it plenty of time.
Walking back downstairs, I inhaled the aroma of frying beef and onions. Renee must have started cooking while she was on the phone, but she was done with the call, just adding a jar of store-bought spaghetti sauce to the ground beef. A pot of pasta was boiling beside it and rolls were warming in a toaster oven.
"It's nothing much, I'm afraid," she said.
"It's a feast. And you're right, I'm starving."
I'd noticed a small stash of firewood out back that the human rodents apparently had been too lazy to burn. I brought in an armload and got a blaze going in the living room fireplace. Then we dished up; Renee sat cross-legged in the living room armchair with her plate in her lap and I settled on the couch. It was so homey I was slightly embarrassed.
Except for the proverbial elephant that took up most of the room-Astrid's murder and the specters that had raised. Coming up with light conversation was tough.
But Renee gave it a brave try. "Are you glad you came back here, after California?"
I didn't even have to think about it. "This is where I belong."
"The reason I'm asking is, it's been on my mind. Moving back into this place instead of selling."
That stopped me with a bite poised on my fork. "The hell. I thought you were-you know, had things pretty well planned out."
"Yes and no. Ian-my fiance-and I do fine together. He's an internist, I've got a great job, it's a life most people would kill for. But-I know this sounds crazy, but it almost seems too sensible."
"There's a lot to be said for a sensible life," I said, although my own efforts at it had failed roundly. "I suppose, uh, Ian, could find work here without any trouble."
She lowered her gaze. "If that was what we decided." The words hung there for a few heartbeats before she sighed in exasperation. "Dammit, I feel like I haven't talked about anything but my own problems."
I finally got a notion of something to say that might be helpful.
"You don't need to entertain me, Renee. Go off by yourself whenever you're ready."
She set her plate aside, and I saw that her eyes were damp. So much for helpful.
"Christ, I'm sorry," I said.
"It's not you, it's the situation," she said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. "All those years, I kept it at a distance, and now I can't let it go. Or it won't let me go."
"I'm glad to talk about it if you want. Believe me, I'm plenty interested."
"Are you sure? I could use a reality check."
"I'm sure."
She finished off her wine and stood. "I could use another glass of this, too."
I took my own plate to the kitchen and poured myself a little more whiskey.
"Here's how wacko I'm getting," she said when we were settled again. "I keep thinking of more people who could have done it. Like that guy at Astrid's cabin. Remember what he yelled about 'nothing to be proud of'? Whoever he is, he didn't like her."
"I already decided we should tell Gary about it, and give him that license number."
"Then that got me going about Ward and his father," she said. "Boone's the same kind of nasty redneck-he just tries to hide it."
"I'm with you there. Anything more specific?"
"When I came home this afternoon, the two of them were over at the carriage house looking in the windows. If Boone was the one who put the photos in there, he'd be worried about the work going on, right?"
"So then you showed up, wearing the earring. Any reaction from him?"
"He gave it a hard look, that's all. But he'd seen where you tore up the floor, so he'd be prepared, and he's very cool anyway."
"All right, let me try a reality check," I said. "Suppose they looked in the carriage house because they were using the work to prop up their bullshit claim. And Boone was beyond cool and prepared-he was completely wrapped up in the song and dance he gave us. If the earring had meant something to him, he'd have shown it somehow."
"I guess," she said, slightly crestfallen. "I thought about a motive, too, but it's a stretch. Say he'd had his eye on this place for years, hoping he could scheme his way in when my parents got older. Then Daddy married a woman in her twenties and Boone was furious."
"It's an interesting stretch," I said, remembering my earlier thoughts about secret antagonisms among people who'd known each other a long time. Renee's guess might be off the mark specifically, but point at something closer. "I'm not saying I'm right about those other things, either. I think Boone definitely belongs on the suspect list. Who's next?"
"Travis Paulson. He couldn't take his eyes off the earring and all of a sudden he's my long-lost best friend. I'll bet you anything he wants to ta
ke me out so he can try to pick my brain."
"He might have another agenda in mind," I said.
"I'm sure not going to find out. As it was, he asked me where I was staying, if anyone was with me, how long I'd be here. I didn't think anything of it at the time, I was too distracted. But now it seems creepy."
"People try to be sympathetic and those are just the kinds of things they ask," I said, although I had to agree that I didn't like the sound of it. And Paulson, like Boone, had pointedly noticed the carriage house work. "So what about his motive?"
She shook her head. "Like I said, I barely remember him-just that he'd stop by once in a while, and I had the feeling my father wasn't all that happy to see him. It was like Travis was glomming on, maybe because Daddy was famous."
Then she raised her hands palms up in a wry, helpless gesture.
"But I'm just babbling about all this," she said. "I don't know who the police suspected-I'm realizing I hardly know anything. I was living in Seattle when it happened, and my mother kept me insulated. I never talked about it with my father-I only saw him twice more before he had his strokes."
That brought sadness back to her face.
"Time for you to crash," I said. "You must be wiped out."
"I am," she admitted.
"Go ahead. I'll take care of the dishes."
"You really don't mind?"
"I really don't." I was compulsive by nature, driven to impose order on chaos, but my scope was limited. Cleaning up a kitchen was just right.
"I'll make up the couch bed," she said, rising from her chair.
"It's fine like it is."
"Oh, come on. You'd be a lot more comfortable."
"I don't want to be too comfortable. I'm on guard duty, remember?"
"All right, macho man. Can I at least get you a pillow and blankets?"
"Sure. I don't want to be too uncomfortable, either."
She got the bedding from a closet, then started upstairs to her own room. On the way, she paused to give me a glance.
"I used to have a terrific crush on you, back when," she said.
I stared after her as she climbed on out of sight.
