Kage: The Shadow

by John Donohue

  You idiot. You should have tripled it. “Plus expenses,” I added hopefully.

  She looked at me shrewdly. “Of course.” She carefully completed writing and pulled the check free. “This is a retainer for the first two week’s work.” She stood up and extended a hand, smiling her pleasant and mechanical business smile. “Roy will provide you with the information you’ll need to get started.”

  “I’ll be able to get going next week,” I told her.

  Her smile disappeared. “I would prefer that you start immediately.”

  If I were thinking straight I would have wondered why she was in such a rush. Eliot Westmannn had been an academic laughing stock for decades and he’d been dead for over a month. It would take weeks for me to research this stuff. I thought she was merely being imperious.

  I shook my head and smiled to soften the disagreement. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got other commitments over the next few days…”

  “If it’s a matter of money,” she started and began to re-open her checkbook.

  I held up a hand. “No. The retainer’s fine. I’m just unavailable until next week.”

  “I see. Do you mind telling me why?”

  “Yes, I do.” She blinked at that, and seemed at a momentary loss for words. “I’ll be back early next week. If you can accept that, we’ve got a deal. Otherwise, it’s been nice chatting.” I handed back the check.

  She looked at me with hardened eyes. “I made calls about you, Dr. Burke. They told me that you can be… difficult.” But, she left the check on the table.

  Ms. Westmann, I thought to myself, you have no idea.

  4 Wanderers

  Sarah and I drove north, marveling at the arid expanse of land along the highway and equally amazed at the familiar-looking strip malls and fast food joints that dotted the desert landscape. It was a juxtaposition of the strange with the familiar. There were McDonald’s and Burger Kings, K-Marts and pizza joints, odd samplings of American popular culture jettisoned out onto territory that looked as foreign to me as the surface of the moon.

  An early spring snowfall dumped eighteen inches around Flagstaff, and we spent two days there, enjoying mountain air redolent of pine and biting with frost. As we drove toward the city in a thickening cloud of white, I saw huge forms moving slowly way back in the trees, like ghosts. Elk. It made me think of mountain men and times almost forgotten.

  We slept at a place called the Pony Soldier Motel. I picked the name out of a list because it sounded like something from a John Ford movie. It was, in fact, just like any other mid-priced chain motel, except it had a full-size statue of a horse out front.

  The next morning dawned sunny and the snow began to melt under a sharp blue sky. We ventured out. A few miles east on I-40 was Walnut Creek Canyon. Sarah and I scrambled down the cliff trail maintained by the Park Service, peering into dwellings that were centuries old before Europeans ever glimpsed the “new” world. You could stoop and enter the chambers of the old cliff dwellings, noting the dry-stone construction, the lick of soot along the door lintel from ancient fires, and try to imagine life in a vanished world. The north slope of the canyon was protected from the full blast of the desert sun and was greener than the south slope—differing ecological zones a stone’s throw from one another, separated by a trickle of silver water some six hundred feet down at the foot of the canyon.

  We shopped for souvenirs back in town. I couldn’t resist buying a cowboy hat; every little boy wants to be a cowboy. And, the next day, the road north was clear. After driving through another stretch of high desert, we hit the tourist mecca of the Southwest. People were scurrying around like ants. Buses and cars lined up at the park gate. Ultimately, however, you got through, and all that hassle faded away into the expanse. Sarah and I walked along the rim of the Grand Canyon, silent so as not to disturb the immensity of the vista, of the colored striations in the canyon’s walls, and the line between earth and sky that seemed to melt in the distant haze.

  As the day faded, we headed back across the Sin Agua Mountains toward Williams. It sprang up from a flat landscape: a small, erect, compact place. Its buildings had the facades of the Old West, and there was nothing around it but the flat empty land, the interstate, and mountains that reared up like a dark barrier wall to the west. It looked like something from the movie Shane.

  The next day we drove south and saw Tuzigoot National Monument and Montezuma’s Castle. We ate in small restaurants, snapped roadside pictures on cheap disposable cameras, and laughed a lot. In the evening, Sarah and I would make love and hold each other, creating a sense of familiarity and connection and comfort, a secure space in a strange and transient landscape.

  We’d talk quietly in the darkness.

  “She’s using you, you know,” she told me as our trip was drawing to a close. Her head was resting on my chest and I stroked her back. The words she spoke were a soft murmur, but I heard the warning.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I said.

  “You don’t think it will hurt your academic reputation?” Sarah asked.

  She’s sweet. I didn’t want to disillusion her by stating I had no reputation to protect, so I reassured her. “Don’t worry. I’ll do the analysis and it will show—guess what?—that Eliot Westmann was a fraud. When his daughter gets the report, it’ll never see the light of day.”

  “Do you think she really believes that he was telling the truth? It’ll be sad for her to have him exposed as a liar.”

  I thought about that for a minute. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “She seems pretty hard-nosed. She’s got her reasons for wanting this deal, but I don’t see her getting all broken up about it. Mostly she’ll be sad she shelled out all that money for me to do the research.”

  “Hmpph,” Sarah murmured and snuggled a little closer. I pulled the sheet up over her back and held her. In the distance, cars whined down the highway. I listened to the rhythm of her breathing slow, felt the gradual loosening of her grasp as she drifted off into sleep. My eyes began to droop as well, and my arm slip off her. I shifted slowly. I made sure my arm was still around her. Never let go.

  The next day, we said our goodbyes at the airport, a quick embrace and whispered assurances in the exposure of a public place. Sarah made her way through the security check and turned once to wave. There was the quick glint of her smile, eyes flashing, and then she was on her way back to New York. I sighed and headed back toward Tucson, into the harsher light of southern Arizona.

  I showed up back at the hotel a little before lunchtime. Roy, efficient, alert, and as crisp as ever in his little hotel blazer, saw me coming and offered a solemn greeting and a limp handshake. He leaned over the high front desk, retrieved a manila envelope and ushered me through the main reception hall and back outside. Roy glanced at the gear slung over my shoulder clearly disdainful that that was all my luggage. He was used to people with matched luggage sets the size of piano cases. I had a duffle bag and the ratty little canvas satchel I call my briefcase. Security people at airports eye it warily and it’s routinely searched for explosives.

  “Will you require a porter, Dr. Burke?”

  I hefted my gear and said I was fine. Roy looked doubtful, but carried on, gesturing as we came through the doors. Sprightly, tanned young people in pink polo shirts and khaki shorts bounced around the walkway, piling luggage onto carts and ushering people to various locations in little electric carts. One of them glided up in front of us and we got in.

  “Ms. Westmann has given me explicit instructions that I’m to facilitate any requirements you may have, Dr. Burke,” he began. Roy opened the envelope and began pointing things out to me. The hotel was a sprawling complex of stucco buildings, pools, and pathways. “You’ll be staying in one of our detached suites for the duration of your assignment. As a guest of the house, your food and entertainment expenses are complimentary.” He handed me a gold plastic card. “Simply use this card when you sign for things. It’s also your room key.”

  We drove se
dately and silently along a palm-lined path. The cart’s motor whined faintly, but the sound of the rubber tires was louder than the engine. Roy traced our progress on a little map of the grounds. “The health club is close to your suite, and there are six pools at different locations around the facility. Restaurants and shops here,” he touched the map lightly, “and here, and here.”

  “I’ll need high speed Internet access and computer gear for research,” I indicated.

  He nodded. “Arrangements have been made with our Executive Support Center. A laptop should also be waiting for you in the room.”

  We tooled by a pool, the water’s deep blue set off by the almost blinding white of the surrounding cement. The sun was hot and most people stayed in the shade or under the awning of the outdoor bar. Machines in the bar’s eaves sprayed a fine mist that kept the patrons cool. It would be bad for business to have the guests collapse from heat stroke.

  Our driver pulled neatly up a path and we got out. A small flowering tree shaded the entrance to the bungalow. A dark wooden door set in the stucco wall opened onto a spacious living room. The furniture was finished to make it look like it had been bleached in the sun. The color scheme was muted pastels, and understated Southwest art was on the walls. The AC had been on for some time and the place was about the temperature of a meat locker. Roy ushered me around the different rooms in the suite, pointing out the wet bar and fridge, the flat screen TV, the directory of services bound in something that was probably plastic but was meant to look like rich Corinthian leather. Both the living room and the bedroom had sliding glass doors that opened onto a small, walled-in patio. I slid the glass doors open and the heat hit me like a hammer. Small birds chirped in the greenery along the tops of the patio wall. I could smell flowers and something very like dry herbs. It was elegant, private, and restful. If Sarah were here, I would have liked it a great deal.

  Roy must have seen the expression on my face. “I hope everything is acceptable?” he said anxiously.

  I smiled. “First-class, Roy.”

  He smiled back. His was very professional. Hospitality is a serious business. “I’m so relieved,” he told me. I looked carefully, but could detect no sarcasm.

  I tossed my bags on the bed and he handed me the envelope filled with stuff. “Your research will mostly take place at the Westmann estate,” he told me. “No autos are permitted on these grounds, but a hotel car will be yours to use when traveling. The bell staff at the main entrance are aware of this and will provide you with the keys.”

  “Where is the Westmann estate?” I asked.

  Roy had a tight smile that was more like a grimace. “Ms. Westmann has arranged for you to be briefed by our chief of security on a number of items.” He looked at his watch. “Would you care to freshen up or have a bite to eat before the meeting?”

  “No, I’m good,” I said. I took a last look around the room, pocketed my magic gold pass and went with him, back out into the harsh light.

  The hotel’s chief of security was a relief: you could see laugh lines etched in the tanned skin around his eyes.

  “Charlie Fiorella,” he said, shaking my hands. His white shirt was pressed and immaculate, the cuffs carefully folded back. Fiorella had freshly cut silver hair brushed back from a pleasant face that looked like it had seen a great deal. Cop, I thought.

  He sat down behind a desk that had a gold nameplate, a black phone with lots of buttons, and a carefully placed pen set that had some sort of engraving in the base. The desktop was polished and totally devoid of paper.

  “So you’re the researcher,” he smiled. It wasn’t a crack; Fiorella seemed relaxed and open to my presence. “Lori told me you’d be coming by.”

  “I guess you’re supposed to bring me up to speed so I can figure out what to do next. That’s what Roy tells me.”

  Fiorella made a face. “Roy. What a troll. They get you set up okay, with a room and everything?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “A bit more elegant than the Motel 6.”

  Fiorella grinned. “Just a bit. I gotta warn ya, though. Lori will want her pound of flesh…”

  “She seems like someone who’s used to getting what she wants.”

  Fiorella’s eyes went slightly out of focus as if he were mentally reviewing data for a second. “That’s probably a pretty accurate observation, Dr. Burke.”

  “Connor,” I told him.

  Fiorella looked at me and squinted. “I got the background on you. I ran across your brother once at a conference in New York.” He seemed like he wanted to say more. It’s not an unusual occurrence when I meet people who’ve met Micky.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” I was trying to place his faint accent.

  Fiorella smiled. “Not many people are. The Southwest is filling up with people from all over. Nah,” he said, getting to my question. “I retired as chief of homicide in Buffalo and decided that fifty-five years of snow was enough.”

  “How was the transition?”

  “You know, Connor, every time there was a homicide in the city of Buffalo, the chief had to be called in. Day or night. Holidays. Weekends. I spent so much time at crime scenes talking to the TV people, that my friends started to call me Captain Video. Here? I get to sleep nights. I can get a full round of golf in before work. I got a good staff of young, ambitious types and a bunch of rich people staying for a few days, maybe drinking too much or screwing too much, but that’s it. I keep a lid on the over exuberant and keep the troops from stepping over the line. It’s like a paid vacation.”

  “You’ve got a homicide on your hands now,” I reminded him. “Or at least that’s what your boss thinks.”

  Charlie Fiorella grimaced. “There’s some differing opinions on that…”

  “But she’s got you working it, doesn’t she?”

  He smiled. “You too.”

  I held my hands up. “I’m just supposed to read her father’s books and render an opinion.”

  Fiorella stood up: a pretty good size, but trim and fit. He was wearing creased gray trousers and shiny oxblood loafers with little tassels on them. He swung a navy blazer off a chair, straightened his tie. “Let’s take a walk, Connor.”

  “What? The walls have ears?”

  Fiorella shrugged. “Who knows? Probably. Mostly, it’s time for me to make the rounds. Show my face to the troops.”

  We wandered around the hotel grounds. Fiorella moved with an easy economy, like someone who’d done it for a long time. He’d stop occasionally and have brief, low-voiced conversations with various people. They all smiled and seemed both respectful and genuinely glad to see him. If Lori Westmann’s presence made everyone stiffen up, Charlie Fiorella seemed to have the knack for making people feel comfortable. Probably not a bad skill for an investigator.

  “You know what Lori wants you to find don’t you?” he asked me as we ambled along a shaded colonnade by a pool. Attendants were busy collecting wet towels and taking drink orders from vacationers in various stages of sunburn. Dressed to be part of the shadows, fully clothed people flitted silently in the background, sweeping walks and working the various pieces of invisible machinery that spins below the surface of any resort. Fiorella greeted them by name. They looked up to respond with brief smiles, then saw me and quickly returned their eyes to their work.

  “Sure, I know what she wants,” I answered him. “She wants me to prove that her father’s books weren’t fiction and that he was murdered for revealing the secrets of some ancient sect of mystics.”

  Fiorella nodded as I explained. We stepped to one side as another electric cart whizzed by. “Anything about this strike you as odd?” He pressed.

  “Well, yeah,” I admitted. “Like why wait thirty years to send a hit squad. The damage was long done.”

  Fiorella smiled. His teeth were bright against the tanned skin. “Good start. Anything else?”

  “Why bother killing someone for revealing secrets when most of the world thinks they’re not true anyway?”
>
  Charlie Fiorella led me up to a bar. We sat and turned to watch the action in a pool with a huge slide and dozens of screaming kids. The bartender greeted him and slid two cocktail napkins into place. He snapped the tops off two Coronas. The bottles made a happy little fizzing sound. The bartender slipped some lime into them. “I like the way your mind works, Connor,” Fiorella said. He reached for a bottle. “Cheers.”

  We sipped the beers for a while. The kids shrieked and bobbed and splashed around. Their parents sipped fruity drinks under awnings. Fiorella watched it all with a benign watchfulness. I’m pretty sure I detected a pistol in an ankle holster.

  “So,” he continued. “I’ve got some friends on the local force. I get copies of the crime scene report. I talk to the investigator of record.”

  “And?”

  He shrugged. “Eliot Westmann was a flake. His personal life was a mess. He’d been through three marriages and would shack up with almost anything in a skirt. Big with the New Age crowd. Spent most of his time at his retreat up in the hills. Nice place.”

  “Is that where he died?”

  “Yeah. They found him at the bottom of a staircase. Stone steps. Hard landing, ya know? He bled a bit, but basically he broke his neck falling down the stairs.”

  “No sign of…”

  “Foul play?” he asked playfully. “Far as I can tell, the people from Stolichnaya did him in. The guy was a drinker, and the blood work confirms that he was severely intoxicated at the time of the incident.”

  “So I don’t get it,” I told him. “The locals think it’s an accident. So do you. Why is Lori Westmann so hot to pursue this?”

  Fiorella thoughtfully finished the last of his Corona. Mine was done as well, the slice of lime sitting sadly at the bottom of the bottle. The bartender approached and looked at me. I shook my head no. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Fiorella watching the exchange with approval.