Light the Hidden Things

by Don McQuinn

  Sydney hurried away from the customer to meet Edward halfway. She whispered dramatically. “Mr. Vanderkirk called. He said you should call him as soon as you came in. He was agitated.”

  Edward’s morning slumped. Van’s call was trouble enough. He didn’t need words like “agitated.” Who did she think she was?

  “And?”

  “He just said you should call. He sounded...”

  A cutting gesture stopped that. “Didn’t you ask what the problem was?”

  She blinked. “You said I shouldn’t ask people that. I was just...”

  He sneered. “I’ll take care of it.” Typical female literalism. Now he’d have no way to prepare for the discussion.

  Van answered on the first ring and wasted no time on pleasantries. “I told you she had help from someone.”

  “You’re talking about Lila?”

  “Who else, damn it?”

  Edward swallowed his first answer, then, “Yes. Well, that's very interesting. Quick work, too. No need for that detective now, right? Who's the benefactor? What're the details?"

  There was a pause. "The detective's the one who made the find, not me. Turns out she's got a trust fund. Her aunt and uncle set it up. I don't know how she gets by on it. And that preacher loaned her money."

  "Why isn't the trust money sent directly to her account? And how much has Richards loaned her? Is he charging interest? How's he explain it on his tax return?"

  "The detective's looking into the things you mentioned - plus my strong suspicion that our holy man drained off church money to give to a friend. "

  "I'd think hard about this. Even if he did embezzle some money, it can't have been much. And putting the law on him won't make you popular with her, that's for sure."

  "Edward, you live in a very tiny world. I don't want to expose the old man. Maybe I'll just convince him to talk to Lila about selling. He does that, and his little secret's safe."

  Edward snorted. "That's called blackmail. He won't buy it."

  "If he doesn't, then I will expose him. And I'll find someone on that church board who'll insist she pay back the loan immediately. I don't want it to fall out that way, but someone's got to win this argument. I mean to be the one."

  "You'll lose her. You know you will."

  "Not if I offer to help her finish her project the way she wants."

  "That's wishful thinking. She'll spit on you."

  "I don't think so. I'll be apologetic. I'll be ashamed. I'll do anything to make things right for her."

  "I don't believe a damned word of it."

  Van laughed. "Neither do I. But she will. She wants things her way bad enough to believe anything that looks like she's getting what she wants. Once she buys my repentance act it won't take her long to figure out that joining up with me is the only way she can make it work."

  The silence stretched past Van's patience point. He said, "You still there?"

  Edward answered slowly. "Yeah, I'm here. I was just thinking. You know, you just may get away with it."

  "I will. We're going to end up building the nicest little resort in the Cascades."

  Edward made a face. "I wish you wouldn't talk about 'we.' I'm not involved."

  "The hell you're not. If I can't build on that property I can't borrow money from you. You need the business. Or I could go somewhere else. My credit's good."

  Van's sudden defensiveness lit up all of Edward's professional warning lights. More than that, it gave him a quick touch of satisfaction to realized he was now in charge of the conversation. Still, Van was by far his largest customer; there was no place for petty gloating. But it was important Van understand he couldn't just snap his fingers and everyone obeyed. He said, "I'm sorry, Van - I'm a bit confused. You say Richards contributed to Lila's project, but you don't know how or how much money's involved. That's pretty tenuous information. "

  Van went on. "Let me worry about that. Look, you've always been a team player. I need you to give me information if my detective hits a wall."

  "Within legal limits. Fiscal advice based on public information. The law's very strict."

  “Whatever.” Van hung up.

  Edward lowered the handset to its cradle. The whole game seemed to be degenerating into farce. A tiny smile ghosted across his face.

  * * * * *

  Lila’s improved attitude grew through breakfast. Slathering a wedge of oven-warm cornbread with jam gave her ridiculous satisfaction. Picking the blackberries for that jam cost her a sweatshirt. A zillion thorns tore a zillion holes. Then came cooking the berries down. Heat and steam meant memorably bad hair. Now, however, the glassy shine of the jellied fruit, the intense flower-and-spice aroma, and the dark sweetness of the end product made it all worthwhile. When all that married with the sweetness of corn and the sharper bite of fresh coffee she closed her eyes and smiled the plainest and best sort of satisfaction.

  She filled the thermos with the remainder of the coffee; she'd keep it by her side as she worked. Done with that, she scanned her surroundings. The kitchen looked right. Pretty soon the rest of the place would match it. Optimism welled in her. The man at the bank in Seattle talked about government stimulus money and greater appreciation of small businesses. Nothing like Edward's constant moaning about recession and gun-shy senior bankers.

  Gray days and cold mornings and crabby bankers weren't the stuff of her life. Homemade blackberry jam, a precious little dog, a fireplace warming two big old leather chairs - that was what she was about. Good things were going to happen. She'd make them happen.

  Chapter 14

  Crow woke to sullen pain. It filled his head, infected every muscle in his body, made him clench his teeth to avoid vomiting.

  Opening his eyes, he looked up into a pale yellow void. The color brought a jolt of fear. He expected sky, clouds; bland emptiness was wrong. With rising alarm he realized he had no sense of place. Increased pain made him grunt. He rolled his eyes. To his right, a sink. A utilitarian chair, dingy brown. On his left, an open door.

  Scent gave him his first orientation. Floral-masked disinfectant. Laundry.

  Hospital.

  Moving his hand to his head was a project. There was a bandage on the right side, above his ear.

  Fire. Explosions.

  Major. Moaning.

  He tried to rise. Pain lashed him harder. He wedged his elbow against the bed, levered his torso a few inches upward. The spun. He closed his eyes and waited. When he looked again he saw his feet, holding up a distant blue blanket teepee. The cloth’s weight was oppressive.

  There was a bed guard rail just within his peripheral vision. Determination twisted his head around far enough to focus on the controls he knew would be there. He pushed the nurse call button and fell back exhausted. A man in white shirt and trousers filled the door immediately. He hurried to Crow, grinning confidence.

  He said, “I told them you’d wake up sooner than they expected. You guys don’t stay down long.”

  The effort to speak made Crow think his skull might crack. He tasted dust, his throat felt clogged with it. For a terrible moment he thought he’d cough. Before it could seize him, the nurse jammed a glass of water and straw under his nose. The grin was replaced by cool concern. He said, “Sip. Just wet your mouth.” At the same time, his free hand raised the head of the bed slightly. Then he went on, “Don’t try sitting up again, hear? Use the button, let the bed do the work. And no higher than this until Dr. Newton or I say so.”

  Crow swallowed. It was nectar. He managed, “Dog. Major.”

  “He’ll make it. The vet doesn’t know why. He took a heavy hit. Tough mutt. Seems to run in the family.”

  “Girl? Jason?”

  The nurse brought the straw back; Crow sucked greedily and the nurse pulled it away. “Not too fast,” he said, then, “The girl got too much smoke. She was fine by the next morning. The father took a hit from a nine millimeter round; a ricochet, deformed. Lucky for him. Didn’t have much poop left. Nicked his neck. He’s h
ome, too, No permanent damage.” He let Crow have the straw again. “We’re sending you to Seattle for more detailed examination. Just a precaution. You’ve got a bad concussion.”

  The water revived Crow wonderfully. He moved a hand to his bandage, pleased by how much easier it was already. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Hard to tell. Lots of hardware flying around. Place was a bomb looking for a way to explode - black powder, smokeless powder, and primers. Then we had paint remover, paint, cans of gasoline, kerosene. If you’d been wearing your Kevlar hat, you’d have been fine.” Crow frowned puzzlement. The nurse said, “Email chatter says you’re a retired First Sergeant. I was a Corpsman. My name’s Garza.”

  Words came slowly. “Want. My. Dog.”

  Garza was sympathetic. “He’s not up to it yet. When he is, I’ll bring him in.”

  “Take me - him.”

  Garza’s laugh was soft, but his words had bite. “You think we’ve got nothing better to do than wheel you to around? They carried you in here the color of snow and not much warmer, you hear what I’m saying? We nearly lost you.”

  Crow looked away. There was a window to his left. Dead gray clouds. He said, “How. Long. Here?”

  “A little over two days. You woke a little bit yesterday. Don’t be surprised or worried you don’t remember. It wasn’t much of an event. You’ve had a good snooze.”

  It shocked Crow. He tried to get up again. Garza’s hand on his chest was gently immovable. “Don’t try it. Let us do our job. No gung-ho crap, okay? Hear, tremble, and obey.”

  It hurt so much to laugh Crow winced dramatically. He told Garza, “Great bedside,” and was pleased his voice was almost human.

  They were quiet for a few moments, Garza watching intently while Crow collected himself further. Finally he asked Garza, “Iraq?”

  Something dark roiled Garza’s features. “Eighth Marines. Why I’m telling you to listen up. I’m not losing another of you, understand?” He blinked, then continued. “Just so you know. Anyhow, Major’s recuperating at the Miles’s place. Amber’s made herself his personal caregiver. Your truck and mobile home are parked beside Miles' house.”

  “Thanks.”

  Brushing that aside, Garza turned to leave just as a portly, gray-haired man entered. Black-rimmed glasses glinted when he approached. For a man of his physique, his movements were surprisingly abrupt. He came to Crow and said, “Good to have you back with us. I’m Dr. Newton. How’re you feeling?”

  “When. Leave?”

  “Garza write your dialogue? Exactly what he said you'd say.” He pressed on. “You’ve seen concussions. You’ve got a mean one. We got you patched up. No apparent complications.”

  Crow said, “Details.”

  Dr. Newton’s eyebrows flicked upward. “Don’t really have any. Something heavy and a lot harder than your head bounced off it at your temple. Some blood loss - I expect you know how head wounds bleed. X-rays don’t show any fracture. We were going to move you to Seattle for more detailed evaluation, but we’ve got a bad storm system pounding the whole area. Not a good time for a bumpy helicopter ride or the long ambulance haul from here. It seemed best to hold you over until things cleared up. Weather should clear shortly. We’ll fly you out then.”

  “Can’t. Leave. Dog.”

  “Let us worry about him. He’s healing, too, you know. We’ll do this by the numbers.”

  Garza said, “That’s what I told him.”

  Doctor Newton snorted. “I’m sure you did.” With the unexpected quickness Crow had already noted, the doctor bent to inspect Crow’s bandage. Just as sharply he produced a small flashlight and checked Crow’s eye responses. Finally, he pulled back. Behind the heavy-rimmed glasses, dark brown eyes probed beyond flesh and bone. He said, “Mr. Crow, Garza’s the best nurse you could have. Don’t mess with him. You people taught him too well, if you ask me.”

  The doctor and Garza exchanged amused glances and the doctor left. Garza told Crow, “Hear that? Like I said, man. Now lean back and relax. You’ll get well faster.”

  Crow said nothing. Unfazed, but much more sympathetically, Garza asked, “Can we notify anyone for you? We couldn’t find anything about next of kin. I’ll call them if you want.”

  “No one.” He waved a finger, the best way he could think of to signal he was tiring fast.

  Garza sensed it and proffered two pills and more water. “Can you get these down?”

  Crow managed it. Garza asked again, “There’s no one I should call?”

  “No.”

  Frowning, Garza straightened. Crow closed him out, eyes shut. He listened to Garza’s departure. Alone, he confronted the pain. As he did that, a remnant part of his mind drifted on to other considerations. He found himself wondering who’d be saddened if they heard he’d died alone in a little nowhere town in western Washington. It mildly surprised him to realize there'd be so few. It surprised him even more to find himself strangely troubled by the fact.

  Why care?

  Death is a warrior’s insatiable companion. A warrior makes himself believe death only takes strangers and enemies, knowing what a lie that is.

  Maybe someday Joe would understand that his father was no greater liar than everyone else.

  Wrong. No. What kind of man would want his son to learn, much less understand, the things that cost his father so much?

  Crow heard the drug singing through his veins. His mind welcomed it and his thoughts, suddenly tenuous, scurried away entirely. In their stead came random flashes of memory.

  That woman in Lupine said he was a better friend than he knew. A good friend without knowing it? A lie. Little white lie? Still and all, she was a person who would have been troubled if he died. She cared about other people.

  There was the problem. He was a man she met only twice, both times by accident, but she’d let his trouble burden her. The same mistake he almost made. She didn’t deserve that.

  Who gets what they deserve?

  It was too bad the people who cared for her the most couldn’t help her.

  Nothing changes, except to get worse.

  Warm insistence pulled him to sleep. Pain was still there, but he was separated from it. He thought he heard Major barking and knew it couldn’t be so. Another lie.

  What if they lied to me about him?

  As he surrendered the drug rewarded him by hiding everything but that new, nagging fear.

  * * * * *

  Edward Lawson parked at the top of the circular drive in front of Charles Vanderkirk’s home. He frowned and muttered the hateful word: “Beautiful.”

  All of Vanderkirk’s skill was on display. Proper choice of architect, talented gardener: Northwest modern, glass and timber, carefully placed lighting to illuminate size, best features, elegant grounds. A sweeping view of the Fortymile, Lupine, Lake Connolly, the mountains. A perfectly selected site, accessing the views and toils of lesser mortals, but carefully distanced from their insignificant selves.

  Invitations to visit Vanderkirk at home carried the stink of command. Edward slammed the car door shut, still talking under his breath. “Coming, Your Mightiness.” He lifted the ring hanging from the brass dragon's mouth on the door and let it fall. “Ostentatious fakery,” he muttered, knowing that the thud of the knocker meant nothing; it triggered gentle chimes in several rooms.

  Van opened the door. Excited, he almost pulled Edward inside and led the way into the living room. An oxygenating bottle of DeLille cabernet waited on the coffee table. Edward decided his resentment of Van’s wealth didn't extend to refusing his wine. He swooped up his glass as soon as Van finished pouring.

  “Sit down,” Van said, doing so himself. He took the chair nearest the fireplace. Flame glow softened the blunt features while still creating the aura of assertiveness. Edward wasn't sure how that happened, but he was quite certain the effect wasn't accidental. Van said, “I want to apologize. I was pretty short with you the other day. You’re a friend, Edward.” He rose, stepped to Edward and
clapped a hand on his shoulder. With the other he proposed a toast. “To something we can work with.”

  Edward drained his glass. Since Van was so enthusiastic, it was only proper to help himself to a refill. He said, “I wasn’t offended. As you said, we’re friends. What’s going on?”

  Instead of an answer, Van asked, “How long have you known Richards?”

  “Since I was transferred here - five long years. You think he can pray me a move upstairs?"

  Van didn't smile. "What do you know about him?”

  “Do-good preacher. Pretty good crowd of suckers every Sunday. Financially, he's healthy enough."

  “He’s lying.” Van spun around, returned to his seat. “The detective can't find him. It's like Richards was born just before he came to Lupine in '65."

  "Then your detective's not doing his job. I know Richards has a Social Security number. He's got a driver's license. He has to have a degree of some kind to be running a church.”

  “He got his degree, all right. It's from a dead college in some little pit stop town in Texas. Place went under in '68. No one knows what happened to their records. Richards lists no prior addresses and his only reference was another dead end - a two-bit remodeling company in Minnesota. It's long gone, too. He says he was a carpenter.”

  “Not a very original profession for a religious figure. So Richards is a wandering street corner preacher with sketchy documentation who found a home. So what?"

  "That old phony's been running a scam on this whole community for over forty years. If he slipped money to Lila, she'll look bad even if she doesn't know where the money comes from."

  Edward sipped. "Twenty percent of the population will tell you all religion's a scam. Why make trouble for the old guy? He's harmless. And if he gave some money to Lila, how could she not know where it came from?"

  "He's a con man; we already know that. What's his church's bank balance?

  That called for a hearty swallow from the wine glass. Blabbing that sort of information - even to a friend - was dangerous. Edward said, "It's a solid six figures, most of it invested. I understand their books are good. He leads a quiet, inexpensive life."