Last Chants

by Lia Matera

  “I’m well aware of that, Edward, believe me. I’ve done nothing but worry about this all day. All day.”

  “Well, at least I found you. I was about five minutes away from getting hysterical.” He rose, extending a hand to help me to my feet. “Let’s get you out of here before this Martin-Joel comes back.”

  I cried out when I stood up. Everything ached, absolutely everything.

  “Come on,” he urged. “I don’t want us anywhere around when he gets here. You sent him toward town, right?”

  “He was going to go into town to phone.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Edward said. “We’ll try not to cross paths with him.”

  “I think he’s who he says he is, Edward. One of his books even has a Rutgers Library stamp in it.”

  “So I guess you know where Joel Baker went to college?” Edward gave me his arm, started me walking.

  I felt like a stiff seventy-year-old. “Rutgers?”

  “How should I know? The point is, a book—probably a used book at that—doesn’t prove zilchola. Come on, granny, I know it’s hard. But try to hustle.”

  Such was the quality of my company for the next hour or so.

  But it was worth it in the end. It was worth it to climb into Edward’s Jeep, to be once again on a padded seat in a heated interior.

  When we reached the rented cabin, I went straight into the bath. Edward was dialing the Nelsons, shushing Arthur so he wouldn’t be heard in the background.

  I had done all I could for now. For now, I would soak.

  Edward tapped at the door with the news: Toni Nelson wasn’t home. Galen had just walked in the door himself. He’d received no call alerting him she’d been snatched.

  He expected us over immediately to tell him more.

  I climbed reluctantly out of my bath. If I went to Galen Nelson’s, he’d want me to talk to the police. And I couldn’t do that: I couldn’t take the chance they’d discover my identity. That would bring Don Surgelato back here; and he’d learn Edward had lied to him. He’d know I’d been hiding here—that I’d been an accomplice, not a hostage, in the Financial District getaway. Sooner or later, because of the local murder, because Seawuit was Arthur’s assistant, Surgelato—or some other cop—would realize Arthur fit the gunman’s description. As terrible as I felt about Toni, I couldn’t risk leading the police to Arthur.

  Didn’t Edward see that?

  I quickly dried off and dressed. I left the bathroom ready to explain, plead, argue with Edward.

  He was nowhere in sight.

  “He’s gone,” Arthur reassured me. “He didn’t think it would be a very good idea for you to join him. He was going to tell them you went back to . . . did you ever say where you’re supposed to have come from?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, no doubt he’ll think of a place,” Arthur said. He bounced slightly, looking happy to be on an actual bed. “Do you know, it appears you have a black eye?”

  “Part of my disguise. Like Abbie Hoffman’s nose job.”

  I crawled into the other bunk, grateful Arthur didn’t press for details.

  It struck me that he wasn’t a difficult companion, even under the worst of circumstances. He kept saying he’d been lucky to have Billy Seawuit. But Seawuit, I thought, had been equally lucky to have Arthur.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I hadn’t slept in a real bed since leaving my own on Monday morning. But I didn’t sleep well. Nightmares—the kind that leave you drenched and gasping—woke me several times. The last of these, at dawn, left me fully awake.

  It had seemed so real. I’d been sitting behind a sewing machine stitching seams on blue curtains, while all around me women wept. It had seemed real because I’d once spent two months in the San Bruno jail. The matron had forced us to sew curtains all day, every day—I never learned why. I’d been shocked how much crying I’d heard there—heartbroken, constant weeping, some of it mine. On visiting day, mothers who’d seen their children were inconsolable.

  I would do anything not to go back. I just wasn’t sure I could think of any more to do.

  I’d been lying there about half an hour when I heard voices. A woman seemed to be answering questions fairly close to our cabin. A man’s deep rumble didn’t resolve itself into words. But the woman’s voice was sharper and higher. I heard her say, “No, nobody like that checked in,” and, “No, I’d remember her.”

  I went to the window. Unlike Edward’s place, this one had blinds. I parted the slats. A man in an olive uniform and a cop’s utility belt stood with his back to me. I supposed he was a sheriff. He was speaking to a woman with a dog on a leash. He was showing her something.

  My paranoia told me it was Toni Nelson’s photograph. He was looking for someone who’d seen her.

  I crept back to bed, heart pounding. The voices grew closer. Not half a minute later, I heard the woman say, “You aren’t planning to go knocking on cabin doors, are you? Our guests expect their privacy.”

  I supposed the cop agreed; he didn’t knock on mine.

  But it seemed likely he was searching for Toni. And that meant she hadn’t come home. All night.

  What did Pan do to her?

  I started shaking. How could I have been so stupid, so selfish, so shortsighted? I felt my fingers knot into my hair.

  I lay there a long time, watching the room grow brighter, listening to Arthur’s rhythmic wheezing.

  When the door opened a while later, I screamed.

  “It’s just me.” Edward shut it.

  Arthur sat up in bed, looking alarmed. “Ah, the cat,” he said.

  “I thought you were in court this morning.”

  Edward, in gray slacks and a sport jacket, nodded. He set a paper bag down on our tiny Formica table. “Continuance. I came straight up from the courthouse.”

  “The sheriff was here earlier. I heard him ask the resort manager about a missing person.”

  Edward squatted in front of my bed. His face was grim. “Good. They must be searching for Toni.”

  “How did Galen Nelson react? What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you saw this Pan guy drag her off.” He scowled. “The way he took it was way odd. He basically dismissed it; let me know he didn’t really believe us about Pan.”

  “But yesterday he apologized for not believing us.”

  “Bingo.” Edward shook his head. “And last night he was saying, no, don’t worry, Toni’s out late all the time. I stressed that you’d seen her get dragged away. You know, naked man runs off with your wife, you’re supposed to show a little concern.” He shrugged. “He says she crashes on her ex-husband’s couch once in a while. But he wouldn’t give the guy a call. Obviously did not want to talk to him.”

  “Did you find out where Stu lives?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. I went by there. The place isn’t far from the Nelsons’—a hell of a lot more run-down, though. It didn’t look like anyone had been there lately—garden parched, no trash in the can. I went by several times last night, finally took a look inside. Stopped there again this morning.”

  “You broke in?”

  “Well, yeah.” He ran his hand over his hair. “I had to make sure.”

  “But she wasn’t there.”

  “And neither was Stu. The place was tidied up, no perishables in the frig, empty space where the computer should be.”

  “Did you tell Nelson?”

  “I didn’t want to let on I’d been snooping. I just tried to shame him into calling. But he kept saying you didn’t seem reliable, that he didn’t believe you. Giving me attitude. This kind of thing.” Edward sucked in his cheeks, looking cold and guarded. I was shocked how much the expression changed his looks. “I reminded him I’d seen Pan, too.”

  “I don’t get it, Edward. He said he believed us about Pan. He apologized for not taking it as a warning.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. That photo of the kid and his lean-to, it made a huge difference. When we went to th
e cops about the break-in, Nelson practically clapped his hand over my mouth when I brought up Pan. He gave the cops Joel Baker’s picture and said—”

  “I don’t think he is Joel Baker. He probably just moved his camp for privacy. He says he’s—”

  “Whoever the hell he is. That’s who Nelson wanted to talk about—and he pretty much wanted to do all the talking.” Edward again ran a frustrated hand over his hair. “Last night, I started wondering if Nelson didn’t have Toni stashed somewhere. It was almost like he knew she was okay.” He raised his brows. “Or he absolutely didn’t care.”

  “Maybe he thinks she ran off with Stu.”

  “Or wishes she did. Or wants people to think so.”

  “I’ll bet Martin Late Rain did call him. I’ll bet Nelson lied.”

  “Well, I guess Nelson finally got worried if the sheriff’s looking for her. Unfortunately, they’ll be looking for you, too, Alice.”

  Arthur asked, rather timidly. “Why would they be looking for Willa?”

  “She witnessed a possible abduction. I assume they’ve got messages in to me by now, too. I phoned them last night.”

  “You called the sheriff?”

  “It didn’t look like Nelson was going to. So I went into town and did it. I told them they’d better call him right away about his wife because a friend of mine saw her get dragged off by a naked man. I didn’t go in person, anything like that. I didn’t tell them who I was or who my friend was. But I assume Nelson did. I thought they’d call me at home last night, but . . . Maybe Nelson didn’t give them my name, I don’t know. I don’t understand the guy—what a cold fish.”

  “You’re sure the police believed you—that they knew it was for real?”

  Maybe I should have come out of hiding. Maybe I’d further endangered Toni Nelson by not going to the police in person.

  “Well, the sheriff is looking for her,” Edward pointed out. “Unless there are two missing women on this mountain. Speaking of which, I’ve got something for you.”

  “What?”

  “A disguise, Watson.”

  Arthur seemed alarmed. “Another one? Why?”

  “The BC cops might be looking for Alice, wanting to hear what she saw. Interesting to see your astrological chart this week, Willa: ‘You will be widely sought after.’” He rose from his squat and walked to the table. “It’s time to lose that hair.” He held up the bag. “Clippers and hair dye. And some makeup for the eye. We ain’t leaving this cabin till you’re cuter than Abbie Hoffman.”

  “I’m not cutting my own hair, Edward.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “better let the prison matron do it for you.” He tossed me the bag. “Hurry. Checkout time’s eleven.”

  “We’re not staying here?”

  “Can’t. You have a way of making a place too hot for you, baby.” He seemed to think he was imitating James Cagney.

  An hour later, I had blond hair again; luckily, the chemical-burn look was being popularized by techies and slackers. I’d hacked it so the sides angled into the bangs.

  “From Prince Valiant to Friar Tuck,” Edward commented. I noticed he’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt. “All right. So we’re ready?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Into town. Santa Cruz.”

  “No!” Arthur shook his head. “We mustn’t leave the mountain.”

  “The hell we mustn’t. We’ve got sheriffs running around here. They’re going to be watching for Alice.”

  “Take Willa, then. But not me. I’m so close.”

  “Close to what?”

  “To knowing.”

  “Arthur.” Edward cast me a “you raised him wrong” look. “You can’t talk to anyone up here, anyway. Right?”

  “I can talk to the place,” he insisted. “It’s much less likely to lie than a person.”

  “So’s your subconscious, wouldn’t you say?”

  Of all the times for Edward to get flaky on me. “Where do you want to take—”

  “Right, Arthur?” Edward held up a hand to shush me. “If we could get into your brain and play a movie of everything you saw when that guy handed you a gun? All the stuff you consciously forgot. Wouldn’t it tell you something about who killed Billy? You know the two events have to be related.”

  Arthur merely blinked. “But I’d planned to go to Bowl Rock . . . ”

  “What are you talking about, Edward?” I demanded. “What’s this crap about Arthur’s subconscious?”

  “Yours, too. I know a guy who’s a hypnotist. He’s going to hypnotize you today. Tell us more about what happened in San Francisco.”

  I didn’t know how to feel about it. “Do you trust him? He won’t call the police?”

  “No, he won’t. I guarantee it.”

  Arthur looked uncomfortable. “I don’t believe the brain is that type of structure, Edward. I don’t believe consciousness is divided, you know, according to that Freudian paradigm. I don’t believe it’s like a suitcase, with a compartment for lingerie under the zipper. I see it as an access device, a way into an infinite number of realities.”

  “Well, but Arthur,” Edward’s patience seemed to be fraying. “None of that really matters. However it works, there are details you won’t remember except under hypnosis. And they might be helpful. You guys can’t be hiding out forever; we need a breakthrough. I’m just being practical.”

  Arthur continued to look troubled. “I’ve done a lot of journeying, Edward, shamanic journeying. I don’t want to let anyone into those places with me.”

  Edward looked like he suddenly got it. “Oh, no; you have my word. He’ll focus on what happened in San Francisco just before Wonder Woman here flew off with you.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “I’ll make sure he backs away from anything personal. Honest.”

  “The minute you enter someone else’s reality, even to retrieve a stray detail . . . ” Arthur put his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “I believe there’s something in criminal law called the ‘plain view doctrine.’” Arthur had spent time in prison because of it. He’d met my father there. “When the police come to your house for a legitimate purpose, and they see evidence of a crime in plain view—”

  “I’m familiar with the doctrine,” Edward assured him.

  In Arthur’s case, a policeman had seen a blowpipe containing a vision-quest snuff used in the Amazon. It led to a search that turned up LSD, which Arthur didn’t know had been made illegal.

  “I just don’t want to have to worry about it for real,” Edward continued.

  “I’m afraid we’ve made Edward an accessory after the fact,” I explained.

  Arthur looked horrified. “But all he did was hide us.”

  I watched Edward grin.

  “That’s the main definition of the crime, Arthur. Edward’s right. We have to do something.”

  “You don’t understand the importance of what I am doing.” Arthur’s tone was gentle.

  “It’s just that we were both freaked out Monday morning. Who knows what we might have noticed but not registered?”

  Having to back up Edward put me at a disadvantage. I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone poking through my memories, either.

  “When would we return here?”

  “How long will it take the hypnotist to do his number?” Edward redrafted the question, perhaps unwilling to promise we’d return. “Maybe an hour and a half, two hours.”

  I felt panic rise. In a college town like Santa Cruz, someone might recognize Arthur.

  “If they find Toni today, we can come back. Right, Edward?”

  “Yes, we’ll come back, won’t we?”

  Faced with my need for Toni to be all right and Arthur’s need to commune with the mountain, Edward looked like a cornered parent.

  And in fact, he said, “You kids will have to ask your mother about that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I was nervous. We were in a tiny office with rattan furniture and a wall of windows overlooki
ng a ravine. It had all the hallmarks of a therapist’s office: a desk with a laptop computer and a big-numbered digital clock, a chair opposite a couch, and Kleenex on every end table.

  I’d been in therapy a few months, stopping when it became unaffordable. I couldn’t decide if it had helped or not. I preferred not discussing my problems on a regular basis. On the other hand, they weren’t going away just because I was ignoring them.

  Now, sitting on this couch, Kleenex at hand, I felt a Pavlovian need to whine. Or maybe it was because Edward sat beside me.

  His therapist/hypnotist friend, an outdoorsy-looking man about our age, sat in the desk chair, which he’d rolled around to face the chair opposite the couch. He and Arthur sat almost knee to knee. He was holding up a device that flashed light, almost like a tiny strobe light. He also played an ocean-waves audiotape with, we were told, subliminal commands to relax.

  He had warned us, after Edward’s sotto-voce to pass the popcorn, not to say anything or make any noise, and to keep our movements to an absolute minimum. He usually preferred complete privacy, he told us pointedly.

  Edward’s response had been, “Yeah, yeah, Fred, let’s get on with it.”

  We’d been sitting there several minutes already, watching Arthur watch the light. It seemed to me his facial muscles had grown flaccid. Though he’d doubted he could be hypnotized, he looked pretty well zombified to me.

  But it was a little longer before Fred said, in that soothing therapist voice, “Can you hear me, Arthur?”

  Arthur’s face remained blank, his eyelids half-lowered. “Yes,” he replied.

  “Can you tell us your name and date of birth?”

  I was surprised to learn the two of us had the same birthday.

  “Can you tell us where you are now?”

  “With you,” he said dully.

  “And where are we both?”

  “In your office.”

  “Fine.” He clicked off the audiotape. “Now we’re going to go back into your recollections. Can you recall last Monday morning?”

  A slight hesitation. “Yes.”

  “Tell us about waking up that morning, Arthur.”