by Lia Matera
He ran up the stairs, too.
I watched the computer program loop back to the rattle in “Billy’s” hand. Soon the first drum would appear, morphing into the second.
Arthur had lied about his articles, perhaps lied about the autistic girl. And judging from Nelson’s reaction to this program, he was indeed sincere about TechnoShaman: It hadn’t been a mere excuse to bring Seawuit to his mentally ill wife.
I wasn’t sure what that meant.
Nelson returned with Edward, talking excitedly to him, holding a video camera in his hand.
“Arthur?” I mouthed to Edward.
He shrugged, nodding toward the window.
Arthur, I deduced, had run outside. He’d heard the chanting, too.
The voice in my daydream—on my “journey”?—had commanded me to follow Arthur.
I ran upstairs. I ran out the door. I could hear Edward shout my name.
Whatever the command meant, wherever it had come from—a subconscious observation, my future self—I had to do it. Whether it warned me he was guilty or directed me to protect him, I had to do it.
I had to follow Arthur.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I stood outside the Nelsons’ house, looking from side to side wishing I could see more. The night was overcast, windless, damp. Where the light from the open door faded, everything melted into deep gray and black.
If Arthur heard the chanting, I could guess where he was heading. He’d go to Bowl Rock. But I wasn’t sure I could find it in the dark.
I shivered with cold and fear. I didn’t want to be out in the woods again. I wanted to stay close to Edward, close to the Jeep. Close to safety.
But safety wasn’t worth much in and of itself. If I couldn’t clear Arthur—or, I was afraid, prove him guilty—I’d be nice and safe in a jail cell.
I set out. I took the first steps out of the light and toward the forest. Follow Arthur, try to find Bowl Rock; that’s all I could do.
I called his name. I didn’t care if Nelson heard. I didn’t care if he realized someone else was with us tonight, that the computer images weren’t triggered by scents or beta waves or shamanic magic.
I just didn’t want to lose Arthur. I started down Toni Nelson’s landscaped path, thinking it led in the right general direction.
I screamed Arthur’s name, over and over.
I ran along the trail until it became narrow and wooded.
I ran until I stumbled over him.
Sprawled on the mud and duff, I scrabbled and turned, kneeling close.
“Arthur?” I looked down at him. Even in the dark, I could make out his face a little.
I could tell his eyes were open. He whispered something to me. I leaned close to hear it.
He said, “Behind you.”
I wheeled in time to see her, huge and pale against the night: Toni Nelson, wearing a white shirt, her long hair wild, her arms raised high, hands together. She was brandishing a knife. I couldn’t actually see it, but nothing else would account for her posture—or Arthur’s.
I had only an instant to act. Still low to the ground, I dived for her ankles.
I hit her legs hard, sending her sprawling backward. She started trying to kick loose. From the feel of it, she wore jeans and boots.
I’d never felt more vulnerable. Every sense screamed to me she had a knife. Waves of dread warned me it could hit at any second. I lost courage, knowing I couldn’t fight a knife I couldn’t see.
Faintly, I heard Arthur: “Waaa ooo waaaa aaa neee.” Over and over, the merest whisper.
“Stop!” Toni screamed. “Stop it, stop it!” as if the nonsense syllables flayed her. “Stoooop!” She shrieked hysterically.
I scrambled away from her. I had to protect Arthur. I couldn’t let us both down.
I watched her get back on her feet. The chanting had distressed her and delayed her, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew what she had to lose.
She’d killed Billy Seawuit; everyone would realize that now. She’d killed Pan. Soon, the police would know that, too.
She stood out against the night like the ghost of Syrinx. She looked wild and voluptuous, her white shirt cinched at the waist by her fanny pack. She stood like a marble goddess, knife raised as if to avenge herself.
The woods were full of crazy people. And some of them lived in fancy houses.
“Don’t hurt him,” I pleaded. “He never did you any harm. We never meant to do you any harm!”
But she took a purposeful step forward. What we’d done didn’t matter. Toni Nelson lived in her own world just as surely as Pan had. Just as surely as any of us do.
Toni lived in a world where everyone was a liar. Her husband, even a mere acquaintance like me, might be chastised and derided for it. She lived in a world where no one would admit the alleged perfidy, further fueling her anger.
Her fury—indiscriminate and unconcealed—might have made her a suspect in the murder of her houseguest . . . if his employer hadn’t suddenly dropped out of sight.
I spread myself over Arthur. Looking up at Toni, I knew it would be useless to continue telling her we meant her no harm. Anything I said, she would dismiss as a lie; in her reality, as firmly entrenched as mine, everything seemed a lie. And it would be useless to brawl with her. I’d already learned the hard way that she’d pin me and pummel me. And I was painfully conscious that she was armed and I wasn’t.
Arthur was barely whispering his chant. The same chant I’d somehow heard—imagined I heard?—in the house.
Toni took another step forward. She seemed surreally visible because of her shirt, frighteningly white. Both arms were raised to poise the knife. I did a panicked inventory: I couldn’t use logic or brawn against her, and I had no weapon.
But I had something, a feeling I couldn’t put a name to. I’d carried it away from Bowl Rock today. It was a glimpse into an impossible potential.
So I warbled with Arthur, as faithfully as I could, “Waaa ooo aa waaa oo neee, waaa . . . ”
A shape leaped over us. I was certain for an instant that it was a mountain lion: The mountain lion from my dream, from my journey; my power animal.
But it turned out to be Galen Nelson.
He and Edward had chased out after me.
Nelson brought his wife down. Edward jumped over us, too, pulling the knife from her hand.
When Toni saw her husband, she said, “Hi, Galen,” as if they’d just met at the supermarket.
I heard sobbing, but I knew it came from Galen, not Toni.
“I think Arthur’s hurt!” I tugged at Edward’s pant leg.
My eyes were growing used to the dark. I could see Arthur’s sweater was torn, spread with blood.
Edward tossed the knife away as if it were hot. He looked over his shoulder.
Toni seemed docile now, nestled in Galen’s arms as he bent his head over hers and wept. But I heard her mutter, “You think you’re fooling me, but you’re not. I know what you’ve been doing. I know what you did to our company.”
Edward looked down at Arthur.
Arthur said, “Only a scratch.”
“Are you sure? It’s important I know.” Edward’s tone was urgent. “You’ve got to tell me the truth.”
“It’s not deep. Truly.”
“Then we need to get you out of here. Now.” He scrambled over to Nelson, speaking to him in a low voice.
A moment later, he was back, handing me the phone. “Call 911.” He picked up Arthur and staggered toward the house with him. “Don’t say anything about anything. Just tell them to come here. Talk in a deep voice.”
I trotted behind them. I did as I was told, though the emergency operator nagged me to be more specific.
To my surprise, Edward deposited Arthur in the back of the Jeep, checking his wound briefly, then slamming the door.
To me he said, “Hurry up.” He took the phone from me and tossed me the Jeep keys. “Get out of here. Go to Fred’s right now. He’ll take care of you. Then get the he
ll out of there before they trace the cell phone to him.”
I was dazed. “But, Edward—”
He gave me a push. “Do it. Go.”
I climbed into the driver’s seat, hoping I could handle a vehicle this large.
As we zoomed down Highway 9, I saw an ambulance and a police car pass me going the other way.
I didn’t understand how leaving would help. Galen and Toni had seen us, they knew us. I nearly signaled to the ambulance to stop, to tend to Arthur.
I tried to speak to him, to reassure myself he was all right. But my throat was too tight. I couldn’t say anything.
I drove as fast as I dared back to Fred’s condominium.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Fred waited for me on the street, carrying a medical bag.
He flung wide the backdoor of the Jeep, looking at Arthur, feeling his pulse.
I craned my neck, watching him pull open Arthur’s sweater and shirt. He exposed a long wound on the torso. It wasn’t bleeding much.
For a moment, I was hopeful. Then I checked Arthur’s face: What if he’d died? What if I’d let Arthur die?
I’d tried to keep him out of prison. I’d tried to help him. What if it had led to—
“God damn that brother of mine!” Fred sounded more annoyed than scared. “He’s no doctor—telling me it’s a scratch. How the hell would he know?”
He climbed into the back and slammed the door, hovering over Arthur as he opened the medical kit. “I could lose my license for this.” He began ministering. “What are you waiting for? Drive.”
I was shaking with anxiety, soaked with perspiration. “Drive?” I repeated incredulously.
“End of the block, go right. Take it easy. We do not want to get pulled over.”
I drove slowly, smelling Fred’s antiseptics, listening to his nonstop litany about how irresponsible Edward had always been, what a cocksure, irritating pain in the butt he still was.
“Take a right,” he said suddenly. “Not so sharp! You want to get us killed?”
His bedside manner left a lot to be desired.
“Okay, here. Turn into this driveway.”
I pulled close to a huge stucco house, painted and landscaped to look like silent-era Hollywood, with flowering vines and huge palms.
Fred jumped out of the car, striding to the front door. To my surprise, he inserted a key.
He came back and carried Arthur inside.
I closed the Jeep doors, timidly following Fred into the mansion.
He’d lain Arthur down in the middle of a marble foyer. He lifted away the gauze he’d applied to Arthur’s sunken, gray-haired chest.
A six- or seven-inch cut was exposed to view.
Fred rummaged through his medical bag, shooting me a furious look.
“You two should be taken out and shot.” For a moment, I thought he meant me and Arthur. “Edward knows better than to mess around with a wound like this! What if it had been serious? What if it had nicked an organ? He could be dead by now!”
Arthur opened his eyes. “Ah, Fred,” he said. “I forgot to tell you my pen name.”
“Pen name?” Fred looked bewildered.
“For my articles. While I was at Yale, the department asked me to take a pen name; protect its reputation for dull academe. But everyone knew it was me.” He smiled weakly. Then he looked around at all the marble. “My lord,” he said. “Are we in a library?”
“We’re at my ex-wife’s house. She’s in Cancún with the kids. How are you feeling?”
Arthur tucked his chin down, looking at the wound. “I was pulled back out of the way. Just as she struck, I was pulled clear. Almost clear.”
“What?” I hadn’t seen anyone there with him. Was he going to tell us he’d seen Billy Seawuit’s ghost?
“A young man wearing a hat,” Arthur explained.
“The one you saw in San Francisco?”
“I don’t recall the young man in San Francisco. Though you tell me I saw him.”
“You saw him twice,” I reminded him. “He almost certainly handed you the gun.”
“Well, that would explain why he ran away.” Arthur sighed, closing his eyes. “It’s not deep, is it? But it stings. Like a paper cut.”
“Which way did he run? Did he say anything?”
“Can’t this wait?” Fred fretted. He poured disinfectant over the wound.
“The man with the hat, Arthur?” I needed to know.
“Nelson identified him as an industrial spy; didn’t Edward tell us? That’s very likely who he is. Only I’d think he worked with Toni. Money deposited in Nelson’s account would be hers to spend, as well. Perhaps she was jealous of Nelson’s achievements. She had so few of her own.” Arthur reached for my hand. “We felt that, Billy and I, on our journey. A terrible boiling envy beneath our boat. We—”
“I need to stitch this,” Fred interrupted. “You’ll have to shut up.”
“Don’t bother; I don’t mind a scar,” Arthur objected. “No one will see it at my age, you know.”
Fred snorted. “When you get proclaimed doctor, I’ll let you make the decisions. In the meantime, don’t talk.”
Arthur flinched while Fred stitched the wound. I looked away, not wanting to watch.
An hour ago, I’d seen Toni Nelson in a white shirt, not the sweater of our previous encounter. The first time I’d met the young man in the lean-to, he’d been wearing a white shirt under a blue vest. Had Toni gone home and changed—or had she borrowed his clothes? Had she asked him to get rid of Pan’s body?
If so, they might be in league. They might have been doing business.
Perhaps ten minutes later, Fred put his needle and thread away. “It’s been a long time since I did one of these. You will have a scar,” he promised. “But at least the cut won’t reopen.”
I heard Arthur’s sigh of relief as Fred covered it with gauze.
“I’ve been thinking, Willa,” Arthur continued. “From what you’ve said, Toni accuses everyone of lying. And yet, it appears that she’s the liar. Isn’t there a psychiatric term for that, Fred?”
“You mean projection? Projecting some aspect of yourself onto others.”
“Yes, that’s right. Think what a dose of it poor Billy must have endured as her houseguest. I wonder if he didn’t suggest a healing journey.” Tears filled his eyes. “I’m afraid to think how she’d have reacted.”
Billy Seawuit had returned the sane spirit to many people as crazy as Toni, I would guess. Maybe he had described his beliefs and methods to her. Maybe he had offered to help.
But few people part willingly with their worldview, mad or not.
I pictured Billy sitting in Bowl Rock with her, commencing a healing journey. Maybe the flash of Toni’s knife had pulled him out of his trance. I pictured him leaping to his feet inside the rock.
Or maybe he’d been there alone, his mind’s eye focused on jade seas and evergreen islands. Maybe Toni had crept up on him.
Either way, the only witness had been Pan, standing in feral majesty in a field overlooking the rock. He’d seen Toni there, knife in hand.
“Her spy.” Arthur’s eyelids fluttered. He looked pale and exhausted. “Needed more information from her, perhaps—couldn’t let her be the only suspect, could he? Didn’t know about the new three-strikes law; or didn’t know I’d been arrested before. It’s not in character otherwise: He’s chivalrous. Kind to you when you needed it. Properly laid out poor Pan’s body. We should have known then. Understood from the gentlemanliness of the gesture.”
The gentlemanliness of framing an innocent man to cover up your industrial informant’s murder? There might be no honor among thieves, but there was arguably gallantry among spies.
It certainly looked like Galen Nelson was right. The man I’d known as Martin Late Rain must be Joel Baker. He’d paid Toni Nelson for her husband’s computer secrets. Toni had been jealous of Nelson’s success—of his “children,” whom she wanted to kill.
But Toni couldn’
t visit a competitor’s office without being conspicuous. She was too striking—and too ungoverned. It was safer to meet her in the woods. Maybe Joel Baker enjoyed camping in a lean-to. Maybe he’d hoped to attract Billy Seawuit and talk to him. Maybe it was just convenient in the short run.
“Chivalrous?” I tried to think the concept through.
Arthur’s eyes glinted as he winced. “The gun must have a significance, Willa. He’d heard that’s how Billy was killed. But there must have been some reason he thought handing it to me would take the brunt of the investigation off her, poor woman.”
“It must have been Toni Nelson’s gun. Nelson mentioned something of hers being missing from the basement; he thought it might be somewhere else. But I’ll bet it was a gun. Joel Baker must have seen it when he was looking at TechnoShaman. He probably took it last weekend, after hearing Billy was shot. Either he assumed Toni killed him or she admitted something.”
“Something but not everything. Not her use of a knife. The proverbial ‘a little information.’”
“Then he must have gone to your hotel—I suppose Billy told Toni you were there; he wouldn’t know not to. Baker followed you out Monday morning. He thought Toni shot Billy, so he gave her gun to you, Arthur.”
“To protect her.” There was a hint of admiration in his tone.
“Can we please discuss this tomorrow, people?” Fred sounded highly exasperated. He was taping the thick pad of gauze over Arthur’s cut.
“If I hadn’t thrown the gun away—”
Fred and Arthur interrupted simultaneously.
“No more!” Fred insisted.
“Ironic,” Arthur agreed.
Had Arthur been arrested with the gun, it might have linked Toni Nelson to a crime for which she wouldn’t otherwise have been a suspect. And perhaps the man who’d called himself Pan would be alive now.
Arthur reached out and squeezed my hand.
An hour later, assured that Arthur was all right and sleeping peacefully, Fred left.
He didn’t know whether Edward had stayed with the Nelsons or fled. He didn’t know what, if anything, Edward planned to do about the fact that 911 had recorded the cell phone’s number. But Fred wanted to be home, and ostensibly in bed, if the police came by.
