Scared Stiff

by Laura Baumbach, William Maltese, Josh Lanyon

"Is that what you want me to tell Oliver?"

  It took a little effort, but I got a grip on myself. “No, of course I want to see whatever there is to see. What time should I be there?"

  "They're breaking ground Saturday morning.” He added, like he was reading a script, “You're welcome to come up Friday evening."

  "Okay. I'll see y—tell Oliver I'll see him Saturday morning."

  Silence. “Okay,” said Sam.

  Another silence. It was torture.

  I opened my mouth, but he said, “Drive safe,” and hung up.

  * * * *

  The sun was shining when I pulled up at Berkeley House on Saturday morning. I could smell the brine and eucalyptus on the breeze. There were a couple of trucks parked in the clearing. Voices and the unmistakable gravelly pound of distant jackhammers echoed from inside the house.

  I slammed my car door and started walking, but stopped at the sound of someone calling my name.

  Oliver waved to me from the sunken garden. Thaddeus was with him—and the contentment on his face was almost painful to see.

  "Hello, dear boy,” Oliver greeted, as I came down the mossy steps to meet them. “Have you seen Sam?"

  That answered one question; I'd been wondering if Sam would be around for the festivities. I replied, “I just got here."

  "He's probably inside overseeing the slaves. You'd better go talk to him. He has some bad news for you."

  "In that case I can't wait to see him."

  Oliver chuckled, exchanging a knowing glance with Thaddeus, who chuckled right back. I never realized how much alike they sounded.

  I hiked up to the house, ignoring the anxiety spiraling through my guts. I wasn't sure if I was more uneasy at the thought of facing Sam or the cellar again, but either way, the best thing was to get it over with.

  The boards blocking the front door had been removed and thick brick-colored hoses ran though the doorway and disappeared inside the structure. I stepped over the hoses, following them to the dining room.

  It was amazing how the light and noise and bustle diffused the atmosphere. Sam stepped through a side door and spotted me. It seemed to me that he hesitated for an instant. Then he pointed the way I'd come and yelled over the sound of the drills and shattering stone and mortar, “Let's go outside."

  I nodded, turned and preceded him back out. The sunlight and fresh air were a relief. I hadn't realized how much I didn't want to go back inside.

  And yet ... it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't felt that sick taint flowing from the cellar.

  Sam took my upper arm, surprising me, drawing me to a halt. “I wanted to tell you before you found out some other way. Mason Corwin's been arrested for burglary."

  "You're kidding me."

  He let go of my arm. “No. He turned up on that video tape you recorded Sunday night. Him and another local man."

  "Mason knocked me out and threw me in the cellar?"

  "Mike Klinger, the other guy, knocked you out. But Mason let Klinger put you in the cellar, which was pretty stupid, since I'd never have started poking around the house if they'd just dumped you in the garden."

  I thought this over. I'd wondered what happened to the second video tape. Confiscated as evidence, apparently.

  I said, “He must have found out about the hidden room by reading through Berkeley's private papers."

  "That's right.” His green eyes were approving—and I was sorry to note how much that mattered to me. “He pretty much admitted everything when the sheriffs questioned him. Anyway."

  I shrugged. I was sorry about Mason, but ... A little maliciously, I said, “He'd suggested that maybe you were involved."

  Sam snorted. “Did he?"

  "He said you were on suspension because of some missing evidence in a case."

  Sam's face hardened. “Small towns. Yeah, that's true. But it's ancient history now. I was cleared and I've been reinstated. I start back at work next Monday."

  "Congratulations."

  "Yeah.” He gave me a funny look from under his heavy brows. Reluctantly, he asked, “Are you ... pretty upset about Corwin?"

  "Me?"

  "Yeah."

  "No."

  "Because I thought maybe..."

  "While I was sleeping with you?” I interrupted, offended.

  To my surprise, he grinned. “Not so much sleeping."

  "Not so much.” I turned my profile to him, stared at the house. The sounds of the drills seemed to have stopped.

  He said quietly, “I don't like being lied to. I don't like the idea of being manipulated."

  "Manipulated?” My voice rose. His hand closed around my arm again, but the funny thing, I was relieved by that hard grip. Relieved that he seemed to have trouble keeping his hands off me.

  "Shhh.” He nodded towards the garden where Oliver and Thaddeus seemed to be in deep conversation by an overgrown hedge. “I may look like a dumb ox, but I'm not.” He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes.

  "If you think I was manipulating you, you're dumber than I thought you were,” I said.

  "That could be,” Sam said evenly.

  Oliver was laughing. His voice drifted up from the garden. I watched Thaddeus watching Oliver, and even from this distance I could see the hunger and longing on his face. It made me sad.

  And I thought I had an inkling where this particular insecurity of Sam's sprang from. He'd had had a lifetime of seeing Oliver operate. And Oliver was quite an operator.

  "Is that back on again?” I asked.

  "Apparently."

  "How long is Oliver home for?” I asked.

  "He says for good.” Sam watched the two older men. “Apparently Thad scared him this last time. We'll see."

  I nodded. I could feel Sam watching me. I said finally, “I'm sorry I lied to you. It didn't seem like a big deal at first, and then when it was, I didn't know how to get out of it. There was no manipulation. I ... liked you. A lot. I mean, after I got used to the fact that you can be a real jerk."

  He didn't smile as he drew me forward. His mouth brushed mine lightly, and something tight and angry in me relaxed. I kissed him back, and for a moment there was nothing and no one else.

  "I realize I'm not exactly your type,” he said abruptly. “Guys like me generally don't have a chance with guys like you."

  "Is this your unique lead in to asking me out?"

  "Yes."

  One of the workmen stuck his head through the window. “Hey, you better get in here,” he said to Sam. “There's something under this floor all right. It looks like a skeleton. Or maybe two."

  Sam's eyes met mine. “Congratulations, professor."

  "Kind of gives you a dim view of romance, doesn't it?” I remarked.

  He said quite seriously, “I'm willing to take a chance. If you are."

  "Okay,” I said. “Just this once."

  END

  Sarah Black

  Wild Onions

  The year was 1882, and the last of the native tribes had dropped to their knees and slipped on their yokes under the boots and guns of the US Cavalry. The Blackfoot were the last, and then the buffalo hunt failed. The vast plains were barren and empty, and the people began to starve. Desperation spread like poison across the land. Evil men, seeing their chance, fed on the hunger, ate the clean hearts of the people. The blood that was spilled in 1882 has not been avenged today. The ghosts are waiting for someone to set them free.

  Robert drove his old pickup down the rutted gravel road to Val's cabin. No, it's my cabin now, he reminded himself. He either needed to take this last gift, hold it to his heart and let it be his, like Val intended, or he needed to sell it and be done with it. Be done with him.

  Don't run away from this, Robert. Val's voice in his head.

  Robert parked the truck and climbed out, pulling his stiff leg carefully after him and reaching across the seat for the cane. Driving made his leg stiffen up worse than anything. “Val, I feel like a broken old man,” he said. He straightened up, looked
around.

  The cabin was ancient and square, made from huge old timbers black with age. The chimney was built out of flagstone and covered nearly the whole of the end wall. The cabin sat in a clearing on the Salmon River, in the wild mountain country of western Idaho, and the grass was ankle deep, bright green with dandelions and tiny purple and yellow wildflowers scattered everywhere. The big oak that Val had always claimed was in a struggle to destroy the septic tank appeared beautifully cool green and shady, like always. Robert pushed open the front door. He'd have to run some water in the sink, see if the tap root had won that battle.

  The dust floated lazy in the afternoon light, dappled on the cabin floor. The cabin had been built a hundred and thirty years ago. It was one big room with a double bed in the corner close to the fireplace, an old wooden chifferobe in place of a closet, two leather easy chairs and a battered table made out of tiger oak, the top three inches thick. The kitchen had been added later, and it was Spartan—a deep, double sink, tiny gas stove, old white ice box with a rounded top that wasn't any taller than a child. A small bathroom was attached, also spare and plain, but everything worked and that was enough.

  Robert pushed open the back door, and he could smell the river on the wind. The river was high, and the bubbling, happy sound of the Salmon River flowing over rocks brought a smile to his face for the first time in ... in a long time. He'd missed the river, missed standing out in the icy water playing with his fishing pole until his feet turned blue with cold. He never caught anything, not once, and Val said that was because the fish could tell he was a pussy.

  He'd missed the river and he'd missed the cabin and he'd missed Val, but he was better now. The familiar pang rolled through his chest, squeezing his ribs like a fist closing, yearning and loss. He'd felt it so often the first few months after the accident that he decided he had heart disease, and put himself on aspirin and fish oil tablets. But it was getting better, and he was getting better. Now the feeling was as familiar as an old friend. Time, that thing about time was true, whether you wanted it to be or not.

  Robert went back out to the truck, started hauling in the cleaning supplies. Lime Windex and a roll of paper towels, a broom and dustpan, Val's old lambswool duster, and some lemon Ajax and a mop for the flagstone floor. He wasn't really sure how you were supposed to clean flagstone, but the cabin had been left for a year untouched, and Robert thought some hot water and Ajax in a bucket was probably in order.

  Robert scrubbed for a couple of hours, and when his leg started to hurt he sat down in one of the old leather easy chairs, rested for a bit. He left the mantle for last. He ran the duster over the wood, then picked up the heavy silver picture frame. It was almost black with tarnish, but the photo inside was as clear as the day it had been taken—here, at the cabin, two years ago. They were laughing, and Val had his arm around Robert's waist. Robert's hair was longer then, silver and wavy, almost down to his shoulders. He had forgotten he used to keep it that long. They were holding black helmets, standing next to the new Harley.

  They had both been so happy that day. He remembered the way the excitement had bubbled up in his chest, the first road trip on the new motorcycle. The Harley was a joy to ride, built for touring the backroads, and he and Val had ridden all over the West, feeling free as a couple of hawks soaring on the warm updrafts. But mostly they had come up here to the cabin. They would come Friday after work, fish, eat the fish Val caught, and then make love on that bed in the corner like a couple of tired old guys. Half the time they would fall asleep in the middle of the deal, legs tangled together, hands moving over each other slower and slower. “I think I got gyped,” Val would say, his breath warm on Robert's neck.

  "Remind me later I owe you one,” and Robert would drift off to sleep in Val's arms, under a double wedding ring quilt that Val said was as old as the cabin.

  Robert used a paper towel and the Lime Windex to clean the tarnish off the silver picture frame. When he was done, he set it back on the mantle and looked around at the cabin. The familiar gray feeling sat down on his shoulders and wouldn't move. What was there to do now? As long as he had things to do, he was okay. But the empty space, his thinking time, that was a killer. Too much to worry about. He looked across the kitchen at the bottle of bourbon he'd brought along. Then he went into the bathroom, bent over and splashed cold water on his face. Robert stared at an old man in the mirror. He'd been gray since he was young, in his twenties, and he'd never really minded. His eyes were a peculiar shade of silver gray, and with his silver hair and black brows, he'd gotten as many second looks as he could want. Now he looked like an old man who needed a shave. There were new furrows between his eyes, and lines of pain next to his mouth. He turned away and dried his face. Fuck it.

  Bourbon for supper; that was easy, then he got out his journal, sat outside on the porch and stared out over the river.

  Hey, baby. The cabin looks good cleaned up. Everything seems to be holding together. The septic tank is still in one piece. I don't know about the chimney. I'll get it swept before autumn. The river looks the same, the water's high, and that field still smells like wild onions.

  He stared down at the page, his pen tapping the paper, leaving a tiny smudge of ink.

  Val, I'm fine. I don't want you to worry. The leg's stiff and it makes the end of the day a misery when I've been on my feet too much, or when I have to drive. But it's bearable. It's been a bad year, Val. I came out here to see if I could get the cabin ready to sell, because our hospital bills, yours and mine, they're going to bankrupt me. And that's not the only thing. I've always been a photographer. I can't even imagine doing anything else. But I'm not very quick on my feet anymore. And that's not going to get any better. The leg's as good as it's going to get, and I'm 46 now. The paper, they're okay with it, they held the job while I was in the hospital, and they wouldn't fire me for being slow, but there are just so many really young and eager photags beating down the door.

  But Val—I can't sell your cabin. Our cabin. I'll have to think of another way. Robert could feel the weight of that decision lifting off his shoulders for the first time in months. Good. That was decided. He'd keep the cabin for as long as he possibly could. He'd forgotten what it felt like, coming out here. How it felt to be at the cabin, at the river.

  Val, you would have laughed today to see the kid that tried to pick me up. He was young, probably twenty-five, sitting outside Brennan's General Store eating a pint of strawberries. He gave me a look, you know, asked me if I wanted to party. I just laughed at him and shook my head. He was so improbable. I gave him a ride to the next big truck stop. He was sitting on a big green rucksack, but he didn't look like a Marine on the way home from boot camp.

  Boys don't look at me like that much anymore, Val. Not like you always did. They see the cane and the limp and the gray hair and think, old man alert. I wonder, though, when you stop missing it. You spoiled me for love, for a loving touch. I don't want anyone but you, but I still want you all the time. I may not think of you every day, but I think of you every night, when I slide between our sheets. I always think, hey, Val, rub my hip a little bit, right there where it hurts. I wish you would come be with me tonight. You know I hate to sleep alone. Robert put the pen and journal down. Enough. Enough now.

  He looked over to the corner of the porch. Their old fishing poles were leaning against the screen. He carried them back to his chair, started untangling the nylon fishing line. Val's pole was for serious fishermen, a supple thin Orvis fly rod with a reel full of braided yellow nylon. His pole was cheap, from Wal-Mart, with a soft cork handle and a reel with a sticky thumb button. Val laughed when he saw it, said it was for fishing at reservoirs.

  He put Val's pole back in the corner, carried his down the slope to the river bank. It took him a little while to find his balance again. He didn't try to get into the water. That would probably be too much for his shaky leg. But after a few casts he got his rhythm again, let the weight fly out low over the water.

  The
re was a splash a bit upriver, and a moment later a young man appeared, walking down the middle of the shallow river from rock to rock in green hip waders, dressed in the dark green uniform of Fish and Wildlife. He had a fishing pole over his shoulder and a woven oak creel. From the weight of it on his shoulder, Robert could see he'd had some luck. He was Indian, Blackfoot, maybe, and his long hair was tied back at his collar. He raised a hand in greeting.

  Robert nodded back. “Evening.” He reeled in his line, and the man watched the red and white bobber bouncing across the water in front of him.

  The man's face was impassive, but he blinked a couple of times when he watched the line come out of the water, bobber, lead weight, no hook. No fish. “I guess I don't need to ask you if you have a fishing license,” the man said. “Since you aren't really fishing."

  Robert nodded to the creel over the man's shoulder. “Looks like you've had some luck."

  The man eased the basket off his shoulder, dipped it down into the icy river water. “Yes, I sure did.” He slapped the Fish and Wildlife patch on his uniform shirt. “Course, I don't need no stinkin’ license! Just another example of the generalized corruption of the Federal Government."

  Robert grinned at him. “Wonder how many times you hear that in the course of a week? We must be in Idaho! I'm Robert Mitchell."

  The man reached for his hand and they shook. “I'm Cody Calling Eagle. So,” he nodded toward the fishing pole in Robert's hand, “what's with this? You have a no-hook fishing technique? You're not a vegetarian, are you? One of those guys who think it's cruel to eat the poor fish?"

  Robert shook his head. “I just don't know how to do it. Good fishermen have tried to teach me, but it didn't stick."

  Cody was looking at him with interest now, his warm, dark eyes moving over Robert's face in a way that was almost unfamiliar, it had been so long. And Robert found himself wondering if this guy might be a friend. The possibility of a new friend, that was a good feeling.

  "I knew Val. My grandfather, he was the silversmith.” Cody's eyes were on the heavy silver and turquoise cuff on Robert's wrist. “He made your cuff. I remember watching him when he set the turquoise. I sure was sorry to hear about the accident.” He cleared his throat. “You don't know how to fish, but do you know what to do with a nice piece of speckled trout in a frying pan?"