Dangerous Thing

by Lanyon, Josh

  We had gone a mile down the dirt road when I said, “That was stupid. The thing I said at dinner.”

  He said dryly, “Which stupid thing was that?”

  Maybe I deserved that. I said, “About generating bodies.”

  Jake grunted which could have signified “you’re forgiven” or “fuck off.” After a moment he said, “But I wish you hadn’t let it out that I was a cop.”

  “Then you agree that something is going on?”

  “No. I find it … socially awkward.”

  We landed in a pothole and I muttered as though my suspension had taken the hit.

  “Were you ever a Boy Scout?” Jake inquired, shifting gears.

  “No.”

  “Your mother, I suppose.”

  Jake has never forgiven my mother for trying to get him fired during his investigation of me. They are neither of them the forgiving kind.

  “Were you? A Boy Scout, I mean.”

  “Hell, I was an Eagle Scout.”

  “Figures.”

  It was then, like straight out of The X-Files — or one of Melissa’s ghost stories — that something flew out of the darkness. Something with burning yellow eyes and outstretched claws, shrieking down upon us.

  There was a thud that should have broken the windshield. I had a wild impression of horns, a razor-sharp beak and those glowing eyes.

  “Shit!” Jake swerved hard.

  The Bronco bumped off the road. Jake tried to compensate but we slammed down in a rut, our heads grazing the ceiling. As though locked on train tracks we headed straight for a massive oak and the open sky beyond. Jake stood on the brakes.

  Instinctively I threw my arm up so I don’t know how the hell we missed the tree, but we scraped by, literally, twigs and branches scratching the sides and chassis of the Bronco. I banged hard against the side of the door despite the seat belts, and my arm went numb.

  The next instant the Bronco clambered back onto the road, tires spinning and spitting gravel. Jake cut the engine. We were both breathing hard. He turned on the cab light.

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure?” His eyes looked black in the overhead light.

  I nodded, rubbing feeling back into my arm. “Jesus, that was some driving, Jake. I thought we were going over the edge for sure.”

  He opened his door and got out, then walked back toward where we had hit whatever it was.

  I unsnapped my seat belt and followed.

  When I caught him up Jake was on one knee in the road, an owl flung out before him. It looked huge, the wingspan nearly six feet. It was still quivering.

  “God damn it,” Jake was saying. He spoke slowly as though in pain. “God damn it to hell. I couldn’t miss it.”

  “It flew straight at the car. It’s a wonder it didn’t break the windshield.”

  “It was beautiful.”

  It was beautiful. The pale feathers were so perfect they looked hand-painted. I saw the tufts that gave the illusion of horns. The fierce eyes were already filming over.

  I put my hand on Jake’s shoulder, squeezed. He made no move.

  I stared up. The mist turned the sky white behind the pines. All the world seemed blanketed in soft white silence. An owl, I thought. Age-old harbinger of darkness and death. In Native American lore the owl is a bird of wisdom and divination — and still they are feared as omens of doom.

  A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

  One thing for damn sure, in no myth or legend in the world does killing one bring good luck.

  Jake shook his head as though clearing it and said, “Christ, what a shame to leave it out here for the scavengers. It ought to be stuffed or mounted, donated to some museum.”

  I said slowly, “We can put it in the Bronco if you want. Tomorrow I’ll try to find someone. A taxidermist.”

  He was silent. At last he shook his head and rose. “It’s done,” he said. “Forget it.”

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning Jake rose at the crack of dawn to go fishing. I declined his invitation, burrowing under my pillow and telling him I was going to buckle down and work on Death for a Deadly Deed.

  At a more civilized hour I drove Jake’s Acura into Basking. But before I left the ranch I placed a call to my ex-lover Mel, who happens to teach film studies at UC Berkeley.

  Lucking out, I caught Mel in his office between classes. We chatted briefly and then I asked my favor: What did he know about Dr. Daniel Shoup? “Mid-fifties, favors safari hats and Gestapo boots.”

  Mel thought it over and then laughed that husky laugh I remembered so well. “Like Stewart Granger in King Solomon’s Mines?”

  I knew he would think of that. “Or Green Fire.”

  That evoked memories of late nights cuddled on the couch, eating hot buttered popcorn and laughing our asses off at the worst movies in the world. Mel must have remembered too. His voice grew warmer.

  “What did you want to know? He’s kind of an odd ball, even for Berkeley.”

  “I’m not sure. The good stuff. Rumors, gossip, innuendo.”

  “You know, there is a rumor connected with him. The kids call him Indiana Bones, by the way.”

  “Bless their hormone-addled hearts.”

  “Yes. Well, he came to us from the British Museum — at least, that’s what everyone thought. It turns out the British Museum never heard of him.”

  “Seriously?”

  “That’s the word on campus.”

  “How reliable is the word?”

  Another husky laugh. “Take it with a grain of salt. Although, the good doctor and the university did part ways a couple of months ago.”

  Aha!

  “What’s your interest?” Mel asked curiously.

  I wanted to avoid getting into that. Funny to think he was the guy I used to tell everything to. Maybe that was the problem: I’d shared too much.

  “I ran into him a few days ago. I’m vacationing in Basking.”

  “You’re vacationing?” His laugh was disbelieving and a little tart. “And at the legendary ranch?”

  “Things change.”

  “They do.” He sounded oddly regretful.

  I changed the subject back to Shoup, but though I pressed for details, Mel had little useful to add. He pointed out that the archeology department is a long way from film studies. Just as Berkeley is a long way from Los Angeles.

  Before I rang off, he asked, “Are you taking care of yourself, Adrien?”

  Kind of a sore subject between us. “Of course. Always.”

  “Are you —? Have you —?”

  Found someone? “Sort of,” I said. “I’m involved.” It’s involved. “Are you still with Phil?”

  “Paul,” Mel corrected gently.

  “Right. The former student.”

  “Former grad student. And no. We split up. About six weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” No, I wasn’t. I never was a good loser.

  * * * * *

  After hours of scattergun research I located a number of articles on the Miwok, including a couple that dealt with the creation legends. The People’s tradition was of a world formed by half-human, half-animal spirit beings with supernatural powers. Confirming Melissa’s tale, after Coyote-man made the world he argued with Lizard-man over whether The People would have fingers or paws. But I could find nothing about a first race of man called the Guardian born with claws and a job description that included protecting the spirit world entrance from mortal man. Nowhere did I find any mention of “The Devouring.”

  Which didn’t necessarily prove a thing. The library was small and its resources were limited. I was trying to verify an esoteric point of Indian legend.

  Still, it was interesting.

  Another fact I found interesting if not useful: the Kuksu, whose mysterious art decorated the rocks above Spaniard’s Hollow, was a secret society of the Miwok tribe. Melissa was a member of the Miwok tribe.

  Now and then as I looked up from my reading
I caught the gaze of a rather odd little man sitting on the opposite side of the railings. It was hard not to catch his gaze because he appeared to be glaring at me.

  After the third time, I gathered up my books and notes and moved to the other side of the library. Despite what Jake thinks, I really don’t look for trouble. Soon I was immersed once more in the story of the Chinese in California. I began to understand Abraham Royale’s dilemma as I read of the anti-Chinese movement and the account of the “Caucasian Leagues.”

  Royale had married for money, but he had also desired status, and his second-class citizen bride was a liability there. Had he returned the dowry with the wife? I doubted it. What had become of her, this long dead woman? My understanding of Chinese culture was based on movies mostly, but I figured she must have been disgraced. What were the options of a “ruined” nineteenth-century woman — let alone a nineteenth-century Chinese woman? Despite their part in building the railroads and their willingness to take on the jobs no one else wanted, the Chinese had been despised, even hated. The anti-Chinese movement culminated in 1880 with a proposed amendment to the California Constitution that would have prohibited employment of Chinese immigrants.

  Capitalism came to their rescue.

  The battle rages eternal, though the race, religion, gender or sexual orientation of those discriminated against changes regularly. Maybe man’s need for a scapegoat is genetically programmed into him.

  As I mulled over this notion, I glanced from my book to find the old man staring at me between shelves of the nearest bookcase. I kid you not, there was dust on the shoulders of his black ... what was that, frock coat? The latest from the Goodwill Signature Line?

  I looked hastily down at the printed page. What next? Could this possibly have anything to do with what was happening in Spaniard’s Hollow? I mean, the old guy looked like he belonged in the 1800s, but I kind of doubted he was a physical manifestation of a guardian spirit. Despite the dust.

  Eventually he wandered away and I packed up my research materials and headed to the front desk only to find him there before me. Cravenly, I detoured to the Featured Selection shelf, trying to look inconspicuous. I wasn’t more than a few feet away so I knew I was not imagining it when I heard the man in black mutter something to the librarian about “avowed homosexuals.”

  Though I don’t recall taking my vows, my ears pricked up. I randomly pulled a book from the nearest shelf: it was about harnessing the electrical power of your heart. The idea was that by concentrating on positive thoughts, one could actually alter the heart’s rhythm, which would allow one to stay calm, cool and collected “even in the midst of chaos.” That sounded promising. I could try putting it into effect immediately.

  “ ... filthy sodomites ... the wrath of God ... the Day of Judgment ...” The little man’s voice rose and then fell as the librarian made shushing motions.

  More hissing. More shushing.

  Rumplestiltskin finally took himself off with one final razing look my way.

  The librarian’s cheeks were as pink as the rhinestones in her glasses when I reached the counter. I could see she was trying to decide whether or not ignoring the incident was the most tactful thing to do.

  A piece of advice passed on from my social butterfly mammy: when in doubt, smile. I smiled tentatively. The librarian’s cheeks grew pinker still.

  “I must apologize,” she said stiffly, stamping the inside covers of each book in my stack. “The Reverend is a — an arch conservative.” I watched her small fist punching book after book, like an android running amuck.

  “Reverend?”

  “The Reverend John Howdy.”

  “What denomination?”

  “I believe he earned his doctorate of divinity through a correspondence school.”

  Church of the Sacred Stamp?

  * * * * *

  I took my books, dropped them off in the car, and hastened around the corner to Royale House where I found Melissa organizing a rack of picture postcards.

  “You just missed Kevin,” she informed me.

  “That so? I thought I’d take the tour.”

  “It’s your three dollars.”

  I paid my three dollars, lingering for a time before the glass case displaying the first Mrs. Royale’s traditional wedding headdress and gown. The fabulous silk robes embroidered in scarlet and gold were doll-sized — she couldn’t have stood over four feet tall. How old had she been? Seventeen? Sixteen? Younger?

  I checked out Royale’s master bedroom which had a gigantic canopy bed that must have seemed like a boat to China Doll. There were sepia photos in silver frames on the bureau. I stepped over the velvet-covered restraints to get a closer look. I recognized one from my copy of Histories of Basking Township: Royale and his partner in the Red Rover mine, Barnabas Salt. Another photograph showed Royale formally posed with a blonde woman in a stiff-collar dress. The second wife? They both stood rigidly as all folks in those old tintypes do; it would be a mistake to read anything into their body language. On the other hand, she had split with the smithy before the wedding cake was stale.

  I stepped back over the velvet ropes. He had done all right for himself, had Royale, by nineteenth-century standards. He had a mansion on the hill full of furniture that must have cost a fortune in his day, let alone in mine. There were Aubusson rugs and crystal chandeliers. At night he had rested his head on Irish linen, and in the morning he had breakfasted on Wedgwood.

  I strolled down the hall. In Royale’s study there was a collection of baskets in assorted shapes and sizes woven by Miwok and Pomo women. Some were decorated with feathers, some were tall and closely knit for food storage. Designs in the basket weave symbolized arrow points or deer feet or rattlesnake markings. The collection might not have existed in Royale’s day, the beautiful and primitive baskets possibly donated to the museum in the years following Royale’s death.

  The same could be true of the “Indian Life” sketches by Archibald Basking decorating the walls. More Miwoks? I examined ink sketches of conical Indian houses; scroungy children playing with scroungy dogs; Indian women weaving baskets. A third drawing over the fireplace caught my attention: this depicted a tribal dance. Warriors gyrated around a bonfire, a few of the dancers dressed in animal skins complete with the heads of their former owners: a bear, a white deer with antlers, a wolf.

  I looked for the title. It read, Medicine Dance.

  I went downstairs and located Melissa.

  “Can I buy you lunch?”

  She smirked. “Eat your heart out, Kevin.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Kevin’s got the hots for you, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  I removed one of the faded color brochures from the spinning rack. “That picture in the upstairs study. The one titled Medicine Dance. Is that supposed to depict one of the Kuksu rituals?”

  The smile died out of her dark eyes. “What do you know about the Kuksu?”

  “Just what I’ve read.”

  “There’s not much written.”

  “But I’m a voracious reader. Speaking of voracious … lunch?”

  Reluctantly Melissa laughed.

  We found a coffeehouse down the street. Marnie Starr was our waitress. She did a double take when she spotted me and nearly spilled coffee on a customer, but by the time she reached our table she had regained her composure.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Fine. The special is meatloaf.” She scratched at her pad with her pencil.

  “Any word from Ted?”

  “No.” She looked up then, scowled. “There’s a warrant out for his arrest, thanks to you.”

  “I can’t take all the credit. Ted did his share.”

  Marnie gave me a long steady look like she was lining me up in her sights. She turned on her heel.

  When she was out of earshot Melissa queried, “Is this a writer’s curiosity?”

  “What’s that?”

  “All these questions.”

  “I’m jus
t making conversation.”

  “Come on, I know you didn’t ask me to lunch because you’re interested in me. Are you researching a book?”

  “How did you know I was a writer?”

  “That’s a silly question. There are no secrets in a small town. Everybody knows everything about you.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  She shrugged. “Small towns, small minds. Let’s just say you’re something new to talk about.”

  Trying to analyze her expression, I said, “I admit I’m curious about things I’ve heard from Kevin. I feel responsible for anything that happens in Spaniard’s Hollow.”

  Melissa did a creditable impression of the glowering face on a totem pole, finally pronouncing, “You cannot own the land. The land owns you.”

  “Are you referring to property taxes or something more spiritual?”

  Marnie returned with our plates before Melissa could elucidate. I salted my french fries and Melissa checked under her rye bread as though expecting a bomb.

  The tuna melt turned out to be the best I’d ever had in my life — either that or I was hungrier than usual. Melissa tore into her meal as though I’d discovered her starving on the plains. I’d have put money on her in an eat-off against Jake.

  Returning with a pot of coffee, Marnie topped off our cups. She seemed to linger over her task. Eavesdropping?

  When at last she was out of earshot Melissa said, “Nobody wants to admit it, but something’s wrong at the site. Maybe there’s a simple explanation, but Kevin’s not the only one who’s heard things and seen things. I have too.”

  “Like chanting? Tell me about that.”

  “I’ve heard it. It could have come from the wind through the caves on the mountain, but I’ll tell you, it raised the hair on the back of my neck and I’m not easily spooked.”

  “What happened to Kevin’s dog?”

  “Blue? Coyotes, I guess.”

  “Is that what you think? Kevin said the dog was torn to pieces.”

  Melissa said slowly, “I’ll tell you what I think. I think somebody doesn’t want the past disturbed.”

  “Are we talking supernatural somebodies or somebody from around here?”