Nine Lives Last Forever

by Rebecca M. Hale

  “Don’t fall in,” she’d called out before I exited the van.

  With a grimace, I slung a small duffle bag carrying Monty’s snorkel apparatus across my shoulders and strode purposefully toward the trailhead.

  A slight whisper of a breeze lifted up off of the ocean, dancing with my hair as I began the descent. The surrounding carpet of succulents shimmered a brilliant emerald green as the plants’ delicate green fingers curled up from the hillside.

  I kept my focus forward while navigating down the steep hill, but, as I reached the bottom of the manicured steps, out of the corner of my eye, I was pretty sure I saw a pair of bright green go-go boots sneaking along behind me.

  My own worn tennis shoes proceeded further down the path, skipping recklessly as I passed the first wave warning sign.

  I tried to look confident and excited about my destination, no matter how much the sight of it, looming off in the distance, struck me with terror.

  The closer I got to the foaming brim of the ocean, the more aggressive and agitated the churning water became. By the time I reached the bottom of the ruins and steeled myself for the balance beam walk across the top of the crumbling seawall, an endless procession of belligerent waves had lined up to make violent chops against the boulders beneath my feet.

  On the hill above me, a hundred yards behind Dilla’s green go-go boots, yet another figure emerged from the parking lot. The second follower was a tall, stringy man in a hurriedly constructed outfit of blue jeans, T-shirt, and a brown-smudged tuxedo jacket. Montgomery Carmichael ran a comb through his unwashed, gel-stiffened hair as he stepped off from the trailhead.

  I smiled to myself. So far, Mr. Wang’s predictions were turning out to be correct.

  Temporarily dismissing all thoughts of my audience, I trained my attention on the slippery rock wall and the onslaught of waves thundering against its base. There was a full twelve inches’ worth of wall width beneath my feet, but that ample support seemed to narrow each time my gaze strayed to the waves crashing just below.

  It was with a grateful sigh that I stepped off of the far end of the wall and onto a flat patio of razed foundation that bordered the long algae-filled swimming pool. I brushed my hair back from my eyes and took a quick glance up at the hillside.

  Behind both Monty and Dilla, a furious-looking woman in a red suit and heels had begun a precarious stomp down the trail. Miranda Richards was clearly not dressed for the occasion, but that didn’t appear to be slowing her down. Her scowling red lipstick was so ferocious, it threatened to scare the succulents from the side of the hill.

  Down in the bottom of the ruins, I nervously slid past the concrete piling where I’d watched Monty diving for the bronze frogs. I proceeded along the embankment that formed the ocean edge of the pool, heading toward a rocky beach that skirted a pile of boulders about fifty yards beneath the Cliff House.

  A concrete piling on the opposite side of the pool provided another opportunity for me to sneak a peek up at the trail.

  At the top of the hillside, I watched as a thin, aged Asian man tacked on to the end of my parade. He hobbled down the steps just beneath the trailhead entrance, his stilted legs moving far more nimbly than I would have thought possible.

  I sucked in my lower lip with determination and scrambled across the rocks at the periphery of the ruins to where a narrow ledge of boulders formed a fragile landing that jutted out into the ocean. The water rushed through the rocks at my feet; a wet hissing spray dampened my shins.

  The view from the bunkered building melded to the cliff above me had been spectacular, but the glass enclosure of the Cliff House had shielded me from the ocean’s wild roaring objection to the intrusion on its privacy. Now, standing on the bouldered beach below, I received the full, hydrous brunt of that complaint.

  One slip and I would fall right off of the edge of the continent, into the same rocky depths where a countless number of sailing vessels had met their splintering end. Foaming fingers skimmed across the turbid water’s surface, shamefully covering the evidence of the wrecks that lay beneath.

  I set the duffle on the rocks and bent down to unzip it. Hoping that Dilla wasn’t too far behind me, I pulled out the snorkel and began fiddling with its mask to adjust it to the size of my face. Thankfully, I didn’t have to proceed very far with my pretended snorkel dive.

  Dilla’s voice called out to me as her boots slid over the rocks. “Wait!”

  Sucking in my breath, I looked up from the snorkel to face her.

  As I did so, I caught sight of a familiar figure looking down from the observation deck of the Cliff House. It was a man with a flat, featureless face that had previously sported a fake, feathery orange mustache.

  Chapter 44

  A FAKE-OUT FOR FRANK

  “WAIT,” DILLA CALLED out again as she teetered toward me on the slippery wet rocks. She had removed her rubber mask, revealing what appeared to be a panic-stricken and tearstained face.

  Lips firmly pursed, I stood up and tried to put on a stern look as wave after wave pounded near our feet. The onslaught of the ocean’s bellowing swagger rendered us both nearly mute. Certainly, it would be impossible for the man observing from the Cliff House landing above us to make out much of the conversation.

  “How do I look?” she asked leaning toward me, her voice pleasant while her expression remained convincingly angry.

  I cleared my throat. This charade was going to be much harder than I had anticipated.

  “He’s watching us,” I said tensely, trying not to move my lips. “From the Cliff House observation deck.”

  “Excellent!” she replied, “We just need to keep him there a little bit longer. Now, as loud as you can. Make sure that he can hear you.”

  “This is where Oscar hid the Sutro fortune,” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “The gold left over from the Vigilance Committee!”

  “You figured that out from the Mark Twain book?” Dilla replied, her voice echoing against the rocks above us.

  “The extra Cliff House essay,” I hollered back. “It followed the one about the frogs!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?!” she demanded before hissing in a whisper. “Throw your hands up in the air! You’ve got to sell it!”

  I drew in my breath, trying to strengthen my hoarse voice. “I’m nearly broke,” I screamed. This part, unfortunately, was true. “I could use the money for myself!”

  Dilla rolled her hands into the loose hem of her wool sweater as she looked down into the foaming confluence of rock and water just beneath the rocky ledge.

  “It’s impossible!” I screamed, gesturing with the snorkel. “There’s no way to reach it!”

  “I have to find that money. Frank . . .” Her lower lip trembled as if she were about to cry. She was a far better actor than me. She looked pathetic as she stood there, the wind flapping the loose legs of her putty brown pants. “If I don’t figure out where Oscar hid it, Frank’s going to . . .”

  As Dilla broke into a sob, I caught a glimpse of the man looking down on us. He had the faint twist of a grimace on his thin lips. He didn’t look convinced of the scene unfolding on the rocks below.

  “Frank got to you, didn’t he?” I said, trying my best to sound angry and betrayed. “He pressured you into helping him find the gold.”

  I risked another quick look at the landing. “I don’t think he’s buying it,” I whispered tensely.

  “Stop looking at him,” she replied. “The police should be there any minute now.” Her voice rose in volume. “Tell me what happened to the money!”

  Swallowing hard, I put on my stoniest scowl and screamed out the lie I’d rehearsed earlier that morning with Mr. Wang. “Oscar dumped it here after the murders. He was so disgusted at what the money had led to. He threw it away. It’s impossible to retrieve it!”

  Dilla gave me the quickest of winks before she turned and craned her neck up at the rocks above us.

  “Did you hear that Frank?!” she yelled angrily. “The mone
y’s gone! Gone for good this time!”

  But the overlook was now empty—empty except for a puzzled-looking pair of uniformed policemen frantically staring down at us from the overlook. Frank Napis had vanished once again.

  DILLA PULLED ME back in toward the cliff wall, hugging me tightly. “Well, thank goodness that’s over,” she said, collapsing with relief.

  I wasn’t sure a celebration was in order. The routine hadn’t gone according to plan. Frank Napis hadn’t been persuaded by our performance, and he hadn’t been apprehended. He was still on the loose, as dangerous as ever.

  But before I could voice this concern, Monty stepped up from around the bank of boulders and poked his finger toward my chest.

  “You!” he said accusingly. “I look out the window this morning and see you driving off in my van!”

  I smiled apologetically. “Just borrowed it really . . .”

  “You! You knew all along where the money was!” Monty cut in, flapping his arms in my face. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

  I’d never seen Monty so irritated. He looked at me with disgust as he shrugged out of the battered tuxedo jacket and slipped off his shoes. “Here, Dilla, let me do this.” He stepped toward me and snatched the face mask from my limp hands. “After all, it is my snorkel.”

  Apparently, someone had forgotten to tell Monty that this had all been a hoax to lure Frank Napis out into the open. To my knowledge, there was nothing of value hidden in the treacherous sinkhole of rocks below us—nothing but the remains of the countless ships that had wrecked on this rocky point over the last two hundred years.

  Monty stepped up to the edge of the precipice and fitted the snorkel mask over his head.

  Dilla and I rushed after him. “Are you crazy?” I yelled over the sound of the crashing waves.

  Monty turned to me, the skin on his reddened face distorted by the snorkel mask. “I’m thuh Lowne Wranger,” he replied, pointing proudly at his chest.

  Mercifully, the voice of Miranda Richards shouted from behind the boulders. “Don’t any of you fools jump into that water! You’ll be sure to drown!”

  Miranda stepped confidently out onto the rock ledge, her red suit unmarred by the hike through the ruins. I turned and stared, amazed at her ability to handle the rough terrain in her high-heeled shoes.

  “You should have let me take care of this, Mother.” Miranda’s commanding voice seemed to quiet even the ocean.

  Dilla wrung her hands. “I’m sorry, dear, but I knew you wouldn’t approve.” She put on the saddest of hound dog expressions. “We thought if we could just tease him out into the open, the police would be able to pick him up. Frank was right up there on the landing. I don’t know how they could have missed him.”

  Miranda crossed her arms in front of her chest, clearly not moved by her mother’s display of emotion. “Is that all you did? Really, Mother? Right now, there are several thousand frogs swarming City Hall. The whole place is a mess.”

  “Yes, well, you know how much Sam likes frogs,” Dilla said, her voice switching instantaneously to an excited gush. “And if I was going to bring back the VC, there had to be frogs. That was the only way Frank would think we were serious.”

  Dilla turned to give me an aside. “When Oscar ran the Vigilance Committee, we always had frogs.”

  Miranda looked as if she were about to reach out and strangle her mother.

  “You know,” Dilla continued, ignoring Miranda’s icy glare, “the VC part has been the most fun of this whole gig. I had a private meeting with the Mayor—he’s such a charming man. I think I finally got through to him on the amphibian refuge. The Board of Supervisors will be voting on the proposal in the next couple of days. It’s sure to pass now. My son will really enjoy that.”

  “Son?” Monty and I repeated in unison.

  “Yes, yes, my son Sam,” Dilla replied offhandedly, as if this fact were common knowledge.

  “Sam is your son?” I asked, my head spinning. “But then, his father is . . .”

  Dilla self-consciously rubbed her hands against her cheeks. “Yes, well, you understand, I had to protect him from his father. When Frank disappeared from his janitorial job fifteen years ago, no one knew what had happened to him. I didn’t want Sam to go out looking for him, so I told Sam his father was dead. It seemed like the best way.”

  “You told everyone at City Hall that Sam’s father committed suicide!” Monty interjected.

  “That was better than the truth,” Dilla replied defensively. “Honestly, Frank never took any interest in the boy.” She tutted with disapproval. “He just tried to use Sam as a way to get back at me. Even now, these last couple of weeks, he’s been threatening to contact Sam as a way to coerce me into telling him the location of the Sutro gold.”

  I sucked in on my bottom lip, trying to process all of this information. Mr. Wang had failed to mention this familial relationship during our conversation earlier that morning.

  “But what about Oscar?” Another wave crashed on the rocks, nearly drowning out my words.

  “Oscar?” Dilla asked, her face truly puzzled.

  Monty pointed the snorkel at her. “Last night, Sam told us Oscar was his father.”

  I gulped, blinking as the scene from the attic flashed before me.

  “What are you talking about?” Dilla demanded. “Frank Napis, or whatever name he’s using today, that man is Sam’s father. He was my, let’s see”—she began ticking off on her fingers—“third husband, I think. Not a good choice, I’ll grant you that.”

  Miranda’s painted lips curled tightly. She raised four fingers on her left hand and, scowling, mouthed, “Fourth husband.”

  I pushed back a strand of flying hair and tried to tuck it behind my ear. “But, Sam said . . .”

  Dilla clapped her hands together. “Oh look, there’s hubby number eight, hobbling down the trail through the ruins.” She hopped up and down, trying to draw his attention. “Wang, you old coot! We lost him.” She winced, watching his progress over the rocks. “Oh dear, if he falls, he’s going to break a hip.”

  “Mr. Wang? He’s your current husband?” I demanded.

  “Number eight,” Miranda confirmed flatly.

  “Yes, yes, dear, I’ve been with Wang for several years now. Why else would I have come up with that costume? I wanted us to match for once.”

  Mr. Wang, I thought, was going to have some explaining to do the next time I cornered him for a conversation.

  Miranda rolled her eyes and began to walk back toward the ruins. She waved toward Mr. Wang, who had almost made his way down the hill; then, she pulled out her mobile phone and began to dial.

  Dilla leaned toward me. “I knew Frank was hiding behind that ridiculous mustache the whole time he was running that antique store next to the Green Vase. We all knew it, even Oscar.” She shook her head sadly. “Wang and Oscar thought it was better for us to keep an eye on him, so that we knew what he was up to.”

  Dilla waved her hands dismissively. “I was fine to let Frank parade around in all of his silly costumes, so long as he stayed away from Sam. I didn’t want Frank showing up out of the blue, upsetting him.”

  She shook her head. “Sam’s my son, but even I have to admit he’s a little, well, just a wee bit off sometimes. Lately, he’s been trying to tell me that he’s communicating with Frank’s ghost.” She scrunched her face in frustration. “That’s why I wanted to get Frank out of the picture for good this time—to protect Sam. Frank threatened he’d pay Sam a visit if I didn’t find the missing VC gold and hand it over to him. I don’t know how the police managed to miss him up there at the Cliff House.”

  I was still struggling to keep up with Dilla’s disclosures. “But, Sam pointed at Oscar in the picture . . .”

  “Trust me, dear,” Dilla said bluntly. “I’m rather an authority on this subject. Sam’s father is Frank. Frank Napis.”

  I suddenly saw an image of Frank Napis, dressed up as Mark Twain, playing cards in the attic with
Sam.

  “Frank Napis has been hiding out in City Hall for the last several weeks,” I said with a rush of concern. “He’s been with Sam the whole time.”

  Chapter 45

  SAM TAKES A SWIM

  SAM WOKE UP Sunday morning on the cot in the attic above the dome of City Hall. He yawned and stretched his arms as he looked out across the sparkling view of the city. Behind him, a gentle chorus of waking frogs murmured in the glass tanks. In his opinion, there could be no better place to greet the day.

  He glanced over at the card table and smiled. His father had been there sometime during the night. Sam rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully as he examined the card his father had played.

  “Cunning, old man,” Sam mused. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  Sam plopped down into the folding chair next to his hand of cards. A square plastic container had been placed in the center of the table. Moist droplets had condensed on the interior of the lid from the hot food inside.

  Fried chicken, Sam thought. It was one of his favorite meals. It was so nice of his dad to have left the food for him. The security guards that worked the night shift were fond of it, too. They were always appreciative when a box of fried chicken unexpectedly appeared at the security station.

  He thought back to the previous evening. It was just like his dad to warn him ahead of time that he would have visitors. The conversation had played out just as they’d planned. The woman had been shell-shocked when he’d brought out that old black-and-white photo and redirected her pointing finger to the man in the white suit and false beard. Sam smiled, remembering the woman’s stunned reaction. Yes, he was certain, she had believed his little fib about his father.

  Still reflecting on the scene from the previous evening, Sam cracked open the lid of the plastic container and took a whiff of the chicken.

  It was slightly different from the concoction his dad usually left him. A handwritten note taped onto the lid read “Extra Spicy Recipe.” Perhaps, Sam thought, that explained the burnt red color of the crust.