by Josh Lanyon
“Yeah, a theory. Do you honestly think one of us killed Livingston? Why? Because of some mine we couldn’t even know we’d find?”
“Did anyone have any problem with Livingston? Anyone argue with him?”
“No. We all admired the man. We all liked him.”
“Who didn’t?”
“Nobody! He was …” Kevin shook his head. “He wasn’t the kind of person who gets murdered.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was a … a scholar and a gentleman. I guess that sounds corny. Archeology was his passion, but he loved teaching. He loved sharing his knowledge, and he made the past come alive. He made archeology a lot more than old bones and broken pottery.”
I sat down in the broken chair, which tilted drunkenly, and began to thumb through the pages of the volume I held.
Kevin said suddenly, “Did anyone ever tell you that you sorta look like that old actor?”
“Old actor?”
“Well, I mean he wasn’t that old. Not back then. He played the priest in that Hitchcock movie.”
“I remind you of an old priest …”
Kevin chortled. “You know who I mean. He was really good looking.”
“For an old priest.”
“Yeah.” Still chuckling he pulled a volume off the shelf and sat down on a box across from me.
“Hey,” he said after an hour of silent reading, “This is about the sinking of the Titanic. ‘Mr. Hubert Duke, a resident of Basking, was aboard the doomed vessel,’” he read aloud. “Pretty cool.”
“Chilling.” I glanced up. “When was the Titanic? 1912? You’ve got to go back a couple of decades.”
“Basking was founded in 1848.”
“Royale came west in 1849. We’re probably looking for something circa the 1850s. When did Royale die?”
“Beats me.” Replacing one volume on the shelf, he pulled out another. “This could take forever,” he muttered.
I was afraid he was right.
Another hour passed, and Miss Buttermit brought us coffee in foam cups and a plate of Fig Newtons.
“What’s this mysterious hold you have over Miss Buttermit?” I asked Kevin, brushing crumbs off my hands.
“Hmm? Mitty? She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she? She’s one of us.”
“One of us?”
“Gay. Well, lesbian.” He grinned at my expression. “She’s not out or anything. People of her generation can’t be.”
“They can’t?”
“Not in a small town.”
I was still mulling over that as Kevin lowered his gaze to the page before him. “Listen to this, Adrien. ‘Abraham Royale dead at forty-five.’”
“What’s the date?”
“September 11th 1860. Have you noticed, that there are editions missing?”
“I was hoping it only seemed that way because they’re not indexed.”
“No, look how the dates jump around in this volume. It looks like someone tore out an edition.”
I examined the volume. Sure enough it appeared someone had taken a razorblade to several pages.
“Where else might there be copies of this paper? The local college?”
Kevin shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe not everything was saved. Maybe some copies were lost or destroyed. This stuff is pretty fragile.”
Gently I turned another yellowed page. History was literally turning to dust beneath my fingertips.
“These pages were here. They existed and someone removed them. Why?”
“It could have happened years ago, Adrien.”
I took the volume from Kevin and scanned it. In brief, Abraham Royale had died after sustaining a head injury in a fall down his grand staircase. There had been no witnesses to the accident, and Royale had never regained consciousness. He was survived only by his estranged wife, Alicia Royale, née Salt.
“Salt.” I looked up. “Where have I heard that name before?”
Kevin, his mouth full of Fig Newtons, shook his head.
“‘Estranged wife?’ Weren’t they divorced? She ran off with the blacksmith, didn’t she?”
“Maybe he wouldn’t give her a divorce,” Kevin replied thickly. Jake was right, he did have freckles on his nose. Like gold dust. Kissable.
“Maybe. Maybe she pushed him. It sounds like he left a considerable fortune.” I chewed my lip thoughtfully. “Salt! That’s it. Barnabas Salt was the name of Royale’s partner in the Red Rover mine. Alicia must have been his daughter.” I considered this. “That must have made for some awkward moments around the sluice boxes.”
“Salt was already dead by the time Royale married his daughter.”
“How do you know?”
“It said so in the obit.”
I continued reading. Kevin was correct. Salt had been killed a couple of years earlier in a shootout with Mexican bandits. “This would be interesting to read about,” I said. “See if you can find the story of Salt’s shootout with the banditos.”
“It might be one of the missing editions.”
“It might not be.”
We searched through the remaining volumes to no avail.
“Here’s something,” Kevin said, breaking another long silence. “A trapper was found mutilated in Senex Valley. Where the hell’s Senex Valley?”
“Hmm? Senex Valley is what they used to call Spaniard’s Hollow and the area surrounding it.”
“When did they change the name?”
I answered absently, “I’m not really sure. It seems like it followed Salt’s gun battle with the bandits.”
“Spaniards aren’t Mexicans.”
“When you figure both Mexico and California were still under Spanish rule as late as 1821, I think it’s safe to assume some cultural overlay.”
Silence broken only by the scrape of turning pages.
“This is pretty gruesome,” Kevin commented, still glued to The Gazette.
I glanced at my watch. “Jesus! It’s five o’clock!”
Kevin slapped shut the cover. “No wonder I’m starving.” As I stood up he asked way too casually, “Can I buy you dinner?”
“No can do.” I shoved the volume back on the shelf, held my hand out for Kevin’s. “Besides, shouldn’t you be getting back to camp?”
He handed me the tome he held. “I’ve been asked to take a leave of absence until I’m cleared.” The green eyes could not meet mine.
“Cleared?”
“Of Livingston’s murder.” His smile was morose.
“Who’s idea was that?”
“Dr. Shoup’s. But even Dr. Marquez agreed.” His gaze rose briefly to mine. “See, you’re not the only one who thinks I’m capable of murder.”
“Kev —”
“No, it’s okay. I mean, why not me?”
“Because you didn’t do it?”
“Do you believe that?”
Before I could answer, he turned away. Turning out the light, he locked the door to the basement. As we started up the stairs he said, “I hear it was your friend who discovered Harvey’s body in that cave.”
“Uh, right.” I had to wonder at the number of fibs my former Boy Scout was telling these days. Not that I didn’t appreciate his running interference for me. I could imagine what the sheriff would have said if I’d discovered another body.
Over his shoulder Kevin asked, “What was he doing up in those caves? Was he looking for Harvey?”
“No.” I tried to get my mind (and gaze) off the trim butt in the tight jeans moving at eye level as we continued back up the stairs. “Aren’t the sheriffs questioning everybody?” I inquired.
“That’s what they say, but they’re just waiting for the damn ballistics match so they can arrest me.”
We kept coming back to this. “Why should they think you killed Livingston?”
“I wouldn’t have. I had no reason. He was a great guy.”
“Somebody didn’t think so.”
“Then it was somebody who didn’t know him.”
I wished I could see his face as I asked, “Are you sure Livingston didn’t argue with anyone? Were there any problems between Livingston and Shoup?”
“No.” He qualified, “Not that I know of.”
“Do you know if Livingston ever met Ted Harvey?”
“I think he came around a couple of times when we first set up camp. There was never any confrontation.”
Upstairs Kevin returned the key to the basement to Miss Buttermit’s stand-in. As we walked outside into the spring evening he put a hand on my arm.
“Adrien, about yesterday …”
I laughed. “Forget it.”
His fingers tightened. “I don’t want to forget it.” An internal struggle seemed to take place while the old-fashioned street lamps came on one by one around us. “It’s not easy being gay in a town like Basking.”
“It’s not easy in a town like LA. It’s not easy.”
“I just wish —”
I almost said, “me too,” which would have been a mistake, not least because it wasn’t true. I had all the complications in my personal life I could handle.
Instead I gave his shoulder a pat, got in the Bronco and drove away leaving Kevin standing on the boardwalk in the shadow of a swinging sign in the shape of a boot.
* * * * *
I made a small detour on the drive home. Yesterday’s exploration of the cave had not turned up exactly what I’d expected; that meant the proof I needed was still out there — and I thought I had a pretty good idea where.
An hour and a half later of prowling hilltops, crawling through bushes, and sliding down hillsides, I wasn’t quite so sure.
I was rethinking my brilliant plan as I rested on a flat-top rock formation overlooking the archeologist’s strangely silent camp when I spotted some peculiar dents in the worn surface. The pockets in the granite outcropping meant that the flat-surfaced rock would have functioned like a metate or quern. For decades Indian women would have sat here chatting and grinding acorn for bread by using manos or grinding stones.
I knew I was on the right trail — literally.
In fact ….
I shifted my weary arse, hunting down among the weeds and supporting boulders, and sure enough, before the sunset, I had my proof in the form of the latest Japanese technology.
Not that it gave me any pleasure.
* * * * *
It was nearly dark by the time I reached the ranch. Dusk’s muted heather shadows stretched long across the mountains. Frederick Remington might have painted the distant sunset slashing the sky with Confederate blue and firebrand pink as I drove through the Pine Shadow gates. My headlamps picked out Jake striding purposefully across the yard, keys in hand. I parked and got out.
“Where the hell have you been?” From the drill sergeant bark, you’d have thought I’d overstayed my 24-hour pass. Then he added, “I was coming to look for you.”
Well, that sounded kind of nice. It would have been nicer to have been kissed hello, but Jake stayed at arm’s length
“I lost track of time.” I hedged, still not having made up my mind what to do with the item in my jacket pocket.
“Doing what?”
“Looking through old newspapers.” I debated whether to mention Kevin’s presence, and decided that on this point honesty was the best policy. “I ran into Kevin.”
“Coincidence?” asked Jake. “I think not.”
“I think so.”
He followed me up the porch steps and into the house. I peeled off my jacket watching Jake shrug out of his own, wincing. I queried, “How’s the arm?”
“Not so stiff.” He lifted his shoulder like he was winding up to pitch a hardball. “Itches like hell. I think that’s a good sign though.”
“Not if it’s infected. So what did you do today?”
“Made a few calls,” he said vaguely.
That sort of clinched the quandary of fair exchange of information. “Oh yeah? What’s to eat? All I’ve had since breakfast is coffee and cookies.”
I homed in on the kitchen where I discovered grilled steaks cooling on the stovetop and baked potatoes with all the trimmings on a couple of plates.
“Wow. A man could get used to this,” I remarked.
No comment from Jake.
While we ate I filled him in on what I had learned — most of what I had learned, that is. He listened impassively as though he sat on the opposite side of an interrogation table.
“Let me see if I understand you. You think something that happened over a hundred years ago connects the deaths of Harvey and Livingston?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“Uh huh.” He chewed ferociously, swallowed and inquired, “What about the werewolf?”
“Laugh all you want, but this is one weird place. Do you know that over the past hundred-plus years over fifteen mutilated bodies have been found in the woods?”
“Do you know how many mutilated bodies have turned up in the Angeles Crest Forest over the past hundred years? Plenty.”
“That’s not a reasonable comparison, Jake. This is a small, relatively secluded area.” I laid my fork and knife down. “They used to call this place Senex Valley. Senex is Latin for old. The Old Ones. The First Ones … get it?”
Jake rubbed his forehead as though he felt a headache coming on.
“Maybe that’s beside the point,” I said hastily.
“Maybe?”
“But something about this Red Rover mine that isn’t quite kosher.”
“Like?”
“For starters, Royale and his partner Barnabas Salt abandoned the Red Rover. They thought it was worthless and they moved on. Then for some reason they came back to the mine and hit a vein.”
“So?”
“That’s not typical. It’s practically unheard of.”
“But it’s possible, right?”
“It’s not impossible, I’ll give you that. But here’s another bizarre thing. After Royale’s death, they tried mining the Red Rover. The mine was played out.”
“They who?” inquired Jake, getting down to brass tacks.
“I guess the ex-wife hired …”
“But you don’t know.”
“I don’t know who, I do know efforts to mine the Red Rover after Royale’s death failed. That’s why the mine was abandoned and then finally lost track of.”
“This means something to you?” He absently stroked the gold stubble on his lean jaw, as though just noticing he needed a shave. I remembered the tickle of those whiskers against my bare back. It took effort to redirect my thoughts.
“Why all this interest in a mine that played out so long ago?”
Jake pushed his plate aside and tilted his chair back, linking his hands behind his head.
“Like your pal Shoup says, it’s historically interesting. You think only things of monetary value are of historical interest?”
“Of course not, but according to Marquez, Shoup’s interested in the mine because it would be a significant find. I just don’t see how a played-out mine could be a significant find.”
“Hard to say, what with funding and grants and nutty professors in general.”
“You don’t think it’s interesting?”
“I guess it’s interesting.” He shrugged.
By now we had finished eating. Stars twinkled through the windows. I rose, started piling dishes in the sink, wondering about our sleeping arrangements. Had last night been a once-off or had we been setting a precedent? Nothing in Jake’s behavior or attitude had changed, either for better or worse.
He sat unmoving as I made my trips to and from the table. Other than a floorboard that squeaked every time I crossed it, the kitchen seemed uncannily quiet.
The four feet of his chair hit the floor with a bang and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
He raised his eyebrows. “What’s with you?”
I shook my head sheepishly.
Jake grinned and shoved away from the table. “Let’s leave the dishes,” he suggested
.
* * * * *
Sober it was different: slower, sweeter. Jake explored my body with a thoroughness that would lead one to think he was investigating for clues. Or perhaps he was doing a comparison check, inspecting what wasn’t there, inspecting what was.
He tried a couple of things, watching my face to see how I took it — and I took it like a man, encouraging him as best I could without making him self-conscious.
“This is enough for you? Just … this?”
“Enough …?” I gasped, humping against his hand. He had wonderful hands, long strong fingers and a delicate touch despite the calluses. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t like … oh, God that’s nice …”
I closed my eyes, savoring the sustained caress, then opened them as his words sank in. “Is it not enough for you?” I wasn’t sure what we were talking about. The sex itself or the fact that for him sex was all it was? Did he want to put a cock ring on me or did he fear I wanted to put a wedding ring on him?
“I didn’t say that.” Then, strangely, he said, “I heard you with Green that night.”
It took effort to concentrate on his words rather than his touch. I didn’t understand what he meant at first, and then I did. I blinked up at him, not quite knowing what to say. The night he referred to, the night I had discovered who had killed two of my closest friends — and why — was something I still couldn’t bring myself to think about. At first I’d been too shocked and sickened. And now … it felt safer not to look back.
“He hurt you.”
“I don’t remember. Maybe.”
“You let it happen.”
Again I didn’t have an answer. It weirded me out to think of Jake listening to Bruce fuck me, but that was hardly the weirdest part of that particular evening.
And that evening was hardly the weirdest part of my relationship with Bruce.
“You let it happen, but you didn’t enjoy it.”
“Well, no.” I asked carefully, “Did you enjoy it? Hearing us, I mean.”
“No.” All at once his face looked older: tight, bleak. “You were afraid. And I was afraid. I thought you were going to die.”
I had thought I was going to die that night too. It was strange looking back from the safety of Jake’s arms. Bruce, who said he loved me, had fucked me over in every possible sense. And Jake, who only spoke of fucking, never caring, had already proved to be an unselfish lover.
