Hold of the Bone

by Baxter Clare Trautman

  The car under the oak starts with a loud cough and Frank jumps. A young man slowly backs the old Buick from under the tree. Across the one-lane road a yellow field baseboards a dark wall of mountain. Frank’s eyes are drawn to the crooked, black ridge. She knows there is a saddle up there, a notch in the mountain that affords a 180-degree view of the western slope of the Santa Lucias, a view that falls from the stunted, ever-thirsting chaparral at the top of the slope down to somber redwood canyons cut perpendicular to the purple sea.

  “City, if you don’t want to talk, I’m going home.”

  Gomez starts toward the car and Frank struggles to think clearly. From the sound of it, she can’t just drive out to Saladino’s place and knock on the door whenever she feels like it. If she’s going to talk to Saladino, it’s got to be now or never. “Alright,” she says, with more determination than she feels.

  Gomez wags her head but leads Frank up the sagging steps. The boards creak under their weight. A rusty screen door answers them. Gomez holds it open for Frank.

  Only two western windows light the store. Frank pushes the Ray-Bans onto her head, temporarily blinded by the abrupt change from light to dark. On a wooden counter the length of the room, a fan stirs pungent ghosts of old beer and pickle barrels but does nothing to cool the air. Frank is careful not to touch the counter thick with decades, maybe even centuries, of human grime and grease.

  Gomez nods at a pasty girl waiting on a woman who hovers in the gloom like an apparition. “Hey, Sal. How are ya?”

  Frank steps around Gomez for a better look at the woman. Eyes that seem to hold the entire summer sky stare back, appearing disembodied in a face as dusky as the light.

  “I’m fine, Angie, thank you.”

  As Frank’s vision adjusts, the rest of Diana Saladino becomes corporeal—the ethereal body only a man’s bleached shirt worn over faded jeans; the halo around her skull just silver hair gathered loosely in a braid. The sky-blue gaze rivets Frank.

  “This is Lieutenant Franco. LAPD.”

  Frank dips her head in a brief nod. “Miss Saladino.”

  Sal mirrors the gesture. No one speaks. Sal won’t take her eyes off Frank, and Frank won’t look away first.

  “I need to ask you some questions. Could we go outside?”

  “Questions about what?”

  “It’s stuffy in here,” Gomez says. “Let’s go out.”

  She herds the women to the door. Sal’s boots echo off the dusty floor. She stops at the bottom of the stairs and squints into the sun. Frank lowers her sunglasses, pleased to have a slight advantage. But Sal turns and the mountains rise behind her like protective brothers. Frank makes the mistake of glancing at them.

  A faint trail winds snakelike from the dusty foothills up through cool, dark canyons to a pass on the ridge, where wind fresh from the ocean sings in a stunted pine. Plank-winged birds soar beneath the bald ridge. A horse tied nearby jangles its bridle.

  Gomez coughs. Frank blinks. Sal and the cop are staring at her. Frank darts a look over Sal’s shoulder, not surprised that the trail is gone.

  Gomez prods, “You said you had some questions for Sal?”

  “Uh, yeah. Your father. Is he Domenic Saladino?”

  Sal nods.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “1968.”

  “And where was that?”

  “At home.”

  “Which was where?”

  She dips her head to the mountains. “Here. The ranch.”

  “And the circumstances?”

  “Circumstances? It was our home. The normal circumstances.”

  “Morning, night, afternoon?”

  Sal re-crosses her arms, shifts her weight.

  “It was morning. At breakfast he said he was going down to LA, to work with his uncle. He went down there when things were slow.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Construction. The uncle owned his own business.”

  “What was the name of the business?”

  “Saladino Construction.”

  “Do you remember the date he left?”

  The woman thinks briefly. “December 16.”

  Frank thinks her answer’s too quick. Innocent people questioned about dates or events rarely have accurate recall, but liars practice their stories over and over—usually with enough minutiae to hang themselves. “You’re pretty sure about that.”

  “It’s a hard date to forget. My mother died two days later.”

  Frank nods, remembering something like that from Lewis’ notes. “Was she ill?”

  “She had a stroke. A blood clot.”

  “And your father didn’t come home after that?”

  “No. Officer, what exactly is this about?”

  Next of kin are unpredictable. It’s good to get information from them before notification, but Frank feels she has gotten enough. For now. “It’s ‘Lieutenant.’ We think we’ve found your father’s remains. Positive ID is pending his dental records.”

  Saladino finally looks away. Frank wants to touch her, to see if the blue denim is solid or if her finger will pass right through it, if the brown skin is warm flesh or artfully crafted mud. Even in the white light, Saladino seems unreal, a golem crafted from bedrock and wind and silver-running streams.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “Near Culver City.”

  “Where in Culver City?”

  “At a body shop on Western Avenue. They were doing some work and dug up what we believe are his remains.”

  “How do you know it’s him?”

  Frank notes that Sal seems more curious than upset. “Like I said, we can’t be certain until we get the dental records from the VA, but he had some identification on him.”

  “What kind of identification?”

  “I’d rather not say. Some details haven’t been released yet.”

  “I see.” She glances at the ground as if it offers encouragement, then back to Frank. “You said he was buried?”

  “Yes.”

  “At a body shop.” Arriving at the obvious conclusion, she states, “You’re saying he was murdered.”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “I see.”

  Frank wonders what she sees. After this much time it’s understandable that Sal’s not upset about her father’s death, but it’s odd she’s not concerned he was murdered.

  “Is that all? Can I go now?”

  “Is that all? Your father was murdered, Miss Saladino.”

  “I understand that. But to me he’s been dead a long time.”

  “Okay, but I still need to ask more questions.”

  “My dogs are penned. I don’t like to keep them waiting.”

  “It won’t take long. If I could—”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going home. If you want me, that’s where I’ll be.” Sal thuds up the steps into the store. The screen slams behind her.

  Frank appeals to Gomez. “Well?”

  “Well, Jesus, Mary, and her husband Jo. I was off at two, you know.”

  An engine growls and Sal drives from behind the store in a rusted pickup. Sun and dust have faded it the color of Sal’s eyes, the same pale blue of the summer sky.

  Waving the dust away, Gomez wags her head sorrowfully. “Come on, City. Let’s go. May as well get this over with. You go up there on your own, you’re liable to get lost and I’d have to go in and find you anyway.”

  Frank hesitates. “I don’t want to put you out.”

  “If you dilly-dally another damn minute, I might change my mind. You coming or not?”

  Frank listens to the fading pickup and wonders where it will lead. She nods at Gomez. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 11

  A couple hundred yards from the store, the paved road ends behind a locked gate. Sal has left it open and Gomez drives through.

  “Want to close it?” she asks Frank with more command than question.


  Already Sal’s dust is settling and her pickup is out of sight. Frank bolts the gate and before she can shut the squad car’s door Gomez accelerates after the vanished pickup. Lifting a rooster tail of dust, she says, “Better roll your window up unless you still want to be eating this at dinnertime.”

  Frank does but already fine grit covers the dashboard. “How far do we have to go?”

  Gomez laughs. “Sit back, City. We’re just getting started.”

  The road climbs steadily between emerald fields of alfalfa and vineyard. The vines are broad and gnarled. Frank comments that they look old.

  “They are. Aliottis planted them long before anyone had heard of California wine. They used to make some of the best in the county, but now they sell all their grapes to some winery down south. I forget which one. Going to do any wine tasting while you’re here?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, you should. We’ve got some of the best wineries in the world.”

  The green crops give way to yellow grassland dotted with cattle and broad oaks. Stealthy gray fingers of chaparral reach down from the mountains. Gomez pauses at an unmarked crossroads.

  “I thought you knew where you were going?”

  “If you hadn’t dragged your feet getting in the car, I wouldn’t have lost her.”

  Frank points. “That’s her dust up there.”

  Gomez turns left, taking a right at another junction, then left again.

  “You’re right, Country. I probably would have gotten lost.”

  Gomez grins.

  “Hope you’re charging for this.”

  “Are you kidding? I don’t even get overtime on my regular shift.”

  She stops at a gate and Frank hops out. But for the rumble of the V-8 engine, the landscape is quiet. An open lock hangs through a hole in the latch. Frank removes it and slides the bolt back. The gate swings without a sound. Gomez drives through and Frank closes it. Getting back in she remarks, “It’s spooky out here.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “It’s so quiet. Even the gate didn’t make noise.”

  Rounding a bend with a huge oak on the shoulder, Frank is certain she’s been here before, which is impossible, but the feeling persists. They pass the oak and Frank searches the mountain behind it. About a third of the way up a sheer granite cliff, she sees the oval shadow she expected. She sits back abruptly. “Are there a lot of caves around here?”

  Gomez shrugs. “You’d have to ask Sal that.”

  “Does she live by a creek?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve only been to the main house. Why?”

  Frank shakes her head. She would bet even money that Sal lives near a creek, a shaded creek where fish wait out the heat of the day in cool pools under gnarled tree roots. She shivers and rubs her arms. The visions seem more frequent here, but at least they’re not as intimidating as the ones she had with Mother Love. If anything, they are almost peaceful.

  Frank wants to ask how much longer, but as they top a hill Gomez says, “That’s the main house.”

  Frank doesn’t know much about architecture but the dormered house looks old—Victorian, she thinks. Orchards range to one side, on the other sprawl weathered outbuildings and a corral. The faded pickup is parked at the barn.

  “We have to get out here and go the rest of the way on quad.”

  “Seriously?”

  Gomez parks near the truck and points toward a far line of trees. “Yeah, I think she lives back there somewhere.”

  “And you’re okay with that? Leaving your car?”

  “Why not? I want to see where she lives.”

  Frank gets out. She searches warily for snakes as Sal drives up in a four-seater ATV. “Get in,” she tells the cops.

  Gomez takes the back while Frank lifts a brow at the ripped front bench and rusted metal frame. The women stare at her. Against her better judgment, Frank gingerly climbs on.

  Nodding at the plastic bags beside Gomez, Sal asks, “Could you hold onto those?”

  “Sure thing,” Gomez answers, laying a plump arm over them.

  Frank gropes for a seatbelt as the machine bucks and lurches. She gives up looking and holds tight to the frame. The quad crunches over late summer grass and Frank worries it will catch fire, then decides if Sal isn’t concerned, she shouldn’t be either.

  They drive across a yellow valley guarded west and north by the broody Santa Lucias. Ahead of them a line of trees emerges from the toe of the mountains and meanders east. That will be the creek, Frank thinks, and the cabin is on the other side.

  The quad hits a bump and they all lift from their seats. Frank clings to the frame, glancing at Sal driving like grim death. She thinks it was a bad decision to come out here, though she doubts Sal will try anything funny with two cops in tow. Besides, Gomez seems unconcerned. Plus she has to admit the whole place has her intrigued.

  Yet as they approach the crooked line of trees, she feels the uneasiness she felt before entering the store. The quad grinds closer, and Frank is sure that the trees and the certain creek flowing beneath them delineate another point of no return. For a panicky second she thinks to tell Sal to turn around, to take her back to the main house and the comfort of the waiting squad car.

  But the trees are upon them. The wide sunny fields bow to the sudden shade of conjoined oak and sycamore. The quad jerks to a stop. It wobbles as Sal and Gomez step from it. Frank is dimly aware of them gathering the plastic bags. Gomez says something, but Frank stares straight ahead, at a bridge over a creek.

  She watches Sal walk onto it, boots knocking the wood. The bridge is wide enough for the quad, maybe even a truck, and Frank wonders why Sal hasn’t driven over. Dogs howl from behind the curtain of trees. A bird cries above Frank’s head, a shivery call, like a loon’s.

  Gomez stops just before stepping onto the bridge. She looks back at Frank. “I’m about to put you on a leash and drag you after me. You coming or you gonna sit there all day?”

  Frank is happy with the idea of spending the rest of the afternoon on the quad. Like the patrol car, its rubber and metal are all that stand between her and whatever lies on the other side of the bridge. She wants to go but doesn’t. She tries to remember if Marguerite or the tarot lady had said anything about a ranch, but what she remembers most clearly is that logic and reason wouldn’t help her where she was going.

  “City! What the hell?”

  Frank loosens her grip and steps off carefully, like the ground might open and suck her down. She starts toward the bridge. A carpet of leaves muffle her tread. All she hears is her heart pounding. And the gurgle of the creek. She shoves the glasses up and walks onto the bridge. Halfway across, she stops to look over the side.

  The water flows clear and bubbly over mossy cobbles. The creek is not deep, only a foot or so, but sunless pools swirl along the bank under arched tree roots and she knows come evening that gold-flecked fish will rise from them to snatch at hatch flies too close to the water. Frank almost laughs. She was born and raised in New York, and her whole adult life has been spent in the tar and cinderblock heart of LA. What the hell can she possibly know about fish?

  Gomez and Sal are across the bridge and out of sight. Frank is alone with the chortling water. Unable to tell if it laughs with her or at her, she hurries to catch up. Just as she is about to step off onto the other bank she stops, foot frozen in mid-stride. A dog blocks the path through the trees. It’s not big as dogs go, but it’s black and it’s a dog. Frank instinctively covers the arm scarred by a pit bull during the Mother Love case. The beast lowers its head level with its shoulders. She remembers from somewhere that’s what bulls do just before they charge.

  Sal treads back down the path and stops. She takes in the standoff. “Bone,” she calls, but the dog doesn’t move. “Bone, come!”

  Reluctantly the dog gives way and trots to Sal, but keeps looking over its shoulder. Frank lets out the breath she’s been holding and follows from a reasonable distance. The trees o
pen onto a sun-filled clearing. The pressure in Frank’s chest eases and she takes a deep breath of sky and sun. Gomez stands in a dirt yard next to a cabin and pets a leaping golden retriever. To Frank’s surprise, Sal is offering coffee.

  “I’d love some,” Gomez says. She looks from the retriever to Frank.

  “Sure,” Frank adds, her voice swallowed by hill and tree and sky.

  Gomez settles at a stone fire pit, humoring the yellow dog. The black one, Bone, sits next to Gomez but stares at Frank like she’s dinner. Frank stays where she is, taking in her surroundings.

  The cabin looks like something a child would draw—peaked roof meeting a stone chimney bracketed by symmetrical windows. West of the cabin, an old barn sags inside a corral and yellow hills roll away to the foot of the mountains. The top of the dirt yard is delineated by a ragtag assortment of coops and sheds, and a cliff behind them pocked with boulders and tough scrub. The creek and its marching green phalanx curve up from behind Frank to encircle the yard in a motherly arm.

  Sal comes from the cabin, carrying two mugs. She hands one to Gomez, then turns to Frank. Frank points at the black dog.

  “He won’t bother you,” she says. Just the same, she calls him. Bone abandons his post to stand by her side. A little white mutt that has been sticking to Sal’s heel like a piece of toilet paper jumps and licks at Bone’s muzzle. “He’s friendly,” Sal assures. “Just not effusive like Cicero—” she nods at the golden “—or Kook, here.”

  The little dog wheels at his name, but Bone maintains his vigil. Frank approaches doubtfully, taking the mug Sal holds out.

  “Sugar or cream?”

  Both cops shake their heads.

  There is only one chair, an old Adirondack worn smooth and gray. Frank perches on its edge. Sal returns to the cabin with the scrap of fur at her heels. Gomez stretches a hand to Bone. The dog licks her gently.

  “You’re good with them.”

  Gomez laughs. “Most times I like animals better than people. I’ve got three of my own. Little ones, though. You?”

  “Nope.”

  “Old Sal, she’s a regular Cesar Milan and horse-whisperer thrown into one. She does most of the vet work on the Mazetti stock.”