Burn Out

by Marcia Muller

  “Passing through. How can you tell?”

  “I know all the locals who come to Slim’s. You want another beer?” He motioned to my empty glass.

  “Sure. Thanks. Sierra Nevada.”

  He waved at the bartender and pointed at my glass, turned to me and, after giving me a long, slow look, said, “I’m Cal McKenzie.”

  “Sharon McCone.” We shook hands as our drinks arrived.

  “Where you from, Sharon?”

  “I’ve been staying over at Tufa Lake, trying to figure out where to go next.”

  He knocked back his shot. “Kind of a wanderer, are you?”

  “Kind of. I came up here to Hawthorne looking for an old friend, but I can’t find a trace of him.”

  “Well, I’ve lived here all my life. Maybe I can help you.”

  “His name is Herbert Smith, but everybody calls him Bud.”

  Cal McKenzie’s expression became guarded. “How long since you’ve seen your friend, Sharon?”

  “I hate to admit how many years. We lost touch, but I thought since I was in the area . . .”

  “Well, Bud’s long gone. How close a friend of his were you?”

  “Oh, it was just one of those summer things. You know.”

  “You’re lucky that’s all it was. Your friend Bud’s a criminal. Raped and sodomized the little Darkmoon girl and left her for dead out by the munitions bunkers. She survived and they put him away for a good long time. He hasn’t been back here since.”

  “My God!” I feigned shock, gulping some beer. “When was this?”

  “Twenty-six years ago.”

  “Hard to believe Bud was capable of something like that, even as a kid.”

  “Some folks around here don’t believe it to this day. Nice guy, never in trouble before, everybody liked him. But the evidence was all there, and he confessed.”

  “This Darkmoon girl—does she still live here?”

  “Family moved away right after. Paiutes.” He looked more closely at me. “You Paiute, too?”

  “Shoshone.”

  “Well, the Darkmoons were really a nice family. Very religious, too. One of those strict, small sects—I forget which one. Shame what happened to their little girl.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “D’you recall her first name?”

  He thought, shrugged. “No, I don’t. They had a bunch of kids, I can’t remember what any of them were called.” He gestured at my glass. “Another beer?”

  “No, thanks. This has been . . . quite a shock, and I think I’d better be getting back to my motel now.”

  “The evening’s young—”

  “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow night, Cal. It was good to meet you.” I slid off the stool before he could protest and made my exit.

  A Paiute family named Darkmoon who’d lived in Hawthorne twenty-six years ago couldn’t be too difficult to find. If the Internet couldn’t lead me to them, I’d use the moccasin telegraph.

  Wednesday

  NOVEMBER 7

  The moccasin telegraph beat out the Internet.

  After I drove home from Hawthorne that morning, I found plenty of listings on Google in the name of Darkmoon—a magazine, a design company, a publisher, even a Wiccan temple—but none of them individuals. There were three on the search engines the agency subscribed to, two in Washington State and one, coincidentally, on the Flathead reservation in Montana, where my birth father, Elwood Farmer, lived.

  I could have run more sophisticated searches, but on the moccasin telegraph I could access far more detail. The listings for the three Darkmoons hadn’t revealed much about them, other than their whereabouts, and that wasn’t surprising: a great many Indians are out of the mainstream and don’t own property, have credit ratings, or hold real jobs.

  My friend Will Camphouse, creative director at an ad agency in Tucson whom I’d met while searching for my birth parents, had explained the moccasin telegraph as a coast-to-coast Indian gossip network that worked with amazing speed. It was an accurate description. I’d gotten a lead to Elwood from a Shoshone man in Wyoming, and by the time I reached the Flathead Reservation everyone, including my birth father, knew not only that I was on my way, but also the basic facts about me. Phone calls, interfamilial connections, accidental meetings in such places as the grocery store, and a background check on the Internet had told them a private investigator from San Francisco was coming to town.

  For this investigation, George Darkmoon in Arlee, a town near St. Ignatius, where my birth father lived, would be the obvious person to start with. The problem was, I would have to call Elwood.

  Elwood was not an easy man to deal with on the phone—or in person. The first two times I’d tried to talk with him he’d rebuffed me—telling me to come back to his house when I’d had time to “assemble my thoughts.” Then he’d grudgingly allowed me into his simple log home and acknowledged that I was his daughter. Since then we’d established a tentative relationship, but it had its rough edges: on my part because he’d suspected all along he had a child, but had made no effort to locate me; on his part because I’d disrupted his quiet, traditional life as an artist who volunteered to fund and teach art workshops in the schools at various area reservations.

  I steeled myself and dialed his number.

  “Elwood, it’s Sharon.”

  “Yes.”

  “How are you?”

  “Doing well. How are you?”

  “Doing well.”

  Long silence. I asked, “How are the workshops going?”

  “Excellently.” Excitement lightened his voice. “Those young people are amazing. Their enthusiasm . . . it makes me feel young again.”

  And where were you, when my enthusiasm could have made you feel young?

  Not fair, McCone. At the time he wasn’t even certain that you existed.

  “I haven’t heard from you in a while,” he added. “Are you sure everything’s all right? Those bombings . . .”

  Did he really want to know? I decided to lay it on him; talked about my burn-out and my flight to the ranch, my doubts about my professional future.

  He didn’t speak immediately. I heard puffing sounds—he was lighting a cigarette.

  “It may be a time for change, Daughter. That kind of empty feeling is a signal that we need to use our gifts in different ways. Me, when I was making all that money from my art in New York City and living high, I felt the kinds of pressures you were feeling. When I met Leila and we came here, I could let go of the things I thought were important back there, and get on with what really counted.”

  “Your art, and giving to others.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Well, I’ve taken on one last case, as a favor to friends, and I have a problem. D’you know a man in Arlee named George Darkmoon?”

  “No. These days, I stay apart from the community more than I used to. But I can put you in touch with him.”

  “Moccasin telegraph.”

  “Moccasin telegraph. I’ll find someone to relay the information to George. He’ll probably have to call you collect.”

  “If he calls my cellular, it’ll be charged to me anyway.” I gave him the number.

  “Good. As you know, most of our people can’t afford long distance in the middle of the day. And Daughter, be in touch with me more often.”

  When I hung up, my eyes were brimming. Elwood had called me “Daughter” twice in one conversation.

  “Is this Sharon McCone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m George Darkmoon, in Arlee, Montana. Donna Ferguson in St. Ignatius had a call from your father, saying you wanted to get in touch with me. She talked to Jane Nomee here in Arlee, and Jane called me.”

  It had been ten minutes since I’d spoken with Elwood. The telegraph was working at higher speed than my computer ever had.

  “Yes, thank you for calling. Mr. Darkmoon, did you ever live in Hawthorne, Nevada?”

  “Never even been t
here.”

  “Do you have any relatives who did? Say, twenty-five years ago?”

  “Well . . . the Darkmoons have kind of scattered. Family is Paiute, mostly from northern California, but now we’re all over the map. Me, I married a Flathead woman, moved here thirty-five years ago. You want I should put it out on the wire?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “No problem. Don’t know your dad personally, but I hear about what he’s doing for the kids. Happy to help his daughter.”

  There was that word again. . . .

  “Sharon McCone? This is Phyllis Darkmoon, in Vancouver, B.C. My husband’s cousin George says you’re looking for a branch of the family who lived in Hawthorne, Nevada, twenty-five years ago.”

  “That’s right. Thanks for calling.”

  “No problem. My husband wanted me to tell you that he has a second cousin in New Mexico who may have known them. He asked me to put you in touch with him.”

  “Let me check with some Darkmoon family members in Portland. What number can they reach you at?”

  “This is Essie Wilson, in Portland. I’m related to the Darkmoon family. My brother-in-law remembers the Darkmoons of Hawthorne, Nevada. In fact, we visited them once. There was some kind of tragedy with one of their daughters, and then they lost touch.”

  “Do you recall their first names?”

  “The father was Norm, the mother Dora. The kids, no, I don’t recall, but a relative in Tonopah, Nevada, might. I’ll give you her number.”

  “Yes, I knew Norm and Dora Darkmoon—they were shirttail cousins. We visited them once, about fifteen years ago when they were living in Yerington. Kind of a sad couple. Their kids had all left home, and he was sick with some kind of lung thing. After that, we lost touch. There’s another shirttail cousin in Yerington who might be able to tell you more.”

  “After the girl was raped, the family moved here to Yerington and stayed for maybe ten years. The girl ran off a short time after they got here. I never knew her name. But her sister, Joellen, still lives in town. You should talk to her.”

  “You’re looking for Izzy? God, I haven’t heard from her since she ran away from home,” Joellen Darkmoon Knight said. “No, that’s not right. She sent a postcard saying the baby had been born and they were doing fine.”

  “She had a child?”

  “Well, yeah. From the rape, you know.”

  “And she kept it?”

  “Uh-huh, I guess.”

  “Where was this postcard from?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere in California?”

  “What’s Izzy’s full name?”

  “Isabel. She hated it because everybody would abbreviate it to Izzy, and she thought that sounded like some weird kind of lizard.”

  “Is there anybody else in your family who might have heard from her?”

  “Well, my parents are dead. Dad had emphysema, and they went down to Arizona, and I swear that hot, dry climate was what killed them both. My older brother, he took off before we moved down here from Hawthorne. Baby brother’s overseas in the army, baby sister too. My other sister I don’t have nothing to do with, but I’ve got a phone number for her in Seattle. She was two years older than Izzy, and they were close.”

  “I’m surprised Joellen gave you my number,” Cheri Darkmoon said.

  “She mentioned you didn’t have much to do with one another.”

  A laugh. “Try total estrangement. I’m a lesbian, and she couldn’t handle it when I came out.”

  “That’s too bad. Families . . .”

  “Are not what they show in the TV ads. Take ours: I haven’t heard from Isabel for fifteen, sixteen years, since her last kid was born—and we were the closest of us all.”

  “So Isabel had more children after . . . ?”

  “The child born of the rape. Yes, she did. After she ran away she sent me a postcard from Sacramento saying somebody she knew over in California had found her a nice family to stay with.”

  “Who was this somebody?”

  “I don’t know. She was only thirteen and had never been anyplace but Hawthorne, so how she had a friend in California I can’t imagine. Or how she got there. She didn’t have any money of her own; none of us did.”

  “What happened to her after that?”

  “She stayed on with the people, finished high school, got a job. Met a guy and married him. There were more kids—four, that I know of—and I couldn’t even congratulate her or send them presents.”

  “Why not?”

  “She would never give me her address. She was afraid that her rapist would find her and ruin her life all over again.”

  “But he was in prison—”

  Another laugh—harsh, this time. “Bud Smith never touched my sister. But his younger brother, Davey, sure did.”

  “You know this for sure?”

  “She told me the night before she ran off. Davey did it, but for a long time afterwards she was so wrecked she couldn’t remember, and then she was afraid to tell the truth. I mean, that girl was so bad off she didn’t even speak for months. And by the time she could, Bud was convicted and we’d moved to Yerington. After she ran away, I never heard anything from her but an occasional postcard and those birth announcements.”

  “Do you remember the postmarks?”

  “Someplace in California that I’d never heard of. I forget.”

  “Did you save any?”

  “I did for a while, but when I moved here to Seattle I threw away everything I didn’t absolutely need. Sorry.”

  Me too.

  A pregnant thirteen-year-old rape victim who has no money runs away from home in Nevada to a friend in Sacramento, where she’s never been before. The friend introduces her to a family who takes her in, and she lives with them until she meets a man who marries her and gives her at least four more children.

  Moccasin telegraph wasn’t going to answer the questions raised by that scenario.

  Who did I know who might have some insight into the problem? Dana Ivins?

  I called her and, because our last conversation had been less than harmonious, she hesitated before agreeing to allow me to buy her lunch at Zelda’s. She was waiting outside when I arrived in Vernon, her cheeks pink from the chill wind off the lake. The temperatures had cooled in the last few days; it would be an early winter in the high desert.

  We took a table beside the large rear windows in the dining room and ordered sandwiches. Like me, she didn’t have to consult the menu; since Zelda’s was by far the best restaurant in town, we’d both come there often enough to have it memorized.

  As we waited for the food, I explained the Isabel Darkmoon story. When I finished, Dana stared out the window at the lake, where birds huddled against the wind on the offshore islands.

  “There’s one way she could have managed her escape,” she finally said.

  “How?”

  “Let me ask you this first: was her family abusive to her?”

  “I doubt it, but I can’t say for sure.”

  “But they were probably embarrassed by the rape and pregnancy, as evidenced by them moving away from Hawthorne. And they may have taken it out on her in hurtful ways.”

  “The sisters I spoke with didn’t say, but that’s entirely possible.”

  Ivins sighed. “Can you keep this confidential?”

  “That depends. I don’t have a client; I’ve simply agreed to help the sheriff’s department and the Perez family. I don’t even know for sure if the Darkmoon girl figures in the case.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose it matters anyway. The organization’s no longer active, and they never kept records. If the authorities contacted any of its members, they’d claim ignorance. I know I would.”

  “You were involved in this . . . organization?”

  “Loose organization.” She paused while the waitress deposited our plates and withdrew. “About fifty activist women in California and Nevada. We provided money for girls to escape abusive family situations and
sent them to homes where they could begin new lives. Many of them, like Isabel Darkmoon, had been impregnated by rapists, often family members.”

  “Could she have found out about the organization in Yerington?”

  “Yes. We had a member there. This would have been before I joined; I was young and still mired down in confusion about which way my life was going to go.”

  “Is there any way I could get in touch with this member?”

  Ivins hesitated, considering. “If this . . . lead of yours turns out to have something to do with the rash of murders we’ve been having, her identity would come out in court. As you said, you haven’t a client, so confidentiality doesn’t apply. She’s a highly respected attorney—”

  “There you have it. I’ll ask her to hire me—for a dollar—to find out what happened to Isabel Darkmoon. Any work I do for her falls under the umbrella of attorney-client privilege.”

  By four that afternoon I was back in Carson City, this time in the offices of Elizabeth Long, attorney-at-law. The firm was situated only a few blocks from John Pearl’s building, but mega-miles away in luxury.

  Dana Ivins had called and explained the situation, and Elizabeth Long and I were both prepared. After we sat down in her office, she slid a dollar bill across the desk to me and I presented her with one of the agency’s contracts—with the lowest retainer fee we’d ever charged inked in. Once she signed it, we were in business.

  Ivins had said Long was a highly respected attorney and she certainly looked the part: beautifully styled blonde hair, expensive black suit, heavy gold jewelry. A face with thin lips, a long nose, and eyes that I was sure could stare down any judge or jury when she was making her case for her clients. She specialized in criminal law.

  “Isabel Darkmoon,” she said. “She was thirteen, pregnant, and desperate to get away from her family.”

  “They were abusive?”

  “Psychologically. Everyone except for one sister shunned her. That seems like an old-fashioned word, but they were religious in the extreme and literally would have nothing to do with her. She wasn’t allowed to eat at the same table, though she could have scraps from the kitchen. No one spoke a word to her, except the one sister who could only whisper in the night after everyone else had gone to sleep. Isabel had shamed them by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”