Down Dog Diary

by Sherry Roberts

  I looked into Jorn’s eyes and saw understanding and something else: kindness. He was clearly uncomfortable with my sadness, but he respectfully let my grief lie. Everyone in town knew Jorn had spent the last five years as a war correspondent; his proud uncle had been all too willing to share news of his nephew’s exploits. Thus, the bullet wounds. Jorn had seen plenty of death and grief, knew it was not a small thing when life was stolen away, knew it was more than a headline.

  “I miss Tum,” I said.

  We sat in silence.

  Jorn unconsciously rubbed his injured shoulder.

  “You did too much today,” I said, getting up and walking behind him. I stepped into the sphere of his cologne, something subtle and woodsy, and placed a hand on his aching shoulder. He flinched, tensed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s called reiki. Energy healing.”

  Immediately, I felt his injured shoulder begin to respond, hungrily reaching out for energy.

  “I don’t believe in all this energy stuff,” he said, even as he began to relax. After a few minutes, he let out a sigh. “Damn, that feels good.”

  “There’s healing energy all around us,” I said conversationally. “I’m just helping your shoulder tap into it.”

  “Don’t ruin this,” he muttered.

  The shoulder warmed. My hand tingled. Just when I thought he might have fallen asleep, Jorn said, “I found Tumblethorne’s obit in a New Mexico paper.”

  I already knew cause of death. A fire. I didn’t want to think of Tum dying in such a horrible way.

  “Fell asleep while smoking,” Jorn continued. “Sorry.”

  I straightened. “That’s impossible.”

  “That’s the official story.”

  I whispered. “Tum quit smoking years ago.”

  Jorn reached for my laptop on the table, booted it up, and began clacking at the keys. “Here it is,” he said. Just as I leaned over his shoulder to read the obituary, my cell phone on the counter chimed.

  Still keeping a hand on Jorn’s shoulder, I grabbed the phone.

  “Maya,” grumbled a voice I didn’t recognize. “This is Nico.” It was the lawyer who had ridden all the way from New Mexico on his Harley to deliver Tum’s diary. He had clomped up to my door on a February day, leather duster fluttering behind him; beard, eyebrows, and wild hair crusted with ice. His grin was big, and his stories of Tum even bigger. We’d traded tales long into the night, holding our own memorial for Tum, with one beer after another. He’d consumed more pizza than I’d ever seen anyone eat and had looked like a happy giant snoring on my red couch.

  Now, he sounded grumpy—and in pain. “Nico, are you all right?”

  “I didn’t tell them anything, Maya. The bastards. I swear, they got nothin’ outta me.”

  Chapter 5

  Warning

  WHAT HAPPENED, NICO?” I asked. Jorn turned toward me, eyebrow lifted.

  “Bastards jumped me in the alley behind my office. Tried to Taser me, if you can believe that. I knocked some heads.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Couple broken ribs, dislocated pinky, mother of a headache. Smacked me in the head with a two-by-four. Been hurt worse getting out of the bathtub.”

  “Did you recognize them?

  “Suits. Fancy suits. Young guys. White butch haircuts.” I could imagine Nico shaking his long rust-colored hair out of his eyes. “The Taser-happy bastard had a tattoo on his hand.” Silence. “Maya, they wanted Tum’s diary.”

  Shock rippled through me. I circled the table and sat down with a thud. Jorn leaned toward me and touched my hand, a question in his eyes.

  “Why would they want the diary, Nico?”

  “Don’t know, but Tum was always crazy paranoid about somebody getting it.”

  “How did they know you had it?”

  “That’s what’s got me worried, Maya. Got a call from Whispering Spirit, too. Someone was there asking questions about Tum. A week ago.”

  Fear for my friends made my heart thump. “Do you think it was the same guys?”

  “I don’t know. Only thing I can figure is someone let my name slip. I’ve been to Whispering Spirit a few times with Tum.”

  Jorn tapped the computer screen. I nodded. “Nico, had Tum started smoking again?”

  I heard a pause and the sound of gulping water. “Percoset. Gotta love it. Smoking? No, he still believed in all that body-is-a-temple bullshit.”

  “The newspaper said the fire was caused by Tum smoking in bed.”

  “It did? Don’t remember that, Maya, but it can’t be right. Of course, up in the mountains, they don’t have your top arson investigators. I thought Tum’s death was an accident. Now after that visit from the Butch Twins, I’m not so sure.”

  My hand gripped the phone. “You think they’re responsible for Tum’s death?”

  “I’ll do some snooping.” I heard rustling and another groan. “Damn ribs. You watch your back, you hear?”

  I hung up. “That was Tum’s lawyer,” I told Jorn. “Someone is looking for the diary, and they beat up Nico trying to get it.”

  This unburdening was not like me. I don’t involve people in my troubles. I am usually the one sticking my nose into other people’s problems. What was it about Jorn? I couldn’t figure him out, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. There is something irresistible about a guy who doesn’t realize he’s wearing one red sock and one black one.

  “You could be in danger,” he said, rubbing his temple where a bullet had once swiped him.

  I doubted that. “They’ll never find me or the diary.”

  “Because you’re off the grid.”

  I nodded.

  Jorn tapped the laptop. “Speaking of that, what are you hiding from, Maya?”

  Chapter 6

  Winter Comes

  BEFORE I COULD THINK of a good lie to tell Peter Jorn, someone rapped on my door. I dragged my eyes away from the intent look on Jorn’s face. He expected answers, but this was something I didn’t talk about with anyone. I jumped up and clattered down the wrought-iron staircase. After a moment, I heard him follow me.

  The man on my doorstep was precisely dressed, from his expensive topcoat to his big-heeled boots, which gave him a lift to my height of five seven. He swept off a wool fedora revealing a face of sharp angles and long black hair. It was brushed back from his forehead and came to his shoulders, where it flipped up slightly at the ends. He had a shadow beard, the kind that perturbed me. In my opinion, you either shaved or you didn’t. I glanced from the stranger to Jorn’s smooth, clean face and did a double take. Jorn looked furious.

  “Yoga studio, right?” the man smiled.

  “Yes—”

  “Good.” He stepped in. I moved back. The man glanced around as he tugged off his leather gloves and unbuttoned his coat, then stopped. “Well, I’ll be damned. Peter Jorn.”

  “Sebastian Winter,” Jorn said.

  I closed the door and turned to Jorn. Cold vibes poured off him like vapor from dry ice in a bowl of water, sliding over the edge and creeping across the floor toward me and this confident stranger. My gaze shifted from one man to the other.

  “Heard you took a few in Afghanistan.” The man looked Jorn over.

  Jorn held himself straighter. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “And now you run a small-town newspaper.”

  “And you own a media empire.”

  Winter dipped his head in a gesture of false modesty. “We’ve both come so far.”

  When Jorn took a step toward him, Sebastian Winter threw up his hands with a laugh. “Come, Peter, let’s not fight.”

  I said, “How do you two know each other?”

  “College,” Jorn said.

  “Roomies actually. Our freshman year.” Winter began strolling a
round the room, examining the cubicles, the mats, Evie’s painting of a lotus on the wall. He stopped. “Is that flower eating someone?”

  It was entirely possible. Evie’s art could best be described as magnificent and troubling. She specialized in serene moments with an edge: a spider crawling out of a bowl of chicken noodle soup, a boat on a placid sea reflected in the eye of a killer whale, a smiling owl with a handlebar moustache and big teeth. She always painted animals or flowers, and they always seemed to know something you didn’t, something dark and mysterious, and, perhaps, not of this world.

  Winter cleared his throat and looked away from the painting. “Yes, umm, University of Missouri.” He nodded toward Jorn’s ratty sweatshirt. “We worked on the J-School newspaper together. When Peter wasn’t editing the campus rag. What was it called again? The Tiger? No, The Maneater.”

  As it happened, I had spent a few semesters at Missouri, studying art history that time. I knew the journalism school was a big jewel in the university’s crown and one of the only journalism schools in the country to publish a daily city newspaper that actually competed with the local city newspaper. It was called the Columbia Missourian. The Missourian liked sticking it to the city paper, and the Maneater, a free tabloid written for and by students, liked sticking it to the Missourian. Maneater reporters who were journalism majors were required to work on the Missourian as well.

  “What are you doing here, Sebastian?” Jorn said in a low voice.

  “I’ll be in town for a while,” Sebastian stopped before me, paused, “and I didn’t want to miss my yoga.”

  “You didn’t come to Gabriel’s Garden for yoga.” Jorn stepped closer to me. At six one, he towered over Sebastian. Sebastian’s grin didn’t waver.

  Keeping his eyes on Sebastian, Jorn made the introductions, “Maya Skye, this is Sebastian Winter, of Winter Media.”

  Winter Media. I’d heard of it. Who hadn’t? Winter Media owned supermarket tabloids, online tell-all sites, and news programs staffed with quasi-journalists, talking heads, and conservative commentators whose remarks inflamed Larry and Evie and made dinner conversations about politics a treat. Truth benders, Evie called them. Vicious opinion hiding behind the banner of news, Larry said. Winter Media was in the forefront of a disturbing era in journalism—reporting with an agenda.

  Winter ignored Jorn. Continuing to assess me, he drummed his fingers on the brim of the hat in his hand. “Do you give private classes?”

  The fog of Jorn’s cold vibes crept up to my knees. I sneaked a quick glance at him. “Sure,” I said, handing Sebastian a schedule of classes. He gave a nod, rebuttoned his camel hair coat, and, with a satisfied smile, turned away.

  As he reached the door, he paused with gloved hand on the knob and looked over his shoulder at Jorn. “I’m staying at the Strawberry b&b if you want to catch up, Peter.”

  “It’s different this time, Sebastian.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “This is my town. My story.”

  Sebastian laughed. “We’ll see.” He placed the fedora on his head, and with a tug on the brim, he tipped his hat to me and stepped out into the March bluster.

  With Sebastian’s exit, frosty air swept across the room, making me shiver. I sat down on the stairs and pulled my sweater closer. I patted the step beside me. “You want to tell me about him?”

  Jorn hesitated then lowered himself carefully onto the step. His shoulder touched mine. Elbows on knees, he clasped his hands in front of him. He didn’t look at me. “Stay away from him, Maya.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s got a Napoleon complex.”

  “I noticed the elevator shoes.”

  “It’s not just that. He can’t be trusted.”

  I waited.

  Jorn ran his hands through his shaggy blond hair and looked at his feet. For the first time, he noticed his socks didn’t match. “What the—,” he blew out a resigned gust of air. After several moments, he began, “I was working on a story for the Missourian. A fake concert scam. Sebastian stole my notes and ran the story under his byline.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I got even. The next time I had a scoop, I left my notes lying around again, but they didn’t tell the whole story.”

  “You fed Sebastian disinformation.”

  “I ran the real story in the Maneater.”

  “And Sebastian ran the fake story,” I said.

  “The Missourian editor wasn’t happy with Sebastian or being scooped by the Maneater.”

  “So you were rivals.”

  “Columbia is a small college town swarming with eager young reporters. Every one of them wants to break the next Watergate. Everyone’s a rival. The Missourian and the Maneater have always fought for the same stories.”

  The bizarre blooming of the cherry tree had attracted numerous calls from the press. Heart had hung up on more than one reporter. Could Sebastian really be in town for a story about a mixed-up tree? Seemed below his pay scale.

  “What do you think Sebastian’s really after?”

  Jorn turned his head, and for a moment, I got lost in his worried blue eyes. “I don’t know, but we better find out.”

  Chapter 7

  Why I Hate Ice Fishing

  SCARY? I’LL TELL YOU something. There are a lot of things scarier than you. And I’m one of them.”

  That was my best Buffy the Vampire Slayer imitation. I’m standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, my body at an angle, with no mercy in my eye. My fists are up by my face. I’m wearing the usual: loose yoga pants and a skinny tank top. My long brunette hair, with the auburn highlights Heart just put in, is pulled back into a ponytail. As usual, strands escape and fall around my face. It makes me look tough. Then I lean forward, stretch my mouth into a fake smile, and reach for my toothbrush.

  I have been playing superhero for as long as I can remember. I’m not into heroes, like Batman, who need gadgets to survive. I’m more like the Grasshopper in Kung Fu, that old television show—peaceful yet deadly. But let’s not talk about that.

  I woke up in a kick-ass mood, and it continued throughout the day and into the late afternoon when I took a walk around the city lake. It was snowing, and I loved walking in the snow, even if it was only ten degrees. So around five, when the day was about to snap shut and night hovered at the gate, I circled the city lake on a snow-packed trail. The wind wasn’t bad in the shelter of the trees; still, I was layered like an onion. Snowflakes filled the air, meandering their way to earth. I was humming the Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” when I came around a curve and saw them.

  Out on the lake, three teenage boys squatted around a hole in the ice. Their laughter drifted across the lake toward me. At first, I thought they were ice fishing. But if they were fishing, it was pretty low-tech. Basically, they had dropped a rope in a hole. No pole, no canvas stools or the poor fisherman’s equivalent—a plastic bucket. I watched one boy haul the rope out. At the end of it was a bag. He poked it, which his buddies thought was funny. That’s when I saw something in the bag move.

  Without thinking, I leaped off the path.

  I slid down the small snowy bank on my rear and started across the ice, slipping every which way, until my legs recalled the stealth of ice walking.

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  The boys glanced my way and slowly rose. They were all taller than I. In their parkas and puffy gloves, each one looked as if he could play for the Vikings. One wore a woolen ski mask with holes for the eyes and mouth, the kind popular with people up to no good. He’s the one who said, “Whaddya want?”

  “I want to see what’s in the bag,” I said, stopping a few feet from them.

  “Fuck off,” said the boy holding the dripping sack. Already rime was forming over it in the cold air. It was one of those reusable grocery tote bags tree huggers kept handy for the occasion
al shopping spree. I owned several. The top of the sack was tied shut by a bright yellow nylon rope. A pitiful sound issued from the sack.

  “Not going to happen, guys,” I said. I stood my ground and tried to look brave. Always appear calm and like the one willing to bust some heads, Tum used to say in our training sessions. Once, years ago, I was calm all the way through, from the cool steel in my gray eyes to the steady beat in my heart. Once I walked into danger without fear. But things have happened since then. On this day, alone, on a frozen lake with three unfriendly strangers, I was not as fearless as I appeared.

  The boy with the mask studied me. I stared back. Eyes always looked cruel through the slits of a mask. Slowly, he smiled at me and stuck out his tongue, which was pierced. Having several piercings in my ears and one in my belly button, I wasn’t impressed. We were maybe five feet away from each other. I took a step toward the boys and held out my gloved hand. “Give me the bag.” Another lesson from Tum: Don’t let them build up their courage. Surprise and strike. No chit-chat.

  At this time of day, the lake was deserted. Most people were at home, peering into the refrigerator, thinking about dinner. The light was quickly fading, the temperature dropping. The boys exchanged glances, and my muscles tensed. I slowly slid into a fighting stance, creating a narrower target, softening my knees, keeping my arms loose and ready at my side. My pulse thudded in my head.

  “Sure,” said the boy with the bag. He was shorter than the other two and better dressed. He wore jeans and a ski jacket, a lift ticket still dangling from the zipper tab. Long dishwater blond curls stuck out from under his bright orange knit cap. Snowboard Boy. He pretended to hand the bag over, then, at the last moment, dropped it back into the hole.

  “Go fish, bitch,” he said. With that, the three took off running, their laughter echoing in the growing night.

  “No!” I screamed and dived for the rope rapidly disappearing into the hole. I tugged off my gloves as I belly-flopped on the ice and grabbed for the rope. It raced through my hands, the fibers burning my fingers. I tried to tighten my grip, but my hands were already freezing, and my muscles refused to respond. Both arms were up to the elbow in the icy black water when, finally, the rope stopped sliding.