Silence, then, except for the sounds of the men settling into their sleeping bags. I curled up, breathing in small intakes and exhalations.
“Vic?”
“What now?”
“The old man—he’s crazy, ain’t he?”
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“He must be. I mean—”
“Shut up, Gene.”
“I mean—”
“Shut up!”
Gene snorted, shifted around, then fell silent.
A little time passed. Then Vic said in a plaintive tone, “Hey, I didn’t mean what I said.”
“Huh?”
“About you having no place to go. Even after that mess with the girl over in Reno, you could—”
“Leave it, man. She was nothing but a tramp, and she left town good and quick. Besides, I asked you never to talk about Reno. Stuff is what it is. Just let it be.”
Silence again.
Two minutes more, and then:
Gene: It’s goddamn cold here. Maybe we shoulda gone up to the other place. At least we could’ve slept inside there.
Vic: Too far away. And even colder and windier. You got any of that antifreeze left?
Gene: Got some, yeah.
Vic: You sharing?
Gene: Do I have a choice?
Drinking sounds, followed by a loud belch. After a few minutes, Gene said, “You asleep?”
“I will be, if you ever shut up.”
“But—”
“I said if you ever shut up!”
Silence, except for the drone of an airplane in the distance. Small jet, I thought, as I pulled my covers higher. I was still on edge but feeling reasonably safe, so I passed the time thinking about what little I’d learned from the men’s conversation. An old man on a nearby ranch had sent them away. Who was he? And what did the men do at the ranch? Couldn’t be anything important; they didn’t sound like the brightest bulbs in the box. Maybe they were security guards. Long ago I’d worked in the field; I knew what security guards sounded like, and these two fit my recollections. But why would someone need guards in this godforsaken outpost?
A hundred scenarios would dance in my dreams if I couldn’t tamp down my imagination, and I’d wake exhausted. I closed my eyes, tried to quiet my thoughts. It didn’t help much, and when I did drop off and dream, I saw shadowy extraterrestrials with tentacles and huge eyes on stalks creeping down the ridge toward the shack.
I swatted one on the nose, and they went away.
6:49 a.m.
Groans, grunts, and mumbles. The men were getting up.
Gene: Shit! My back hurts.
Vic: Keep thinking about the dough we’re gonna collect.
Gene: Yeah, I can use it for my spine surgery.
Vic: Why are you always so negative?
Gene: Just my nature, I guess.
Vic: Well, screw your nature. Let’s get outta here, get to the ranch. I’m hungry.
Gene: You’re always hungry.
Vic: You’re the one with the gut.
7:17 a.m.
After I was sure the men wouldn’t return, I got up, pulled on jeans, boots, and a wool shirt, and went outside. The snow that I’d expected had come at some point, but it must have been a brief flurry, leaving only a light dusting on the rocky ground. I could see vague outlines of where the men had been lying. I went over and studied the area.
An empty pint bottle of Four Star, a cheap blended whiskey. A pile of used tissues—I’d heard one of them hacking and wheezing as they got up. Cigarette butts—Marlboros. A Bic lighter. That was all. Nothing that might identify either of them.
Back inside the shack, I checked my image in the mirror from my purse. In this light my face had a grayish pallor and my eyes were dark circled. After years of wearing my black hair at shoulder length, I’d recently let it grow; without combing it, I caught it up in a rubber band and let it straggle down my back. As I looked at my reflection, a shiver touched my shoulder blades. Now I superficially resembled one of the murder victims, Samantha Runs Close, whose photo I’d studied over the past week.
I bundled up in a raggedy parka that I’d found among the things the Sisters had left for me and stepped outside again with the walking stick in hand. After replacing the lock and chain on the door, I headed north along the Little White River to the area where the bodies of the two victims had been found.
The morning was cold, the sky mostly clear now, but the chill air still held the scent of snow. The sun was barely cresting the eastern hills that separated Meruk from Modoc County, a strong pink glow.
The river wound through pines and aspens, many of them dead or dying from the West’s seven-year drought, which had partially broken last year. Unfortunately, the torrential rains that followed had produced catastrophic mudslides; I climbed over their leavings as I kept to my easterly path.
All the time I listened. To the forest sounds of unseen animals large and small rustling in the undergrowth, but mostly for the steps of the most dangerous animal of all—man. I’m always alert for danger in unfamiliar surroundings, especially on an investigation of the type that had brought me here.
I kept my free hand on the .38 inside the parka’s deep pocket. I have mixed feelings about firearms. From a professional’s standpoint, I’m damned happy to own one; I don’t carry often, but when I do, it’s for a good reason; a few times, doing so has saved my life—others’ lives too. Even though I’ve killed in self-defense with my gun, the memories of those times live on in my nightmares. I fully support more stringent regulations on the sale and licensing of firearms, and I despair that they’ve yet to be enacted.
Once I had a high school friend—a well-meaning but naïve naval officer—who, worried about his wife’s safety while he was on a long deployment, bought her a .22-caliber automatic at a pawnshop. He loaded it, put it in her bedside table drawer before shipping out to Alaska. Three months later she was dead, the victim of a burglar whom she’d confronted with the weapon; he’d easily taken it away and shot her because her husband hadn’t instructed her in the critical act of taking the safety off.
I wish we lived in a world where weapons of any kind weren’t easy to obtain or even necessary. But in this world, wishes don’t count.
The river meandered through the forest, in some places running fast, in others spreading out into still pools. Birds—from melodious songsters to harsh crows—provided a continual chorus. A long-tailed woodpecker went to work on a ponderosa pine, and a gimlet-eyed hawk swooped overhead, scanning the ground for prey.
At one point the river crested a rise, then cascaded into a small waterfall. I stopped and leaned on an outcropping, drinking from my water bottle and getting my bearings. I’d been headed due east, but ahead of me the river took a sharp bend to the north, and through the thick vegetation I could make out a jumble of dark stones. The remains of St. Germaine Riviere, the abandoned monastery where the bodies of the two murdered women had been found.
The monastery, Allie Foxx had told me, had been founded in 1910 by a little-known order of Catholic monks dedicated to educating the Natives of the area. They met with little success and considerable hostility, and when the structure burned to the ground in 1951, arson was suspected. The few remaining monks had fled, and the church had displayed little interest in the property, which now had been reclaimed by the forest, a monument to the failure of the faiths and races to coexist.
A wooden footbridge leading to the ruins had collapsed into the river, but heavy planks had been laid down beside it. Tattered, weathered yellow crime-scene tape fluttered in the light breeze, and on a wide section of open ground nearby I spotted ruts and gouges where a rescue helicopter had landed. Some of the blackened buildings had collapsed in huge scattered chunks, now covered by moss and birdlime.
I studied the ruins. A few walls still stood, others had been totally leveled. Decaying timbers stretching the walls’ entire length had caved into a stone foundation marking a large structure—perhaps a chapel. H
eaps of slate from the roof littered the ground, and old, tough vines wound over them. Tall weeds swayed in a sudden breeze, and the heavy limbs of nearby oak trees moved, groaning and casting shadows across the whole area. Suddenly I felt as if I’d come upon a long-untended graveyard.
But there were no graves here—only the reminders of two violent deaths.
I tested the sturdiness of the planks over the river, then crossed them. Stopped and tried to match what I was seeing to the crime-scene photographs the Sisters had provided. Samantha Runs Close had been lying over a massive granite slab. The other victim, Dierdra Two Shoes, had been found farther in among the rubble. Both had been shot in the head. Neither had been sexually assaulted. The bodies had been discovered by a pair of bird hunters.
I prowled among the ruins, though I doubted I’d find any overlooked evidence of what had happened here. The murders—which occurred in early December—had been investigated by the county sheriff’s department and tribal police from the nearby Meruk reservation. But the sheriff’s department’s resistance to the Sisters’ and tribal cops’ request to see their files troubled me, as did the general assumption among the populace described to me by the Sisters—that the deaths had been isolated incidents, over and done with, never to be solved and therefore best forgotten.
No, dammit, you don’t ignore or forget such horrific crimes. They must be investigated, they must be brought to a conclusion.
It was only nine o’clock, but the sky was darkening. Gravid cumulus clouds moved slowly in over the hills to the east. More snow on the way, maybe heavier this time. Still I lingered, reluctant to leave.
Certain places, especially those where traumatic or violent events have occurred, have a distinctive feel. As the dark gathered, obscuring ordinary details, I was sensing that phenomenon here. Not through auditory hallucinations or Technicolor flashes, strong scents or unusual temperatures—those are special effects for Hollywood movies. Rather the place held a troubling aura: sorrow, regret, loss, a rending, as if some essential part had been irretrievably ripped from its whole.
I walked among the ruins for a long time.
10:30 a.m.
I was midway down the river trail when I found the silver pendant.
A glint of metal caught my eye, and I crossed the trail toward it. A tree had been uprooted, and in the disturbed ground lay a charm in the shape of a feather that had many more intricate feathers incised upon it. At its top was a ring through which a light blue silk thread was strung; the thread had been broken off about four inches above the ring.
A pendant, I thought. Fallen from someone’s neck, perhaps pulled off in a struggle.
I took out one of my plastic baggies and slipped the pendant into it, then put the bag in my jeans pocket. On the right of the path, between two jagged boulders, was an area where the damp earth looked trampled. I moved over for a close look at the rocks. On the leeward one, free of a dusting of snow, were crusty brownish smears that could be blood.
Samantha Runs Close and Dierdra Two Shoes had both been shot in the head and, according to the county medical examiner, died where they’d been found. I’d seen no signs of a struggle at either location, but there were definitely some here. A third murder in this area that the authorities had missed? It was entirely possible.
I took out my cell and snapped a few pictures of the disturbed earth and bloodstains. The light here was bad. I glanced up at the sky; the snow clouds had moved in closer, driven by high winds. I hurried down the trail, anxious to get back to the protection of the shack.
11:45 a.m.
I needn’t have hurried. By the time I reached the shack, the storm had bypassed the area, the winds whipping the snow-filled clouds to the southeast. I struggled with the difficult padlock. It stuck, started to give, stuck again, and finally yielded.
After chaining the door and turning on one of the lanterns, I sat on the bunk to examine the silver feather. It was an unusual charm, probably handcrafted, with the initials HH on its back. Made by a local artisan, who might recognize it and remember to whom he or she had sold it? Maybe someone in Aspendale? No reason I couldn’t go there this afternoon.
Of course, how to deal with showing the pendant was problematic. If it was evidence of a struggle, I didn’t want to make myself a target. Finally I decided I would wear it with the shabby clothing and parka that the Sisters had provided as camouflage, on the off chance somebody would recognize and comment on it. I’d have to be doubly on my guard; after all, I suspected it had last been worn by a victim of violence.
The path to Aspendale was easy to follow, compared to the trail along the river. It crossed Fisher’s Mill Road, where Allie had led me through the deadfall the other day, then wound downhill through forest. There were patches of ice on the ground, and a couple of times I didn’t notice them until I slipped and righted myself. Sunlight filtered through the branches, making the snow patches glitter; birds again took up their chorus, and I saw a buzzard sitting up high, spreading its huge wings to dry. I narrowly avoided plunging into slick runoff that coursed down a slope.
As I walked, I made a mental to-do list: wander about the village, allowing as many people as possible to see the pendant; stop in shops, making a few small purchases and trying to strike up conversations. Keep my ears open and senses attuned.
Undercover work like this was something I hadn’t done in a long time. In San Francisco I had a high profile that prevented it. I was used to making appointments with the principals in a case, walking in, and asking my questions. This process was more delicate and much more challenging.
The village appeared around a curve in the path: the main street was no more than three blocks long, with side streets bisecting it. Some of the buildings were false fronted, as in old Western movies; others were cement block; some were redwood plank and no sturdier looking than the shack. A few beater cars were parked in front of a bar called Billiards ’n Brews; a structure that looked like a former church advertised available office space; there was a Good Price Store, a Fine Food Mart, a Valero gas station, a lumberyard, a hardware store, and a hair salon called Gigi’s Curls. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
First the Good Price Store: overheated, with a smell of disinfectant. Short aisles crammed with all manner of merchandise: beach toys were shelved between lawn mowers and snow shovels; baby clothes hung limply next to plastic flowers; candy mingled with housewares. In a couple of long aisles the shelves were mostly empty. There was one register up front, unmanned. A bell above the door had tinkled as I entered, and I pretended interest in a display of greeting cards till someone appeared.
A thin, ponytailed young Native woman with a wide smile approached me. She said, “That’s a new line we just got in. Nice, I guess, if you’re sentimental.”
“I’m not.” I turned and touched the pendant so she had a full view of it.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “you’ve got one of Henry Howling Wolf’s pieces! That’s a particularly beautiful one.”
“I think so too.”
“Did he make it for you personally?”
“Ah, no. I ordered it by mail. I actually wanted to see him and thank him for sending it to me, but I’ve lost his contact information. Do you have it?”
“Sure.” She pulled out an old Rolodex from under the counter and wrote it down on a slip of paper. As she handed it to me, she asked, “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome. I’m Sasha Whitehorse, by the way.”
“I’m Sharon McNear. Glad to meet you.” The cover story had been suggested by the Sisters; the name was my choice—close enough to my own so I’d respond to it quickly.
“Thank you. Are you a tourist? We don’t get many this time of year.”
“No. Actually, I’m a journalist.” It was a cover story one of the Sisters had suggested to me.
“A journalist? Are you here to write about the murders?”
I feigned innocence. “What murders?”
/> “Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know. A couple of girls got killed here a while back.”
“Really? Did the police catch who did it?”
“Not yet.” Sasha fidgeted and changed the subject. “Where are you staying?”
“At a motel near Bluefork. The E-Z Rest.” Hal had asked the owner to vouch for me.
“It’s kind of a hot sheet.”
“I suspected as much. It’ll do for a while, though.”
“Will you be here long?”
“That depends on what there is to see and do. What I’ll be writing is a travel-oriented piece.”
She laughed. “Then you won’t be here long. Look where we’re at.” She swept her arm around—at the store, at the town, at everything, I supposed. “There’s nothing here, never has been. I stay because I’ve got no place else to go. You know how it is.”
No place to go. Like Gene, according to his friend Vic.
“I do, but tell me anyway.”
“Well, it’s a poor county. The minimum wage in this state is due to rise to fifteen bucks soon, but I make five, and I’m lucky to get it. The housing sucks—me and my boyfriend and another couple live in a drafty barn at Hogwash Farm and pay the old guy who owns it in chores. There’s nothing to do.”
“Are people afraid to go out because of the murders?”
A door closed at the rear of the shop. The woman cast a nervous look back there. “That’s the man who owns this place. Please go before he comes in!”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“Please! He doesn’t like me talking too long with the customers!”
I went.
1:15 p.m.
Outside the store I tried to call Henry Howling Wolf, but there was no answer. Heeding hunger pangs, I stopped in at the Fine Food Mart for a sandwich, some chips, and a Coke. The middle-aged man at the register was closed faced and rung up my purchases silently. He glanced at the pendant but displayed no recognition.
I said, “How’s your day going?”
“Okay.”
“Think it’s going to snow again soon?”
Ice and Stone Page 2
