Ice and Stone

by Marcia Muller

  “There you go with that authorities thing again! No way I’d bring them in. Sam had taken enough shit from people around here. I didn’t want any more of it heaped on her after she was dead.”

  “She took shit because of her activism?”

  “That, and other things.”

  “Like drug use? Bart Upstream told me she was pretty wild for a time after her brother was killed.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Would Sam have taken Arbritazone?”

  “I doubt it. She experimented in her wild phase, but she was, I don’t know, selective. She knew what certain drugs can do to you.”

  “Do you have any idea of who around here might be into that kind of drug?”

  “No. I wish I did.”

  It was almost nine o’clock, I realized. I told Jake it was time I got back to where I was staying.

  “Walking around at night’s not safe, you ought to know that by now. Why don’t you stay here? The couch opens into a bed, and I’ll loan you a robe and give you first dibs on the bathroom.”

  The idea appealed to me: a warm fire and a soft bed versus hiking through the rugged forestland. Still, I couldn’t accept his invitation. No matter how angry and bitter he seemed about Josie’s death, or how he’d explained about finding the Arbritazone, I still couldn’t dismiss him as a suspect.

  “No,” I said, “I’d better go.”

  9:09 p.m.

  The branches of the trees in the forest whipped around in sudden blasts of icy wind. Although I had my flashlight, patches of black ice made my footing treacherous.

  I saw no one, heard nothing, yet I had a vague, prickly feeling that I wasn’t alone in the woods, as if someone might be following me. Jake? I doubted it; he’d seemed to respect my privacy. No one besides him and Hal Bascomb could know I was back in the area—yet the feeling persisted. I kept my hand on the butt of the .38 deep in the pocket of my parka and walked faster.

  The shack loomed ahead, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. It didn’t look as though anyone had been prowling around while I was away. I stopped as I neared it, listening. Nothing but the wind. Just nerves, I thought, because of the previous attack.

  The pathway was slick; I eased along, fumbled with the chains and padlocks, let myself inside, and locked the door. The air was frigid; I could see my breath. I kicked off my boots, climbed into the sleeping bag with all my clothes on, and pulled the extra blankets over it.

  I couldn’t get to sleep right away; thoughts of the shooting incident at the agency, Sally Bee’s traumatic experience, and Sasha Whitehorse’s disappearance kept cycling in my mind.

  I tossed around, put the pillow over my face. Dozed for a bit, then turned on my side and dislodged the pillow onto the floor. My foot was bent in an awkward position. When I shifted, my arm became trapped in the sleeping bag’s lining. I got up, retrieved the pillow, and climbed back into the bag. Rearranging myself helped, and in time I drifted off.

  11:55 p.m.

  I sensed that some time had passed when I was awakened by a howling gust of wind that rattled the shack’s walls. I checked my watch, then lay back against the pillows and dozed again.

  I woke up almost immediately when my nostrils began to tickle and I started coughing. I wriggled my nose, sneezed. Sat up, still coughing and disoriented.

  Smoke. Heat. And a chemical odor.

  Disorientation quickly gave way to alarm.

  Fire!

  The shack was on fire!

  I kicked free of the sleeping bag, reached for my parka where it hung on the hook near the door. Struggled into it, the armholes eluding me. When I had it on I ran to the door. The key wasn’t in the padlock. What the hell had I done with it? And where were my waterproof documents bag, my gun?

  The heat and smoke were stronger now. So was the chemical scent—kerosene. My eyes stung, tears coursed down my cheeks, my nose ran. I could hear the crackle of flames.

  I could die in here!

  I stumbled back to where I’d left my clothes. The keys were in the back pocket of my jeans; my fingers hooked the chain and pulled them out. Then I located the documents bag, carried it with me to the door. The .38 was still in the pocket of my parka.

  My hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t hold the hasp and padlock steady. I dropped the keys on the floor, scrabbled around, found them again. I was choking and could barely see, and the fire noise was louder. I got a left-handed grip on the padlock, finally managed to insert the key into the slot and get the staple released. I undid the chain, pushed the door open. Fell out onto the cold ground.

  It took a few seconds to scramble to my feet and a few more for my senses to return. The shack’s front and side walls and roof were ablaze, giving off waves of heat and kerosene-laden smoke. Wind-driven embers had already set fire to some of the winter-dry aspen trees nearby. Where to go, where to find safety from the conflagration?

  The river. The stone bridge.

  I staggered away from the shack on the rough, muddy ground. The riverbank here was steep; I tried to run down it, lost my balance, and slid the rest of the way on my ass. The shockingly cold water took my breath away. I went under, then surfaced, choking and gasping. I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs.

  The swift current pulled me backward, then down again. I came up with a mouthful of water, spit it out. The current still held me, carrying me farther away from the shore. I reached for an overhanging branch, caught it, but then it broke and slipped from my grasp. I went under again. The water was filling my throat, and I couldn’t breathe.

  I flailed around, working with my arms to resurface. Finally I broke the surface and got my breath back. My feet touched bottom. I moved clumsily to the far shore, pulled myself half out onto the bank. Rolled onto my side, spitting out water. Across the river I could see the flames shooting skyward from the shack’s roof.

  I must have passed out then, for how long I don’t know. When I came back to awareness, I heard sirens and men shouting. Dark shapes appeared on the far bank, and flashlight beams found me.

  The next thing I knew, strong arms had hold of me and were pulling me the rest of the way out of the river. I started choking again. A man’s voice said, “Spit it up.” He turned me over, clasped me around my middle, and forced me to regurgitate more water. Then someone else took me from him.

  Soon I was lying on my back on a stiff surface, and then it was moving. Voices shouted, red and blue lights flashed. I tried to speak. Couldn’t. My vision blurred.

  Am I going to die?

  No, dammit. No, I am not going to die!

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 12

  6:30 a.m.

  I was lying on the grass behind my house on Church Street. Naked, and my breath came in short rasps. The house was consumed by flames. The cats? Where were they? Not in there. Please, not in there!

  A soothing voice, a cool hand on my forehead. “Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

  Water down my throat. I feel so heavy.

  Can’t spit it up. I’m sinking.

  Can’t move my arms.

  Is this what it’s like to drown?

  Cold…so cold and tired. It would be easy to let go…

  Let go, yes, let go…

  I struggled to sit up, opened my mouth to scream. The sound that came out was an ugly guttural noise. A gentle hand settled me back on warm pillows.

  “It’s all right, Ms. McCone. You’re safe, you were just dreaming.”

  Who owned this voice? All I saw at first was blurry white. Then a face emerged: kindly blue eyes, dark hair.

  “You were just dreaming,” she repeated.

  But much of what I’d been dreaming of was real.

  My former home on Church Street in the city had burned to the ground, torched by a client with a grudge against me. My cats and I had escaped unscathed, but I’d lost almost everything—precious mementoes, furniture, electronic devices, my car, all my clothing.

  But that was over, long over.

 
“Where am I?”

  “Aspendale Medical Clinic, Ms. McCone. I’m your nurse, Willa Sharp Eyes.”

  My head was clearing, my eyes open and focusing now. I saw daylight through parted curtains. Morning?

  “Your identification was in the waterproof pouch in your parka as well as a gun, and a registration and a permit for it. They’re in our office safe.

  “Do you remember what happened to you?” the nurse asked.

  I closed my eyes. The smell of smoke, the fire, skidding down the riverbank, the cold water. “I do, except I don’t know how I got out of the river.”

  “A couple of the volunteer firefighters.”

  “The shack—was it completely destroyed?”

  “I’m afraid so. Burned to the ground.”

  My iPad with the case files, my voice recorder, my cell phone, the clothing and other things I’d brought with me—all gone. Even the clothes and parka I’d thrown on were probably unwearable after immersion in the stream. I couldn’t help groaning.

  “Are you all right, Ms. McCone?”

  My throat hurt, my chest ached, my muscles were stiff, but I was alive. I moved my arms and legs under cool sheets. No real pain.

  “All right,” I said.

  “You’re fortunate. Smoke inhalation, but no hypothermia. Do you remember what happened?”

  I closed my eyes, tried to concentrate. Images played on my eyelids, but not from the fire at the shack. My former home, the vast out-of-control wildfires that had plagued our state in past years, the weary, smudged faces of the firefighters who had fought bravely, the stunned faces of the people who had lost both their homes and their loved ones. And last night I had almost become a victim myself.

  Why? Who had known I was staying in the shack?

  The nurse—Willa Sharp Eyes—looked so concerned and caring that I hated to lie to her. “I don’t remember anything, except for the flames. Maybe later on…”

  She offered a few comforting words and left me alone. I slept for a while, until another nurse came in and woke me in order to take my vital signs. “You’re doing well,” she said when she was done. “Would you like something to help you rest?”

  “No, thank you.” I needed to stay awake so I could think.

  “Well, if you need anything, just buzz the nurses’ station.”

  10:55 a.m.

  I wasn’t making much headway with my thinking when the door suddenly jerked open and a scowling figure erupted into the room. In the corridor I heard the nurse say, “Sir, sir, you can’t—” before the man pushed the door shut in her face.

  He stomped toward my bed. He was stocky, of middle height, clad in a khaki uniform with a big gold star on his breast. He was equipped with all the storm trooper paraphernalia: Sam Browne belt with gun and nightstick, radio mic clipped to his shoulder.

  He said, “I’m Sheriff Noah Arneson. And I know who you are—Sharon McCone, a private snoop from San Francisco.”

  I struggled to find the control that would raise the head of my bed. When I finally did, I had a clearer look at his face: wide, double chinned, and red.

  I said tartly, “Private investigator, Sheriff.”

  He ignored the correction. “And I know it was that Sisters bunch that hired you to look into the murders of those Native women. If you’ve found out anything, you’d better tell me what it is.”

  “Nothing of any significance.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Somebody deliberately set fire to that shack where you were hiding out. Wanted to shut you up.”

  “How do you know it was arson?”

  “A burned kerosene tin in the rubble is the only evidence I need to prove it.” He scowled. “Damned lucky it’s winter and the woods are half-frozen, or we’d have had a wildfire on our hands. Fire did enough damage as it is. And all on account of you.”

  “Well, as I said, I’ve found out nothing.”

  “No? Then why would somebody want you dead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Now, you listen to me, missy. This is a matter for county law enforcement. We investigate, not some fancy outside detective. We deal with our own crimes.”

  I pushed myself up higher, fixed him with a steady look. “So far, you don’t seem to have done much investigating.”

  His face flushed more deeply, and he moved toward my bed. “We do what we can, and don’t you try to tell me otherwise!”

  “I understand you’re policing a large area with a small staff. I’d think you’d welcome help—”

  “Don’t need no help. Not from a woman and not from an—”

  He broke off, but not soon enough.

  “The victims were women and Natives. Crimes better buried in the cold case files, right?”

  “Not right, dammit. You were almost roasted alive in that fire. Somebody doesn’t want you poking around in my county. And neither do I.”

  The door opened, and a tall man dressed in white came in. He said sharply, “Sheriff Arneson, I’m Dr. James Williams. My patient has not been cleared to have visitors, especially ones who barge in unannounced. I suggest you leave.”

  Arneson’s mouth worked, but he bit back whatever reply he’d been about to make, whirled, and left the room.

  The doctor closed the door behind him. “Annoying man,” he said. “Let me take your vitals, Ms. McCone, and then I’ll leave you to rest.”

  2:02 p.m.

  I jerked awake. I’d not only rested, I’d gone back to sleep. But the unpleasant aura of Arneson’s visit lingered. I was thirsty, and there was a carafe of water on a stand next to the bed. I poured a glassful and was drinking from it when Willa Sharp Eyes came in. When she saw that I was awake, she said I had a visitor. Did I want to see Allie Foxx?

  “Yes, please.”

  Allie came in, carrying a tote and a garment bag, and stepped close to the bed. She seemed tired, deep circles under her eyes. “You look okay, Sharon, but how do you feel?”

  “Well enough to get out of here soon.”

  “That’s what I brought these for.” She set the bags down. “New wardrobe, courtesy of the Sisters. A new cell phone too. We figured you must’ve lost everything in the fire.”

  “Pretty much, except for my identification and my gun. I was wondering what I’d do for clothing. Thanks, Allie.”

  She sat in a chair next to the bed. “There’s a Jeep waiting for you outside, courtesy of my brother-in-law, who has a dealership in Ames. God, I’m so sorry this happened to you! Do they know yet what started the fire?”

  “I think it’s more who than what.”

  “Arson?”

  I nodded. “Someone must have found out who I am. Maybe they discovered I was keeping my plane here and looked up the registration. Every plane has an identification number prominently displayed on it, and the number is a matter of public record.”

  “The murderer?”

  “Or somebody else involved.”

  “So what are you going to do now? You haven’t any place to stay. How will that affect your investigation?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But it’s not going to stop me from pursuing it.”

  “Where will you stay? Neither of the motels is very comfortable, or very clean.”

  “And too public in any case. A private home in the village would do,” I said, thinking hesitantly of Jake’s.

  “I know! One of the Sisters, Jane Ramone, lives here in Aspendale. She’s very hospitable, and I know she has plenty of room. Shall I call her?”

  “Please do.”

  She began dialing her phone. When she disconnected, she said, “Jane will expect you whenever they release you. She may not be home, but there’s a key under the big yellow flowerpot. Three-ten Easy Street—if you can believe such an address.”

  Easy Street. Just where I’ve always wanted to live.

  2:20 p.m.

  I was antsy to get out of the clinic. I rang the nurse’s station. Willa Sharp Eyes came in
response, and I told her I felt fine, only a slight exaggeration, and was ready to leave. She said she’d check with Dr. Williams, who was with another patient.

  Meanwhile I had another visitor: Jake Blue. He looked less than friendly but sounded concerned when he asked how I was.

  “I’m okay. Mending.”

  “You sound kind of hoarse.”

  “That’s what I get for drinking gallons of the river water.”

  “When I heard there’d been a fire victim, I just knew it was you. I called the clinic and they confirmed it. Somebody found out where you were staying and deliberately set that fire. A friend of mine was out at the scene, a first responder. He said it was arson.”

  I didn’t tell him of Sheriff Arneson’s visit, just said, “I figured as much.”

  “Are you going to keep on with your investigation?”

  “Damned right I am. Nobody tries to make toast out of me and gets away with it.”

  “You have any idea who did it?”

  “Whoever murdered Sam Runs Close and Dierdra Two Shoes, probably.”

  “Yeah, and that could be anybody. This county’s full of guys with one agenda—do what they want and take what they want for themselves. Take from the Natives, who owned the land in the first place. From the ordinary people, who’ve got a right to a decent life here. From uppity women, gays, liberals. Hell, it’s the same all across this whole damn country.”

  “The Harcourts, for instance?”

  “Yeah, the Harcourts. Other rich and powerful types like them.”

  “Such as?”

  “The Hellmans. Peter Hellman made his money in Silicon Valley, retired here. He doesn’t do anything with his land, but I hear he still runs financial stuff from an office in his big house. Abe Hope—he owns the lumberyard where I work.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “There’re all sorts of people scattered around on big pieces of property around here. Nobody knows what they’re up to. All sorts of scuzzy types too, who’ll do anything for money.”

  “Like the pair who work for the Harcourts, Gene Byram and Vic Long?”