Ice and Stone

Friday, January 11

9:10 a.m.

Alicia had come in late, no doubt exhausted, and was still asleep when I got up. I wrote her a note, thanking her for her hospitality, then called for a cab to take me to Santa Rosa Memorial. Once there, I asked at the main desk if I could see Sally Bee. No, not for a while; she was undergoing tests.

I wondered if Henry Howling Wolf had arrived, and I asked the receptionist if Sally Bee had had any other visitors. The answer was yes, but the receptionist didn’t know if Henry was still on the premises. I looked for him, didn’t find him, then repaired to the cafeteria and treated myself to a chili dog for breakfast.

My eating habits have always been questionable, according to other people. Vegans and some vegetarians consider them disgusting, while “half-assed vegetarians,” as one of my friends describes herself, reassure me that everybody slips up sometimes. But even people who sometimes slip up tend to look askance at a chili dog this early in the morning. Hey, though, you gotta eat, and you ought to be able to eat what you want when you want it.

Besides, why would a hospital cafeteria offer chili dogs in the morning if it weren’t okay?

I looked at two nurses at the next table who were giving me disapproving glances and winked.

10:10 a.m.

When I came out of the cafeteria and passed through the lobby, I spotted Henry Howling Wolf slumped in one of the chairs. He must have had a long, hard drive down from Meruk County; he was red eyed and disheveled, his hair sticking up in unruly points. He remembered me right away and was surprised to see me.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I came because I’m concerned about Sally.”

“Why? How did you know where to find her?”

“From the ER doctor, Alicia Jordan.” He looked so distraught that, after swearing him to secrecy, I told him about my true occupation and the job I’d been hired to do.

“My God,” he said, “do you think Sally’s attacker had something to do with those awful murders?”

“Possibly. But the crimes are different. Dierdra Two Shoes and Sam Runs Close weren’t drugged, and Sally is still alive. Have you seen her yet?”

“For a few minutes a while ago.”

“How is she today?”

“She’s conscious, and her thought processes are good, but God, what those bastards did to her...” There was relief and sadness in his voice, but anger overrode the other emotions.

“Was she able to tell you what happened to her?”

“Not in any detail yet. Just that she was kidnapped, then taken somewhere, drugged, abused, and held prisoner.”

“Kidnapped where, did she say?”

“In the woods near the old monastery.”

“Where I found her feather medallion.”

“Yes. Do you still have it?”

“No. It was forcibly taken from me three nights ago.”

“By who?”

“I don’t know, just that it was a man. Fairly strong.”

“Why would he want the pendant?”

“No idea — yet.”

Henry’s hands curled into fists. “If I knew who did all those terrible things to Sally...”

“What would you do?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a violent man, but they can’t get away with it. I don’t trust the sheriff, Noah Arneson, to find out. He’s a horse’s ass. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s involved in what happened to Sally and the two murdered women.”

“Do you have any reason to believe he is?”

“No. It’s not only that I don’t trust him. He’s a racist.”

“Can you think of anyone else who might be involved?”

“I wish I did. But no.” He added bitterly, “Meruk County is full of Native haters.”

11:45 a.m.

Henry went for coffee, and I read tattered old magazines until he and I were allowed to visit Sally Bee. She was sitting up in bed when we entered the ICU. Today there was a light in her unbandaged eye that brightened when she saw Henry. He kissed her cheek, then sat down beside her and held her hand.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her.

“I’m not sure. You were here yesterday with the doctor, but I don’t know you...”

I explained, giving her my real name and occupation as I had to Henry, then asked, “Do you feel up to talking to me?”

She glanced at Henry, who nodded. “All right.”

“I’d like to tape our conversation, if that’s okay with you.”

“No problem.”

I got the recorder rolling, and Sally began to speak haltingly. Her voice was hoarse, and she had to stop for breath every so often, but her memory seemed clear. “I went to Saint Germaine to finish a series of pictures I’m hoping to sell to a little historical journal. The light... I couldn’t get it right. It was one of those gray days, and the place felt kind of... creepy.”

“Were you aware that anyone else was there?”

“Well, I kept thinking I heard noises... noises in the brush, but I couldn’t see anybody. Not even an animal. But I remember... I felt threatened. I took my pictures and got out of there and ran down the trail real quick. Then I tripped and fell. After that, I don’t remember anything until I woke up in a... an awful place.”

“What kind of place, Sally?”

“It was... dark and smelled like mildew. I was lying on a rickety cot, tied up with a cloth over my eyes so I couldn’t see. Spiderwebs kept touching my face. Really creepy, like in an old-time horror movie. But it wasn’t in a movie, it was real.” She started coughing, leaned back against the raised bed. I handed her a cup of water.

I waited a bit, then asked, “What happened next?”

She shuddered. “This big guy, he laid me down on the floor. It was filthy. Mouse droppings, and God knows what other things. He forced me to drink some terrible-tasting dark liquor, poured it down my throat and made me swallow. I blacked out again. When I came to, I was alone. I knew he’d raped me. I was bleeding — he’d been that vicious. He’d covered me with some blankets and left.”

“I’m so sorry. Please go on.”

Long silence. Then, “I passed out again. Then he and another guy arrived and raped me over and over. I lost track of time. It might’ve been two days or two years. Everything was muddled. Except for the pain. The pain...!” She began to cry, rasping, heartrending sobs.

Behind me the ICU nurse’s voice said, “I think that’s enough for now. Miss Bee needs to rest.”

But Sally held up her free hand. “No, I want to finish telling this.” She took several deep breaths, regaining control.

“What can you tell me about the men?” I asked.

“Only that one was heavy, one was thinner. They never took the blindfold off, so I couldn’t see their faces.”

“Was there anything distinctive about their voices?”

“They didn’t talk much. When they did, they sounded white.”

“Do you have any idea where this place was?”

She shook her head, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Were you conscious when they took you away?”

“Yes. More or less.”

“Try to remember. What did you hear? Smell?”

Another long silence, then: “It was cold, very cold. The air... like in the mountains.”

“Cars? Anyone else around?”

“No. Just the wind in the trees. Pines. And eucalyptus. I could smell them before they put me in the back of a car.”

“How long before they let you out?”

“I don’t remember. I think I passed out while they were driving. And they didn’t let me out, they dumped me by the side of the road. Like I was a piece of garbage.” A fierce anger blazed in her eyes, and she squeezed Henry’s hand so tightly her knuckles were white. “I hope I’ve helped. I want those bastards caught! I want them to suffer for what they did to me and those other women!”

3:27 p.m.

Henry went out into the hall with me for a brief consultation before I left. “‘Those other women,’” he said. “Does that mean she knows the men who assaulted her committed the other crimes as well?”

“I doubt it.”

“Me too.” Then, almost plaintively, “You’re going to keep on investigating, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I want to now more than ever.”

“Because of Sally? Because you’re Native?”

“Both. And because I don’t like to give up on anything once I start.”

“When are you going back to Meruk County?”

“Right away.”

“I’ll be here until Sally’s well enough to go home. You’ll let me know if you find out anything?”

“Yes. I certainly will.”

7:55 p.m.

My flight to Meruk was uneventful, although thick, dark clouds warned that there might be more snow on the way. A black January night closed in as I landed.

I went straight to Jake Blue’s house. The streets were icy, mostly empty, with only a few lights showing. It was like walking through a ghost town.

“I’m glad to see you,” Jake said, ushering me in and indicating a chair across from the sofa. “Where have you been?”

“San Francisco. I had business there.”

“Something happened while you were gone. Sasha Whitehorse has disappeared.”

“Sasha — the woman who works at Good Price? When?”

“Last night, I guess. She left the store at the end of her shift with some plastic flowers she’d bought to decorate her parents’ graves. The flowers were there this morning, and there was evidence something — or someone — had been dragged down the slope to the gate. Nobody’s seen her since.”

“What do the authorities say?”

“The authorities? You mean Arneson? He won’t do any more to try to locate her than he did with the others.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Sasha’s Native, isn’t she?” After a pause, he said, “Dammit, she’s such a nice girl. Had aspirations, wanted to get out of here, maybe go to college.”

Although I already knew his history, I asked, “Did you go to college, Jake?”

“Cal Poly at San Luis. But I only stayed two semesters. I didn’t fit in down there, I wasn’t smart enough. And then Josie died, so I came back here.”

“You were badly hurt by her death. Badly enough to see a doctor?”

“Doctor? You mean a shrink? Hell no. There isn’t one that I know of in Meruk County, and even if there was, I wouldn’t have. I don’t believe in that stuff. Just a waste of time and money.”

“What about medication?”

“You mean drugs?”

“Antidepressants, that kind of thing.”

Jake wasn’t buying my offhand attitude. He stared at me. Then he went to the kitchen, and I heard the freezer door open. When he came back, his hands were balled into fists.

He said, “You prowled around when you were alone here, didn’t you? The vial of that liquid is missing — you found it and took it. Why?” His face darkened with anger.

There was no point in denying it. I’d been leading up to confronting him about it anyway. I said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“And what is that?”

I told him my occupation, explained briefly about my investigation.

“So that’s it,” he said when I finished. “I figured you for somebody other than you said. But I didn’t imagine you were a private investigator. What did you do with the vial?”

“I had it analyzed in San Francisco.”

“And?”

“It’s called Arbritazone. A powerful antipsychotic, sometimes used recreationally.”

“Well, I don’t take the stuff. Not any kind of drug. It’s not mine.”

“No? Then why did you have it?”

He shook his head. “You must’ve noticed there’s no doctor’s or patient’s name on the label.”

“I did. I thought maybe for privacy’s sake—”

“Exactly what I thought. But that doesn’t matter. It’s evidence.”

“Of what?”

He was silent.

“Jake, where did you get it?”

“...I found it beside Sam Runs Close’s body.”

“Next to her? Not in her hand or in a pocket?”

“No,” he said. “It was lying there in the snow.”

“So it may not have belonged to her.”

“No. More likely to whoever blew her away.”

“And you took it instead of leaving it for the authorities.”

“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!