Ice and Stone

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?”

“Yeah, like them. They’ve got a hand in dirty jobs all over the county.” Jake paused, frowning. “Didn’t you tell me you ran into those two?”

“Yes.”

“They hassle you?”

“No. What kind of dirty jobs?”

“Debt collecting — there’s a lot of gambling in these parts, both legal and illegal, in and out of the casinos. Smacking people around when they get out of line.”

Setting a deadly fire if they were ordered to?

I didn’t give voice to the thought. Instead I said, “You’ve lived here nearly your whole life, Jake. What makes this county so valuable to rich people like the Harcourts? Mining? Oil? Natural gas? Other resources?”

“There’s never been much of that to exploit. Silver, at one point, but those mines played out early last century.”

“And the two women who were killed — what connection is there between them and the powers that be?”

He was silent for a time. “Don’t know that either. I understand what you’re trying to do. But what happens now? You can’t go up against people like the Harcourts and Peter Hellman and Abe Hope unless you’ve got proof one or more of them’s a murderer.”

“Finding the necessary proof,” I said. “That’s what happens now.”

5:10 p.m.

Dr. Williams pronounced me fit to leave the clinic. I would have gone anyway, but I was glad to have his okay. I unwrapped the clothes Allie had brought: undies, narrow-legged jeans, a warm sweater, and a fleece-lined jacket. I dressed and went to the admissions desk to check myself out and to pick up the pouch containing my ID and .38 as well as the keys to the vehicle the Sisters had provided. It was a somewhat dinged Jeep Cherokee at least a dozen years old, but it ran and handled well, and the gas tank was full. Before following Allie’s directions to Easy Street, I detoured to the airstrip to get the sectional charts from my plane.

Hal was glad to see me up and around. He said, “I called Hy this morning and filled him in on what happened last night, told him you were okay — I’d called the clinic earlier to verify that. He wanted to fly up here, but I discouraged him.”

“That’s good; he’s got enough on his plate, given the shooting at our agency.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, do the two of you ever get to spend any time together?”

“Not as much as we’d like.”

“But when you do...?”

“It’s terrific. Hal, did anybody come around the airstrip inquiring about my plane?”

“Sure did,” he said. “Paul Harcourt. I claimed I didn’t know you or the plane, and all the time it was sitting safe and sound in that little hangar. Us guys who stray a little to either side of FAA regs got to stick together.”

“Could he have snuck a look inside the hangar?”

“I suppose he could have.”

And gotten the registration number if he did, which would give him access to all sorts of information.

“By the way,” Hal said, “there’s been a good deal of air movement up at the Harcourt ranch the past couple of days. Planes coming and going. Must be a big conference of some sort.”

“Any idea where the planes are coming from?”

“At least one from out of state that I saw.”

“Interesting. Keep on top of it, please.”

“Happy to do so.”

6:01 p.m.

Jane Ramone’s house was a white A-frame of the type that had been popular in the 1970s. A row of eucalyptus sheltered it from the prevailing winds. As I approached the door, a series of yips told me that I was about to encounter a very formidable canine.

“Shut up, Cassie,” a voice inside said.

The woman who opened the door was short, with unruly dark-brown curls, and was clad in a purple floor-length dress. In her arms she held a wriggling ball of blond fur.

“Hey, Cassie,” I said.

The dog stopped wriggling, and its black shoe-button eyes stared at me.

I patted its head. “Friends?”

“Yip!” Cassie licked my hand.

“Friends,” I said.

“Yip!”

The woman, Jane Ramone, set the dog down. “Good to meet you, Ms. McCone. I see you’re a dog person.”

“An animal person — all kinds.”

“Are you hungry, thirsty?”

“Famished and dry.”

“Come this way.”

She led me down a long hallway where the walls were hung with intricately woven tapestries.

“Yours?” I asked.

“My favorites, yes. The ones I can’t bear to part with. I’m a weaver, have a shop in town, but I keep myself poor by being unable to part with the work I like. Sit down. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

While I waited, I called Hy on the new cell Allie had brought, and he answered immediately. “McCone, I was hoping you’d call,” he said. His voice was strong, steady, and it braced me.

“Are you back in the city?”

“Yes. At the agency assessing the damage. Hal told me about the fire up there. Sure you’re okay?”

“Good as new. But it was pretty scary. I kept thinking of when my house on Church Street burned.”

“You’re lucky you got out in time. Listen, maybe you’d better give up on this case before there’s another attack on you. It should be in the hands of the feds anyway.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem they’re interested. At least, I haven’t seen any three-piece-suiters pussyfooting around here. Only the sheriff, and he’s too fat to pussyfoot.”

“Why haven’t the feds been called in about the fire? It was on Native land.”

“But not reservation land. There’s a difference. Anyway, I’m not giving up. I’m making some headway, but another woman’s gone missing.”

“You want me to come up there and give you a hand?”

I did and I didn’t. “You’ve got the reconstruction at the agency and the investigation into the shooter’s motive to contend with. I can handle things here. And I’ll be extra careful.”

Long pause. “Okay. But I’m going to put in a call to Ike Blessing at the FBI, have him contact you on your cell.”

“Service is spotty up here. He can also try me at the place where I’m staying now.” I gave him Jane’s number.

“Jesus, where are you? The end of the earth?”

“You remember what it was like when I first started going over to see you at your ranch in Mono County?”

“That bad, huh?”

“That bad.”

Jane returned after we ended the conversation, carrying a platter of little sandwiches, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. “Meruk’s finest,” she said as she poured.

I tried not to gobble, but it was impossible. Jane smiled benevolently and stirred the logs in the fireplace.

“So you’re here about our poor lost ladies — my terminology,” she said.

“Yes. The Sisters hired me.”

“Allie Foxx told me. They’re good people, and Allie’s an effective leader. I got my degree in political science from Sacramento State, worked in government down there for as long as I could stand it. When I came back here — after divorcing my obnoxious lobbyist husband — the Sisters took me in, made me a part of their group.”

“Have you lived in Aspendale long?”

“Fifteen years, ever since I came back to the county.”

“What can you tell me about people in the village, whites and Native Americans both? Jake Blue, for example.”

“We’re all people, aren’t we? About Jake...” She hesitated. “Jake can be... problematical. He’s an angry man, but also curiously passive. I’ve known him my whole life, but I’ve never been able to get a grasp on what motivates him.”

“His sister’s murder—”

She shook her head. “More to it than that. Have you had any dealings with him?”

“Yes, and I share your feelings about him. What can you tell me about the missing girl, Sasha Whitehorse?”

“A lovely child. I pray she hasn’t been harmed. She’s smart, graduated at the top of her class. Her home life was bad — mother abandoned the family when Sasha was a baby, father’s a drunk. Sasha holds things together, works hard, wants to get out of here. But lately she’s gotten involved with the folks at Hogwash Farm, is living with some boy out there.”

“Hogwash Farm? What’s that?”

“An old farm on Roblar Road east of town. The man who owns it lets a group of unemployed young people live in his barn in exchange for doing chores.”

“What sort of young people?”

“A mixed group of Natives and whites. Some of them — Sasha included — are conscientious. Others drop in for brief periods, do nothing, and leave. I understand this is typical for these communes.”

“It’s a pattern that’s existed for at least fifty years — more, maybe.”

“Well, with one or two exceptions, the young folks at Hogwash are foolish and won’t last out one of our winters.”

“I thought this was winter.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet. Come February...”

I made a mental note to check out Hogwash Farm. “Any other local residents you can tell me about?”

“Well, there’s Henry, but you know him. Sally Bee — talented little thing, came up here from the midcoast to do some work, met Henry, and decided to stay. Miz Hattie — she’s a nutcase. Harmless, but crazy.”

“What’s your opinion of the Harcourts?”

“The princes on the hill? I only know them by reputation. They’re snooty, wouldn’t lower themselves to visit a Native weaver’s studio.”

I tried to stifle a yawn, but it forced its way out. “Sorry,” I said.

“You’re exhausted.” Jane got up from her chair and led me down the hall to her guest bedroom. “Sleep tight,” she said — something I hadn’t heard since my mother used to tuck me in as a child.