The Tree of Death

eleven

The first thing I felt was a pain in my rib cage. I was lying on my side, my head on my outstretched arm. I flopped over onto my back, and the pain dulled a little.

Pain. Now I was aware of my head throbbing, too. I opened my eyes and stared up at a dark, cloudless sky studded with stars.

Stars? I tried to sit up, but the pain was too much. With one hand I groped around and felt a sharp rock and clods of earth. The rock must have been what had hurt my ribs.

I closed my eyes again and breathed in deeply. The air was night-cool and sweet. I breathed once more and identified the scent of young onions. Funny how they smelled so much sweeter growing in the field than they did in the stores…

In the field! Now it all came flooding back-the museum, the cellar, the missing boxes, the dark figure. Whoever it was had hit me with something heavy. No wonder my head ached so. But where was I now?

I opened my eyes and struggled up on my elbows, the pain in my head making me feel nauseated. On three sides of me were onion plants. On the other was a steep slope that looked as if it might rise up to a road. All logic to the contrary, it seemed that I was lying in an onion patch.

After a moment I sat up all the way and put one hand to my head. It hurt toward the front, above my forehead. Did I have a concussion? Wasn’t one of the symptoms nausea? I certainly felt that.

Besides being in an onion patch where was I? There were farms north of town, but quite a way north, above Goleta and UCSB. How had I gotten here?

After a couple of minutes my stomach settled down. The pain in my side was not nearly as severe as when I’d come to. Probably nothing wrong there but a crimp from lying on the rock. I looked at the luminous hands of my watch and saw it was after midnight. I could have been lying here a long time.

Gradually I hauled myself to my feet. A momentary wave of dizziness passed over me, but then I was okay. I looked at the embankment, a seemingly insurmountable mound of dirt, and then began climbing it on my hands and knees. It led to the road, all right. And there, not twenty yards away on the opposite shoulder, sat my VW Rabbit.

What was it doing here?

I stood a minute, catching my breath, then crossed the highway to the car. My purse lay on the passenger seat and the keys were in the ignition. At least I had a way to get back to town. I opened the door and got in.

From here on the shoulder I could pinpoint where I was. Farmland curved off to the west and in the distance I could see a faint silvery strip of sea. To the east were the softly rounded hills. I had to be a least twenty miles north of town, on the coast highway.

I pushed in the clutch and turned the key. The car spluttered and died. I tried again. No luck. Then I looked at the gas gauge. It was on empty.

Damn! I hated to go to gas stations, always put off filling the tank. Well, finally I’d been caught by that habit-I, and the person who’d driven me here. The question now was how to get back to town. I was in no shape to walk it, but it was almost one in the morning and no cars were in sight. Maybe, though, if I started walking, some late traveler would come along and give me a lift. I picked up my purse, removed the keys from the ignition, and started south down the opposite shoulder.

My head still ached, but not as much as before. The air was cool and fresh, and the sweet onion scent rose up from the fields. In any other circumstances I would have enjoyed it. At least the fog spell we’d been having had broken. The mere thought of being stranded out here in thick fog made me shiver.

As I tottered along, I tried to piece together what might have happened. Someone had gotten into the museum and begun moving the boxes of artifacts, but I’d returned to look for the tree of death before he could complete the job. Who? And how had he gotten in? Well, he’d gotten out and left the alarm system intact before. Given that, I supposed he could get in, too.

I reviewed the events of the night before: I return to the museum before the killer can get off the premises with the stuff. He sees me go to the cellar, suspects I’ve caught on to the embezzlements. Why else would I be pawing around down there at night? He follows, finds me looking for the boxes he’s already moved. Now he knows for sure I’ve discovered them. He creeps up, hits me on the head, knocks me out.

Then what? He puts me in my own car, drives me north, and runs out of gas. For some reason, he drags me from the car and dumps me in the onion patch. Then he hitches back to town.

Why did he bring me here? Because he didn’t want another crime bringing the cops back onto museum premises? Or maybe he thought he’d killed me. I have a slow heartbeat. If the killer was someone who had trouble finding a person’s pulse, he might have thought I was dead and decided to get rid of my body. But why? I would have been discovered quickly, lying there beside the road. All I could figure was he’d been headed to a better place, maybe to fake an accident with the car, and had panicked when the car ran out of gas.

After about fifteen minutes, I was beginning to tire. I stopped on the shoulder, looking for a place to sit down and rest. Then I heard the low rumble of a truck in the distance. It was coming from the north and seemed to keep coming for a long time. Then its lights flooded the road as it came around a bend; they washed over me as I waved my hands over my head.

At first I didn’t think the truck would stop, but then I heard the hiss of its air brakes as it rolled onto the shoulder ahead of me. It was a shiny aluminum semi. I forgot my aches and pains and ran toward it.

The door of the cab swung open on my side, and a voice spoke in flat, southwestern twang. “Hey, little lady, the road’s no place to be this late at night. Hop on up.”

Por Dios, I thought, don’t let him be the type who expects exotic payment for a ride. Because, whether he is or not, I badly need the ride.

In the light of the cab I could see a sallow face with a ruff of beard. The trucker was smiling as I reached for the door. Suddenly his expression changed. His mouth hardened, and his eyes narrowed.

“Rough night, lady?” He pulled the door away from my outstretched hand.

“Please, you’ve got to help me…”

“I don’t got to help nobody.” He slammed the door. “You’re walking trouble, lady, and trouble’s what I don’t need.” He threw the rig in gear and began pulling away. I jumped back to avoid being hit. Gravel sprayed up at me, and I twisted my ankle and fell. I hit the shoulder hard as the truck pulled out onto the road.

I lay there, listening to the truck’s gears whine as it vanished down the highway. My headache intensified into waves of pain, and the nausea returned. When I could move, I pulled myself to my knees and retched. After a while the nausea faded and I sat back, breathing heavily.

My purse lay a few feet away. I dragged it over to me and fumbled for a tissue. I scrubbed at my hands, then gingerly touched my face. There were cuts on my forehead, probably from rolling down the embankment to the onion patch. I felt through the bag for some hand cream or Chapstick and had a sudden, horrible thought. Frantically I searched the front compartment, where I kept my keys.

The extra set of keys to the museum, the ones I’d removed from the hook in Frank’s office, were gone. The killer had taken them. He wouldn’t have to rely on his mysterious method of coming and going anymore. Probably he’d gone back to finish moving the artifacts. Right now he could be…

A second engine noise came from the north-the unhealthy tick-and-purr that characterizes an old Volkswagen. I pulled myself to my feet, half afraid to stick out my thumb. Lights washed over me, and a decrepit black VW pulled onto the shoulder and rattled to a stop. I took a couple of steps toward it and clung to the door handle. It was all I could do to keep from falling.

A round-faced, curly-haired woman stared out at me. “That’s a terrible place to hitchhike in the dark! I almost hit you.” She pushed the door open.

I sank into the passenger seat. When I turned to her, the woman was looking at me with alarm. “My God, you’re hurt! And here I am bawling you out for hitchhiking in the wrong place! Are you okay?”

The sound of a friendly voice nearly reduced me to tears. I had to wait a minute before I could speak. “I feel horrible, but I don’t think I’m badly hurt.”

“You sure look a fright.”‘ She pulled down the visor in front of me, and I stared into a mirror. My face was cut around the forehead, and my blouse was torn.

“No wonder I scared that truck driver,” I said.

“Who?”

“A truck driver. He stopped for me, but took off after he got a good look.”

“Probably afraid he’d be blamed for it. I should get you to a hospital.”

“No!”

She merely looked at me.

“Really, I’m okay.” If I went to a hospital, I’d have to explain. They would call the police. At any rate, I would be delayed and…

The woman frowned in concern. “You don’t look okay.”

“But I am.” Quickly, I thought. “Listen, my mother lives in Goleta, in the big trailer park near the beach. Can you take me there?”

The woman looked relieved. Obviously my own mother would know what to do with me. “Sure. Just direct me.” She didn’t ask any more questions as we drove south on the highway and then through the dark streets of Goleta. At the gate of the mobile home park, she wished me luck. I wondered if she’d check the papers later to see if anything about me ever turned up.

I went through the gates and cut across the lawn by the recreation center toward my mother’s trailer. AD its windows were dark. What else would they be at two-thirty in the % morning? I knocked softly; my mother was a light sleeper.

In moments she opened the door, clad in a long nightgown, her hair in a braid that fell over one shoulder. Right behind her was Nick, wrapped in a horrible paisley bathrobe. I was so glad to see them, I didn’t even bother to give them a sly look.

“Por Dios, child!” my mother exclaimed. “What has happened to you?”

There’s something about coming home to mother that opens the floodgates. I started to cry. She put her arms around me and helped me into the living room. Nick calmly went about turning on the lights. Mama sat me on the couch.

“Look at you!” She touched the cuts on my forehead.

“First that awful murder, and now this. I knew I could trust my feelings. Nick, get the first aid kit.”

“Mama, I’m okay.”‘ I pulled a tissue from my bag and blew my nose. “I have to get to the museum…”

“The museum? At this hour?” She looked amazed. “You are going nowhere with that cut on your head.”

“Mama…”

Nick returned with the first aid kit. My mother began rummaging through it.

“What, did Frank’s murderer try to kill you, too?” Nick asked.

“I think so.”

“You think?”

“I didn’t see whoever it was. It was dark.”

My mother got a wet washcloth and started bathing the cuts. While she applied antiseptic and Band-Aids, I told them what had happened-all of it, even the embezzlements.

“You ought to go to the police right away,” Nick said.

“But I can’t tell them about the embezzlements, not yet.”

“Can’t you just say you were in the cellar looking for the arbol de la muerte? If you tell them today, they might be able to find out who hit you. Someone must have noticed him trying to get back to town.”

“You’re right. I’ll talk to Lieutenant Kirk. And then, after the opening, I’ll tell Carlos and him about the embezzlements.” I looked at my watch. “That’s only fifteen hours away. But right now I should get to the museum before the murderer takes away all the evidence.”

“When did this happen, when he hit you?” Nick asked.

“Around ten.”

“It is now a quarter to three. He won’t still be at the museum.”

He had a point. Time had more or less compressed for me, but I realized it wouldn’t have taken the killer that long to remove the artifacts. He’d already taken them out of the cellar by the time I got there. All that remained after he returned from dumping me off was to load them and leave.

“But what if he’s left the museum unlocked?” I asked. “And then someone else comes in and steals our collections?”

“Didn’t you say he took your keys?”

“Yes.”

“And that he somehow managed to lock up after he killed Frank?”

“Right.”

“This is a very careful killer. I don’t think you have to worry.”

“Besides,” my mother added, “you ought to see a doctor about that bump on your head.”

“I’m okay, Mama. No doctors.” I hated doctors.

“Just like when you were a little girl.” She smoothed my hair back and looked closer at my head. “You could have a concussion.”

“ But no brain damage.”

“Oh, Elena.”

“Please, Mama, I just want to go home to my own bed.”

“There I draw the line. You’ll sleep here where I can watch you. This couch makes out into a bed.”

“But-”

“What about your car?” Nick asked.

The car, of course! “I’D have to wait until the gas stations open…”

“I can take care of that. You just give me the keys. The station down the street opens at six. I’ll have one of my old fogies drive me up and bring the car back so you’ll have it when you wake up.”

“That’s ridiculous to ask you to go running around at six in the morning!”

“No, it’s not,” my mother said. “Actually, you’ll be delaying him. He and the old fogies jog at five-thirty.”

I rolled my eyes. “I think I’ve been overruled.”

“That’s right,” Nick said. “You listen to your mother.” Meekly I got up so she could open the sofa bed. I got under the covers, feeling strangely like a little girl with the chicken pox. Nick turned off the lights, and they went into the bedroom and shut the door. As I drifted off, I was conscious of their low voices, probably discussing me and the trouble I’d caused over the years. There was something comforting in knowing that certain things never change…