All Maps Are Fiction

by Clyde Witt

  Phyllis stopped to tie her bandana around her neck and examine the trampled weeds and broken tree branches. “I think someone else has been snooping around.”

  “Fred told me they had another bird watcher back in here last week.” As they broke through a brush arch into the second clearing, Aston stopped so suddenly that Phyllis collided with her. “Shit!”

  “What’s wrong?” Phyllis asked as she rubbed her nose and surveyed the clearing.

  “Look, over there. The dryer has definitely been twisted in a different direction from when I was here before. Shit!”

  Aston ran to where the dryer still stood upright, but turned ninety degrees. She circled the porcelain machine, looking for signs that someone might have found the box from the Custer Mining Company. She pointed at deep gouges in the earth and fresh scratches on the sides of the machine. Several tree branches lay nearby, as did three unfiltered cigarette butts.

  “Okay, Bird Lady, we’ll have to leverage this puppy up to get to that box—if someone has not already beat us to it. Christ, I can’t believe this shit. Why would someone be back here? Where’s the Border Patrol when you need them?”

  Aston opened the front door of the machine and peered in. She could see the box still in place.

  Phyllis drew in a deep breath. “Oh, I think the Border Patrol has enough on their plate these days without having to keep watch at an abandoned mine.”

  “Right you are. Okay, I’ll use that long branch as a lever and crank this thing up as much as I can. You grab whatever you can of the box.”

  Aston dropped to her knees and pushed the long branch under the full width of the dryer. When she lifted, the lever raised the dryer more than a foot and exposed the box.

  “Not much larger than a breadbox,” Phyllis reported, and tapped the dryer with her trekking poles to scare away any spiders or snakes.

  “What the hell is a breadbox, anyway?” Aston said through grunts. “Just grab the damned thing before I drop this.”

  Phyllis, fell to her knees, grasped the edges of the box and slid it from beneath the machine. When the box was clear, Aston pulled the branch away and the the dryer come down with a loud crash.

  “Destruction always comes with such a loud noise, whereas growth is silent, isn’t it?” Phyllis said.

  “No time for philosophy, my friend,” Aston said as she pulled Gabby’s knife from her backpack.

  “Won’t be needing that. Lock’s busted.”

  “No shit?”

  Aston lifted the scarred cover and the two women stared down into a near-empty box. In the bottom lay a tan envelope with a smiling Jolly Roger image drawn on it.

  Aston’s phone pinged when they reached cellphone service and she maneuvered to a wide spot on the right as they turned onto the highway from Ruby Road. She punched Eric’s number on her “Favorites” list, trying to think of the right words to say. No answer. Next, she pulled the airline ticket wallet from her backpack and dialed the number of the airline, intending to change their plane reservations.

  While Phyllis waited for the reservationist to come back on line, Phyllis said, “Vacation’s over, huh?”

  “Right. We have to get back. Eric’s—”

  “What difference does it make? Staying the full three days, maybe more, means we have a shot at seeing the sparrow, again, and maybe the buntings. Even Buff-collard Nightjar down in Madera Canyon. Whatever’s happened to that stuff that was in the box has happened. One more day won’t change things.”

  Aston looked at her unblinking companion. “Are you always right, Phyllis?”

  “Nope, but I’m never wrong. I see the golden arches up ahead and I’m gonna get me some fries, a toilet and free WiFi. Want anything.”

  “Hemlock, if they’ve got any.”

  On the third try Aston connected with Eric. “Boss, I have some bad news and some really bad news.”

  “You two okay?”

  “Yeah, but I had to change our airline reservations, twice, and the fees they’re hitting you with are almost as much as the original cost of the ticket.”

  “Not such bad news. Remember, Phyllis bought the tickets. And the really bad news?”

  “Oh, right. We found the box, no problemo. Only someone got there before us. No palladium, just an envelope.”

  “Shit.”

  “It might not be all bad news. I think it’s another clue. There’s a note in the envelope. Says, ‘If you want to hide bones, hide them in a boneyard, maybe even a penal colony.’ And there was one of those pirate flag pictures drawn on the paper. You know, the Jolly Roger, only this time he’s really grinning.”

  Eric walked past the receptionist at Bright Horizons Assisted Living and headed toward the recreation room. Gabby was seated in his usual corner working a jigsaw puzzle.

  “Gabby, you won’t believe—”

  “Yes, I will. I’m old enough to believe anything. For instance, something like, the girls survived the hunt and found an empty box.”

  “How did you know? Oh, you talked to Phyllis.”

  “Yeah. And I got another mysterious call this morning.”

  “From who?”

  “Didn’t give me a name. Had to be Starke. He said I was dumb as a box of rocks if I didn’t believe that the Jolly Roger wouldn’t fly again. Words to that effect, anyway. Then the bastard hung up.”

  “What? Man, this is getting out of hand. What does—”

  “But it’s kinda fun, ain’t it? From the tone of Phyllis’s voice, I think the girls are enjoying the adventure, too. Added an extra day.”

  Eric hesitated. “Fun? Not so sure old man. It’s kind of a stress on my system, something that I don’t really need these days. What’s going on?”

  “He’s gaming us, Eric. There’s a clue here, but I’m just not sure which it is, the box of rocks thing or that the Jolly Roger’s flying. Must tie in with the note the girls found.”

  “Word to the wise, Gabby: I’d not call them ‘girls’ if I were you.”

  Gabby looked at the unfinished puzzle of the Curtiss JN4 in front of him, then at Eric. He smiled. “Shit, sit down, my friend. I already told Phyllis most of the story of my connection to Starke, might as well tell you, too.”

  Eric listened in disbelief while Gabby spun the tale connecting himself and his brother, Reggie, with Yates, Starke, Bird Lady and the palladium.

  “So, do you know where the palladium is? Eric asked.

  “Nope. I think Starke, and whoever else is helping him, planned to play this long game with me. Last-man-standing kinda thing. I don’t think he expected me to get others involved. But now he knows there’s other players helping me, and, assuming he can still take a breath, he’s no doubt laughing his ass off.”

  Eric looked out the window. “Some game. If this keeps up we’ll have to scrap the idea of making a puzzle and just cash in the palladium so the company doesn’t go under.”

  “You worry too much, young man. Most of those people in that building of yours worked for your old man and are solid folks. They’ll see that the company doesn’t go away.”

  “I hope you’re right, Gabby.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pat was shuffling financial spreadsheets on her desk when Mike walked into her office. Without a word he dropped into the chair next to her desk.

  She looked over the top of her reader glasses, raised her eyebrows and said, “Well, this is a welcome surprise—emphasis on the word, ‘surprise.’”

  He looked back through the office door at the empty hallway and leaned forward. “We need to have a little chat,” he said and picked up a pencil from her desk. “There’s a strange thing happening, something seemingly unrelated to our lives, yet, strangely enough, involves the two of us.”

  “Ooo, a mystery. I like mystery.”

  Mike told her about the puzzle project he was work
ing on and outlined the multitude of connections in the web that bound together himself, her, Eric, Aston, Diane, unknown characters and the palladium.

  “Huh. Eric did mention the word palladium, once or twice, even talked about a puzzle, but other than that—”

  “Okay, cut the crap. Here’s the bottom line: We have to get to that palladium stuff before the others—all they want to do is create some sort of jigsaw puzzle, not get rich. I’ve done a bit of research—just another thing I’m really good at. Let’s just say, if we find it first, money would no longer be a problem in our lives.”

  “And I’m supposed to do what?”

  “We’re all grownups here. I’m aware you’re no doubt sleeping with him, too. If you can get some lead on where that stuff is, I’ll work it from my end to get details of the map/puzzle they’re planning. Aston is kind of a flake and should be an easy touch. Maybe there’s some other clues I can dig up and I won’t need any maps.”

  Pat stood and moved to her office window. She cleared her throat. “And we both end up rich.”

  “Right. I don’t think money will change our, ah, relationship.”

  “Just thinking about money makes me hot.”

  Mike laughed. “Nice to know. I’ve got to get back out to Montana, however, as soon as I get some warmer clothes packed. Need to put some pressure on a character whom my journalist-sense tells me might be in on this whole thing, too. I’ve got this really strong feeling that palladium stuff is buried someplace in Utah where I think the guy who stole it, crashed his plane. I’m sure of it.”

  “Mike, there are a lot of details I seem to be missing here.”

  “All you need to do is see if Eric can nail down a location for you. With your talents that should be easy enough. That’s about all you need to know, for now. I know he’s got AIDS or something, or he wouldn’t be coming to the clinic here, right? But do what you can.”

  “Don’t worry about him. Take care of yourself.”

  Pat watched Mike walk across the parking lot and climb into his five-year-old Toyota. What a looser you are, she thought. Can’t even drive a decent car.

  Mike pulled the price sticker from his down-filled vest as he exited the car. Sylvan, Montana, felt cooler than when he had been there the first time, and, according to the calendar, it was still spring. It appeared nothing had changed: Three trucks in front of the hardware store and a couple women window shopping. The dog in front of the grocery store had changed color from brown to black. The man he wanted to talk with was in the same spot, only this time he held a bottle of beer, not a glass.

  “Hello, Mister Davis. Good to see you again. Or, are you back to being Ben Wilson?”

  “Nope, still Davis and the name is Bradley. Cut the mister crap. You’re the reporter guy, right?”

  “Hey, you have an excellent memory for a guy who says he’s nearly a hundred.”

  “I tell people my age ‘cause people like to buy an old man, a really old man, a drink now and again.”

  Mike sat next to him and studied the man’s face. Eyes are too clear for a centenarian, he thought.

  “When you finish that one I’ll get you another, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like. You back for more information on the mines, or looking for a job? Might be something here for ya. We ain’t got a newspaper in this town.”

  “Actually, I’m more interested in those bush pilots you told me about. I checked on the one who crashed in Utah. They never found hide nor hair of the guy. His name, they think, was Russell Starke. Ring any bells?”

  Mike heard a soft clunk as Bradley placed his empty bottle on the porch floor. He wondered if the guy might leave without saying anything.

  “Yeah, I sort of remember one they called Starke. Had a nickname as I recall—Falcon. Handsome guy. Real ladies’ man—if you get my drift.”

  Mike got up, walked into the bar and ordered two beers, plus two ham and cheese sandwiches. When he returned, Bradley had moved the bench farther down the porch, away from the door and into the sun. Bradley thanked him, took a long swallow, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

  “I might be able tell you some things, rumors mostly, about Starke,” he said and took another long drink of beer. “He was about the only guy in these parts who could sling more bullshit than me, some say.”

  “Anything would be helpful.”

  “Rumor is, or was, Starke was in thick with some executive guys at the mine, tried to steal something, platinum I think”

  “Palladium, you mean.”

  “Well, in those days they thought it was platinum, I suppose. Anyway, as I recall, they were in cahoots to steal something. It’s what people used to say, anyway.”

  “Only, Starke crashed without telling anyone where he hid whatever it was he was stealing.”

  “Sounds like you already know the story.”

  “Let’s say I’m guessing.”

  “Good guess. Only here’s the part that baffles me: Starke, crazy bastard that he was, was pretty finicky, if you get my drift. Fussy dresser, very exacting in the way he’d cut his meat or lay his money on the bar, that sort of thing.”

  “Sound like you knew him well.”

  “We shared a beer or two, as I recall. Anyways, seems to me he would have written down where he dumped the first few loads; made a map, that sort of thing. That’s assuming he stole anything.”

  “First few loads? Sounds like the thievery might have been an ongoing thing?”

  “Can’t say, really. Just what we used to talk about in the bars, in winter, around here.”

  “Can’t say or won’t say?”

  “Don’t wear out your welcome here young man.”

  “And you’re sticking with the story that Starke went down in Utah?”

  “As best I can tell, that’s what happened. Folks say that’s what happened, anyway. Everybody around here knows that.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing else. Let’s eat them sandwiches.”

  Mike drove along the highway until he had cell phone service, then called Pat. “Hey, Doc, this old coot up here knows something, but he’s holding back on me. Probably waiting for me to offer money or something. I’m good at reading sources. Let’s say he dropped enough hints that there could be a stash of the palladium stuff and that Starke, he was the pilot that went down, probably drew up a map or left instructions.”

  “Huh. And who better than his business partner to share a map with?”

  “Exactly what I was thinking. And the Yates kid got all of his father’s stuff, including the business, when the old man died. I’ll bet that’s why he’s got Aston running around out west checking it out.”

  “Eric’s not very, shall we say, forthcoming, about whatever it is they’re doing. Gives me bullshit excuses about business ethics crap. All he said was the girl’s out of town on some project,” Pat said and looked down at the pile of research data she was supposed to be preparing. “Okay Mike, I’m on it. What’s your next move?”

  “Not sure. I might try getting something out of Diane. She and Aston are good friends. Could be Aston’s told her what’s going on.”

  “Call me as soon as you get back. I have some leftover lasagna I can heat up.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’ve been messing with a guy that has AIDS, I’m not so sure—”

  “Hey, buster, you think I’m stupid? He’s safe as you, trust me.”

  “Okay, okay. Be back in a couple days. I think I’ll go back down to Utah to where that plane crashed. Something about that picture I saw in the paper still bothers me.”

  “I’m busy as hell getting ready for a conference. Keep me in the loop.”

  Pat dug her cell phone from her purse and dialed Eric’s office. No answer, only a damned maze of voice mail directions. She left a message: “I need two things, maybe three, from yo
u: A ride in a fast car, coffee, and we’ll discuss the third thing, after the first two.”

  Eric scrolled through the missed-calls list on his phone as he walked through the empty parking lot at the end of the day. When he saw the call from Pat, he closed his eyes, collapsed into the Porsche’s seat, and let the upholstery envelop him. Before he hit the ‘return call’ button on his phone, he drew in a deep breath. Misleading people had always been a challenge for him. Life should be simple, straight forward. As Pat’s phone started to ring, he chuckled at the thought of how a straight-arrow guy like himself could ever make a living in the puzzle-making business.

  “Doctor Travino.”

  “Hey, Pat, Eric here. Returning your—”

  “Hey Eric. You sound mighty happy for a guy who works like a slave most days.”

  “Oh, just having a laugh at my own expense. What’s up? I’m not going to die today, am I?”

  “Aw, cut that shit out. You are going to live a long, happy life.”

  “So you say.”

  “Yes, I say. And I should also say— Well, how about if you come over to my place, later tonight ‘cause I have to work late, too, and help me get rid of some leftover lasagna?”

  Eric watched light rain drops as they began to merge on the windshield. This slight reprieve might give him a chance to come up with a believable story for her. “Great idea. I have some new music—”