Worse Angels

by Laird Barron

  A wave of dizziness staggered me and the moment to give chase passed. I gulped for air until the roaring in my ears subsided and I was sane again, or trending in that direction. Pain wasn’t what shocked me sober. A glimpse at the unmasked face of evil and a thimble of common sense did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I pulled myself together in the men’s room. Splashed my face with cold water, staunched the bleeding, and carried myself with sufficient aplomb to skate through security, all the while hoping that whoever manned the CCTV cameras in the garage hadn’t noticed anything unusual. I proceeded without incident and hopped a shuttle for the Charles M. Schulz–Sonoma County Airport. It’s a tiny facility. Quonset-hut-type hangar/boarding area and a concourse so short you can stroll the entire length in under sixty seconds. Mid-February is generally a pleasant time to visit the region if you’re escaping a wintry clime, such as the Midwest or Upstate New York. My timing was bad; forest fires engulfed large tracts of the coast and areas abutting Napa Valley. The inferno was on everybody’s mind. I stood atop the steps at the airport entrance, sniffing the acridness of the distant, steadily encroaching smoke. The dizzy spells were fading, although my right eye blurred and I squinted to keep the world in focus.

  Linda Flanagan resided in a bungalow twenty minutes northeast of the airport and past Healdsburg among dusty hills. The land of vineyards. The rental agency offered me its last car, a dinky economy job. I squeezed in and zipped along 101 until the turnoff, where things got slightly complicated with the looping, winding blacktop byways and the thickening pall of smoke that drifted in through the vents and irritated my eyes and throat. Her house sat on a hill in a shady patch surrounded by maple and oak trees. The driveway was steep; a stream trickled under a shaky plank bridge near the base. The bungalow must’ve been built in the 1960s; humble and compact, yet elegant and expansive with ski chalet dormers and a wooden deck that hung out over a ravine. Unkempt yarrow flowers splashed yellow, red, and pink in terra-cotta pots.

  I walked around the house, knocking on doors, banging on the walls, and peering into windows. Nobody stirred. The property extended farther along the hillside into the forest. There were a couple of small buildings—a shed and a metal cargo box—and a cute mother-in-law cottage. Squirrels and birds darted across my path. My car was the lone vehicle in the yard. The pall of smoke and bits of swirling ash made it difficult to discern whether or not she’d been home recently. Highly unlikely she’d return with Napa Valley on the ragged edge of combusting.

  Debating my options, I rang the Campbell-Ryoko hacienda and got the recorder. I said I was en route and hung up. My phone buzzed ten seconds later. A man with a gravelly voice identified himself as Beasley. He asked where I was and I said Healdsburg. Okay, drive up to Mendocino, 128 to 101, to Shoreline Highway, and follow it home. Under no circumstances was I to approach the doctors’ house until I received an all clear. Get a room at the Blue Shell Motel. Call him back when I arrived. He hung up before I could say, yeah, see you in a couple of hours.

  I headed north and out of the inferno.

  * * *

  ■■■

  Ash blackened the hood of the compact. I stopped at a ramshackle gas station between Philo and Navarro, squeegeed the windshield and headlights, and topped off the tank. The proprietor was a weathered man with a heavy beard who, judging by his accent, had emigrated from somewhere north of the U.S. border. A steel-gray conure with a red crest and red cheeks hopped atop the spinner racks and cocked her head at me. The proprietor said the conure’s name was Zora; she’d flown into the shop during another long-ago firestorm and decided to stay. He asked where I’d come from. I said New York. I poured coffee from a pot and fixed it the way I liked. News of the disaster cycled nonstop on the crummy television jammed on a high shelf. He went to the door and gazed south, where an orange and black charcoal smudge wavered over the mountains.

  “The East gets snow in winter. We get fire.”

  He obviously noticed my black eye and swollen cheek, but didn’t comment. Had I ever been all the way up the coast to the Pacific Northwest? I shrugged noncommittally and he explained how he’d lived there for a few years after bailing on the scene in British Columbia.

  Zora alighted on my shoulder. She nibbled my ear.

  The proprietor accepted the twenty-dollar bill I gave him and put it in his pocket without offering to make change. I tried to escape. He segued into the epic recounting of a monstrous forest fire suffered by his hometown in the “Territories.” Wildfires burned for a week. Several days after they’d cooled to blown ash, brown bears came down from the mountains and shambled among the charcoal hulks of the buildings, foraging.

  The shop phone rang and I was able to shoo his bird and hoof it to the car while he answered. A green four-door sedan was parked on the shoulder fifty feet before the turnoff. I placed my hands on my hips and glared. The car crept into the road, executed a three-point turn, and disappeared around a bend. The conure glided out of the shop, circled me twice, and flew after the car.

  “Oh, no,” I said. I went back and told the owner the bad news.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, the phone pressed to his ear. “Zora’s chasing off evil spirits.”

  “What?”

  “Some dog breeds catch rats; my bird catches spirits. She always returns. You should hurry up and move on. Sometimes she brings one back.”

  * * *

  ■■■

  The lights of Mendocino were glowing in the dark when I arrived. The Blue Shell Motel occupied a rocky terrace with a view of the town and the ocean. Doubles were all they had left. I told the clerk I wasn’t picky and booked one at the far end of the main building. An alley separated the wall of my room from a locked shed with an ice machine on the side. Thoughts of Ichabod and his buddies waiting in the wings, maybe tooling the countryside in a green sedan, were on my mind as I called Beasley and then turned off the lamp and watched the parking lot and the highway through slightly parted drapes. This move put me in the same category as Badja Adeyemi hiding on Elkhorn Lake, waiting for Russians in ski masks to sneak through the trees. At least Adeyemi had been loaded for bear. California didn’t reciprocate my PI license or weapon permits. I hadn’t even packed a folding knife.

  Beasley said he’d meet me in ten. It was closer to twenty when he pulled up beside my rental in a salt-eaten Jeep Cherokee, climbed out, and knocked on the door. Were I compelled to summarize Beasley in a pithy sentence, it would’ve gone something along the lines of: Professional beach bum commando moments before a killing spree. A bruiser in a dark T-shirt and jeans, and steel-toed boots that had carried him through years of hiking. Buzz cut, thick neck and shoulders, huge thighs. Hard-bitten, half-tanned, and half-sunburned. At home in the arctic or Saharan desert. Ten to fifteen years on me, but moved as if he comfortably jogged five or six miles every morning before eating razor wire and guzzling lye for breakfast. A webwork of minor scars, plus a couple fit to start a party conversation. An almost handsome mug that appeared to have been used for soccer ball kicking practice. He wore a military-brand fighting knife on his belt. If it came to a tussle, this was the sort of character you immediately tried to cripple or kill; pain wouldn’t faze him.

  We sized each other up. He rested his hand on the knife hilt. Wound tight from the events of the day, I stood in an interview stance, ready to punch him in the throat before he got the knife free of its scabbard. That was the hope, at any rate.

  “Hey,” I said. “Anyone ever mention that you resemble Race Bannon’s meaner cousin?”

  “Who? Really? Bannon kicked ass. I loved that cartoon.”

  “Loved? I watch Jonny Quest in syndication every chance I get.”

  “Know what?” he said with a wide smile. “You’re fuckin’ A-okay. I like you.”

  I smiled back and it was three-quarters genuine. Still wished I was carrying.

  “Well, I like yo
u too, Beasley.”

  “You got a nice shiner, huh?”

  “I’ve had nicer.”

  “Hungry?” he said. “I could eat the ass end of a rhino. There’s a swell spot up the street. Fish and chips are the best around.”

  I was disappointed he didn’t say rhinoceros.

  * * *

  ■■■

  Beasley brought me to a “less touristy” restaurant with a nautical theme and real wood tables with real knives and real glasses. We took a spot with a view of some plants and a void that would’ve been a fine vantage of the Pacific during daylight hours. The fish and chips were as good as promised. Decent tap beer. This Beasley fellow drank with Lionel’s enthusiasm, except to no discernable effect besides a moderate decrease in his stoic scowling.

  “You want to bend the doctors’ ears about Sean Pruitt?” he said.

  “Dang it, man, you were doing so well. Belaboring the obvious counts as a party foul. You heard the messages.”

  “New York. San Francisco. Healdsburg. Mendocino.”

  “My itinerary,” I said.

  “Right. You ran into some trouble with banditos on the road. Unless a telephone pole fell on your head.”

  I pinched my thumb and forefinger together.

  “That much trouble.”

  He returned the sign. Then widened the gap between his blocky fingers.

  “These deals start small. They don’t stay small. Only two types come sniffing after the docs anymore. Tabloid journos or troublemakers. You ain’t a journo. Fuck knows if you can even read.”

  “Some guys are following me,” I said. “Green sedan; unknown number of occupants. The people who sent these guys might also be friends with the doctors.”

  “Sounds like a personal problem. The docs aren’t in contact with anybody from . . . before.”

  “I’m thinking there’s enough trouble for everyone.”

  “People in the green sedan been on you since when?”

  “The flight from New York.”

  “The opposition has a solid idea where you’re headed then,” he said. “One or two tails. A second unit could be in any woodpile between here and San Francisco.”

  “They could be watching the restaurant.”

  “Hope they enjoyed me stuffing my piehole.”

  “You’re surprisingly cool for someone who might be in the crosshairs of a sniper as we sit here digesting supper.”

  While we ate, he’d scanned every patron who’d walked in. As had I, albeit with more tact. My comment caused him to glare around, a klieg light sweeping for infiltrators.

  “Doesn’t help to whine,” he said. “Ain’t like I’m ready to throw a party, though. The docs are in seclusion. Boring as hell. Perfect, in other words. I’d rather beachcomb than brawl with ne’er-do-wells or hunt for ninjas around the house. Yeah, they hired me to deal with the goons, but cripes, I thought it was finished.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “I’ve had a good look at you. Christ, this is serious, huh?” He pushed back from the table and went to pay the lady at the counter. We walked out to his car. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll get your bags and go to HQ. See what happens in the morning.”

  “I’m fine at the motel.”

  “You ain’t fine at the motel.” He clunked the Cherokee into reverse. “Place is a death trap.”

  “But you suggested it,” I said.

  “I changed my mind for now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Per my research, Campbell and Ryoko had spent a few years in New England conducting a mysterious research project. When that ended, they returned to California and permanently retired from the world. The world didn’t miss them. Their cliffside residence north of Mendocino was a loaner from the cinematographer who’d gotten his break filming the Bangladesh documentary. The cinematographer was a Hollywood wheel; unless my memory for celebrity trivia failed me, he too had made himself scarce.

  “The dude has five or six houses scattered across the globe,” Beasley said. “He’s true-blue. When the situation in New England fell apart, he said we could camp here until Howard and Toshi kick the bucket. Haven’t heard from him in a while. The lights stay on, so everything must be hunky-dory.”

  I mentioned that Campbell’s name appeared in connection with the Jeffers Project. Campbell and Ryoko consulted on a million projects, Beasley said. I asked what sort of research had they pursued in New England. He turned on the radio and adjusted the dial until Jimmy Buffett started blaming a woman for a lost shaker of salt. He pushed in the dash lighter and lit a cigarette when it popped. Pall Malls. He confided that he scored them in bulk from the reservation.

  The house was locked behind an electric gate at the end of an elevated, curving driveway. There were only a couple of lights on, so I could tell it was a classic split-level Malibu-style beach house, in this case shaped like a pile of blocks with lots of balconies and windows, and that was about all. I carried my suitcases, hesitating a moment on the flagstone walk to appreciate the clean salt breeze. It tasted sweeter than creosote and ash. Inside, the walls alternated through the pastel spectrum of blue to green to salmon. Granite tiles and reed mats were flanked by fountains that sluiced over beds of split stone. Tropical plants and ferns and hanging lamps lent the space a jungle-at-night ambiance. Too dark to tell whether my room had a view or not. Clean and a large, firm bed were the sum of my wants and needs right then. Beasley promised to wake me for breakfast as he departed. I stuck a chair under the doorknob and fell onto the bed. A tapestry of a Pacific island paradise hung on the wall over the headboard. That island might be where my soul wandered for the next ten hours. I don’t recall. Gods, angels, and even Whiro let me sleep in something akin to peace.

  * * *

  ■■■

  Rain slicked the windows when I reentered the land of the living a quarter of an hour past the rosy side of dawn. For the sake of California’s citizens and its hapless animal population, I hoped the storm was moving southeast. The accommodations were spacious and on the pampered-playboy side of the tracks. Nobody had lived in the room anytime recently; I got a whiff of phantom mildew that seeps into empty, neglected habitations. I showered, dressed in a plain T-shirt and jeans, and sallied forth to explore my surroundings.

  The house didn’t rival any mansions I’d seen of late; large enough to wander in, to lose one’s bearings, though. Daylight confirmed a smashing view of the ocean and that nearly every room, every hallway, was decorated with plants and polished rocks. Scents of frying bacon led me by the nose to the kitchen. Beasley was preparing breakfast for Dr. Campbell. A cozy yet roomy space, brimming with muted gray light.

  “Hey, I was fixing to come kick your bunk.” Beasley toiled at a range loaded with frying pancakes. “Sit, eat. Dr. C, this is our guest, Isaiah Coleridge. The detective.”

  “Poseidon requests bacon and eggs,” Dr. Campbell said. “Best hand it over before he tears this place down.” The scientist sat rigidly upright; his features and hands were stiff as sun-scarred leather. Heat boiled from the range, yet he wore a Norwegian sweater and wool pants and appeared comfortable. His glasses were an antiquated horn-rimmed model popular during the Apollo Space Program era. Everything about him screamed black-and-white TV, unfiltered cigarettes, and nightly news broadcasts crackling through the speakers of a Philco AM radio.

  Beasley poured coffee and slid a plate of hotcakes in front of me.

  I dug in.

  “I’ve watched you on TV since I was a kid. You’re bigger in person.”

  Dr. Campbell watched me eat. His eyes were as shallow as a bird’s.

  “Everyone remarks on that. The mind is a camera. The camera lies.” He said this last bit with special emphasis.

  I detoured right to the heart of the issue.

  “Some of your old friends aren’t keen on me nosing around your g
odson’s death. They seem extremely agitated that I’ve flown here to visit you and Dr. Ryoko.”

  “Friends? No. Former associates. Yes. Are you surprised at the resistance? You’re stepping on the toes of unscrupulous individuals.”

  “I expected a reaction, but not quite so volatile,” I said. “Let’s say it raises a number of questions.”

  “Enjoy your breakfast, Isaiah. Recuperate. Later, Toshi will join us and you can ask your questions. The disposition of Sean’s case was settled long ago. Tearing open the wounds can wait a few hours.”

  Instead of answering, I shoveled in another forkful and gulped coffee. Beasley could’ve put many a short-order cook on notice. He shut down the range, took a seat with a lumberjack stack of cakes, and went at his breakfast with grim efficiency. I empathized. When you’re on call twenty-four/seven, you don’t stand on ceremony, and you don’t dally once the chow bell rings.

  “Where is your partner?” I said to Dr. Campbell.

  “He’s in the salon, communing with the celestial lights. Beasley, has he evinced any signs of stress?”

  “Nurse said he had the makings of a bloody nose,” Beasley said. “We’re good.”

  “Thank you. Leave him for a while longer. He’s projected far beyond the Second Meridian. Watch for a hemorrhage or a seizure.” Dr. Campbell pushed his glasses up and peered as if finally seeing me clearly. “You don’t—you aren’t well.”