The rain came down harder as I jerked the steering wheel, causing my tires to skid across the blacktop. All I could hope was that a logging truck didn’t approach from the opposite direction. The very thought made my stomach churn. It felt as though I’d been swallowed whole by a video game over which I had no control. Rather, I was being held captive by some hyperactive kid who was in charge of the joystick. Still, the apparent danger would have been worthwhile if only I could have lost the bastard who was tailing me. But his headlights continued to burn a hole through the night, like a couple of lit sticks of dynamite.
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could continue at this pace without flying off the pavement. As it turned out, it wasn’t something I had time to worry about. I received one last hard bump, and then the demon vehicle screamed in delight as it pulled alongside me.
I glanced over to where the dark van hovered on my left, dwarfing my own SUV by comparison. The monster made good use of its bulk, careening into my side in a blatant attempt to push me off the road.
“You son of a bitch,” I muttered, and held on with all my might.
My stubbornness only seemed to make the van and its driver all the more determined. The vehicle veered into the far lane, and then came swerving back full force, causing metal to slam against metal. A nauseating squeal resounded in the air, and I realized it was the terrifying screech of my tires. The next thing I knew, I was helplessly spinning out of control, as though on a madcap carnival ride. I instantly lost my sense of direction, unable to tell which side of the road I was on, or if I was on it at all. Then my teeth slammed together and every bone in my body rattled. There was no longer any question but that my tires had left pavement and were now skidding across hard ground.
There were trees all around, coming at me from everywhere, as my Ford straightened out. I felt like a Keystone cop, frantically steering as best I could while trying to dodge Douglas firs and redwoods soaring high into the firmament. My vehicle couldn’t find any traction although I slammed on the brakes. At the same time, a wall of massive tree trunks appeared in front of me in my headlights. I gripped the steering wheel while pushing back against the seat and pressing down hard on the brakes, certain my foot would shoot straight through the floor at any minute.
My tires finally gripped and the Ford jerked to an abrupt halt, flinging my body forward with the ease of a rag doll.
Smack!
My forehead struck sharply against the steering wheel and, for a moment, I temporarily forgot where I was. Then a bright light came from behind to embrace me.
Oh, shit! Could it be I was dead and these were the welcoming rays beckoning me into the great beyond?
I blinked several times before slowly realizing they were highbeams bouncing off my windshield. The stream of light refracted into a large spider web in the night, bringing the nightmare back home.
I remained perfectly still, but for my right hand which reached for the gun in my purse. I’d damn well defend myself should my attacker try to finish me off. However, he was either satisfied with the damage done, or wrongly fingered me for dead. The mysterious van peeled out, leaving me alone in the dark.
Sixteen
Santou had accused me for years of having a hard head. He must have been correct. My sole injury appeared to be a painful bump on the forehead that was accompanied by one hell of a massive headache. A few assorted bruises also throbbed, making their existence known. But other than that, I seemed to be fine—all except for my hands, which wouldn’t stop shaking. Equally disturbing was that my vehicle was now firmly stuck in a grove of redwoods.
I located my cell phone. The next challenge was to control my trembling fingers long enough to punch in the correct number and ring Santou.
“What’s going on, Rachel? I tried to call back, but you didn’t answer.”
“Sorry about cutting you off before, but I was involved in an accident with another vehicle,” I admitted.
“Are you all right?” he quickly asked.
I heard the concern in his voice, and didn’t want to make matters any worse than absolutely necessary.
“It’s just this damn road, what with the rain and it being dark,” I hedged. “I guess we were both going a little too fast. Anyway, I ended up driving off the blacktop and into the woods. I’m afraid I’m going to have to be towed out.”
“How about the other vehicle? What’s the damage there?”
“The driver was fine. He already took off.”
There was a pause, and I instinctively knew what was about to come next.
“In other words, it was a hit and run.”
“You could say that. He probably didn’t have any insurance.”
“Just tell me this, was it a deliberate crash or simply an accident?”
“It’s a lousy night out, Jake, and the fog is thick as hell,” I replied, giving my version of the truth.
I couldn’t be sure if Santou bought my excuse. But at least he stopped grilling me for now.
“You’re breaking up. I can barely hear you. Give me your location as best you can,” he said, kicking into rescue mode.
I was tempted to say the highway from hell, but managed to control myself.
“I’m stuck somewhere in Navarro Redwood State Park along Highway 128, not far off the coast road,” I shouted, supplying what information I could.
“Can you open the door and get out?” Santou yelled back.
“Let me try.”
I lifted the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. Shifting my weight, I kicked the panel hard with my foot. It creaked open just enough for me to squeeze through.
“Okay, got it,” I answered.
“Fine. Now see if you can walk.”
I suddenly became nervous. What if I were wrong and really had been injured? I gingerly placed one foot on the ground, followed by the other, and slowly began to move.
“I’m all right,” I told him, choosing not to mention the fact that my right leg was sore.
My philosophy has always been, whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Otherwise known as Dear Lord, please keep me far away from all doctors.
“Great. Now find a flashlight and make your way back to the road, while I call a towing service. Just sit tight and wait once you get there.”
I did as instructed, grabbing a flashlight from under the front seat. Then, turning it on, I tried to ignore the crones, ghosts, and goblins lurking behind each tree, all waiting to pounce on me. I continued to walk as the darkness transformed every shadow and shape into something terrifying.
For chrissakes, buck up, Porter. You’ve got a gun. Besides, you deal with lunatics and pissed-off poachers all the time.
That was true. However, those were physical things over which I had a certain degree of control. It was the unseen that scared the hell out of me.
The fog played hide-and-seek, sending me first one way and then another, as I tried to get my bearings in the thick mist. It was the sound of a passing vehicle that finally steered me in the right direction.
Oh, please, don’t let that be the tow truck passing by, I prayed.
I hurried toward the rumble of wheels, attempting to ignore the pain in my leg, only to arrive too late. I had little choice but to sit in a pile of dead evergreen needles by the side of the road and wait. If it had been the tow truck, it would eventually return this way.
With time to kill, I mulled over the information that Santou had uncovered. Carl Simmons had to be the Franciscan brother that Mitch Aikens had told me about. I pictured Big Daddy in my mind again, and found it hard to believe he’d ever been a man of the cloth. But apparently, it was true.
Aikens had also boasted that Simmons used to be a big-time butterfly dealer. He’d idolized the man for having successfully poached butterflies in wildlife refuges and national parks. If Simmons were capable of those incarnations, there seemed no reason to believe that he wasn’t also Horus.
It was then that a pair of flashing yellow lights cut throug
h the darkness and a tow truck came into view. I signaled back with my flashlight in a make-do version of Morse Code. I’d have thrown myself in front of the truck if need be, in order to gain its attention. Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary. The tow truck stopped and a bloated version of Rocky Balboa jumped out.
“It’s lucky your husband caught me when he did. I was just about to shut down for the night,” he said in place of hello.
The word “husband” didn’t sound half bad, and I didn’t bother to correct him. Instead, I led Rocky through the redwoods to where my Explorer sat sulking. He checked it out and then attached a cable under the back end.
“Okay, climb inside your vehicle and let’s see if we can get this thing started,” he instructed.
The Ford hemmed and hawed a few times, then coughed, spit, and farted. Rocky lifted the hood and began to talk to himself; or, perhaps he was communicating with my vehicle.
“Try it again,” he directed.
I did, and this time the engine kicked over, purring like a large, contented cat.
“All right. What say we haul ass out of here,” Rocky suggested. “Stay in your vehicle, and try not to hit anything.”
He walked to his truck, flipped on a switch, and the winch began to reel my Ford back toward the road like a large metal fish. My Explorer and I eventually made it onto Highway 128 in one piece.
Aside from a couple of dented fenders, a beat-up hood, two discombobulated doors, one broken headlight, and numerous nicks and bumps, my vehicle was in pretty good shape, everything considered. Best of all, AAA was footing the bill.
I gave the guy a twenty for his trouble and set off again, this time keeping watch for any menacing vans skulking along the road. I knew I was free and clear as I peeled onto Highway 101 and headed for home. Only there was someplace else that I first had to go. I turned off my cell phone, so as not to be disturbed, and drove over the Golden Gate Bridge, making my way straight to the Haight.
The street scene was an ongoing party, as usual—one in which the show never stopped. It was a blast from the past, complete with bellbottoms, buckskin, and love beads. The district could have made a fortune had they only charged admission.
I parked my Ford next to a guy sleeping on a tattered paisley couch in the middle of the sidewalk. Then I hot-footed it to Big Daddy’s Body Shop. The place was locked up tight. No problem. I dialed a San Francisco operator and got Carl Simmons’s home address. Surprise, surprise. He lived a couple blocks from the old Manson house.
Ashbury Street was quiet in comparison to the carnival taking place below. The only foot traffic were local residents and those hard-core fans paying homage at the former dwelling of the Grateful Dead. A few had taped tattered scraps of paper onto its walls, each of which contained a heartfelt message.
My life is meaningless without your music. Your fan in life and death forever, Janice.
Others stood and reverently pressed their palms against the front door, as if hoping to absorb its psychic energy.
I continued up the street. Some local Dead Head was obviously doing all right. An old turquoise Thunderbird, in primo condition, sat parked nearby.
I finally came to Simmons’s address, a run-down two-story structure. Blue and lavender paint peeled off the Victorian house in strips, like layers on an onion, giving the place a tie-dyed effect.
I climbed the rickety stairs and found Carl Simmons’s name listed on the second-floor buzzer. Someone was clearly home. Jefferson Airplane’s music blared onto the street exhorting passersby that they’d better find somebody to love.
I pressed the bell, purposely keeping my finger planted on it.
“Is that you, Sherry?” a voice finally called out from above.
“No. It’s Rachel Porter,” I shouted back, attempting to be heard above the music.
Big Daddy poked his head out the window and looked at me in surprise. I waved, and flashed a pleasant smile, hoping the bastard would come to the door.
“I’ll be right there,” he responded, after a moment’s hesitation.
Oh, goody.
Grace Slick was advising Alice about popping a couple of pills to change her size when the music abruptly stopped in mid-chorus. A minute later, heavy footsteps could be heard bounding down the stairs, and Carl Simmons opened the door. He must have just hopped out of the shower, because his hair was wet and his skin smelled of deodorant soap.
“This is a surprise,” Big Daddy said, tucking in his shirttail. “Most clients don’t stop by to see me at home.”
“You forget. I’m not a customer,” I genially responded. “I’m here because we need to talk. Do you mind if I come in?”
Simmons appeared somewhat reticent as he looked at me and shrugged.
“I don’t suppose this could wait until tomorrow. I’d prefer if you came by the shop.”
“Why? Do you have company?” I pointedly inquired.
“Would it matter?” Simmons responded.
“Not one little bit.”
He stepped aside and let me in.
I followed him upstairs, noticing that both the steps and banister were also badly in need of a paint job. I could only imagine the condition of his flat. However, I was in for quite a surprise—as Simmons opened the door and I entered what might easily have been a museum. I’d never have suspected the man to be such a connoisseur of art.
Masks and paintings hung on every inch of wall space, giving the place a sophisticated feel. There were animal masks from Mexico, tribal faces of Africa, and primitive artwork from Bali. The remainder of his living room was taken up with an impressive collection of CDs and books. Simmons’s taste in music ran the gamut from Bach to Billie Holiday to the Doobie Brothers and Fat Bastard. His reading material was equally eclectic. I caught sight of volumes of Shakespeare and Homer’s Odyssey, as well as William Burroughs’s Naked Lunch.
This was plainly a man who read the classics rather than merely scanned the Cliff Notes. It was also the apartment of a pack rat with clutter spread all about. I smiled, having realized of whom he reminded me. Simmons was the upscale, “lite” version of Mitch Aikens—which made me wonder just how he made all of his money.
“So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Big Daddy asked, getting straight to the point.
I decided I might as well be equally direct.
“I hear you’re involved in the butterfly trade,” I said, hoping to catch him off balance.
“I no longer am, although I used to be,” Simmons responded, his demeanor remaining cucumber cool. “However, that was in a past life. Or are you going to try and retroactively throw me in jail for some hyped-up, bullshit offense?”
The guy was already beginning to piss me off.
“Past life, huh? That’s funny, because your name only recently came up in connection with the trade.”
“Stranger things have happened. You must have spoken to someone who was fondly remembering the good old days.”
“Perhaps. The odd thing is the person who mentioned you died under suspicious circumstances, just yesterday. Any thoughts on that?”
Simmons remained silent, not giving anything away.
“I’m not about to let up until I get to the bottom of this. Maybe you should consider telling me what you know before things get any more out of control,” I advised.
“Sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I stopped dealing in butterflies years ago after realizing that I wasn’t cut out for the business.”
Now he’d really whet my interest.
“Care to elaborate?” I suggested.
Big Daddy motioned for me to take a seat, while lowering his own bulk onto a velvet-covered sofa. I planted myself in a Biedermeyer chair. There seemed no question but that the butterfly trade had been very, very good to the man. Simmons apparently managed to stomach it long enough to obtain a number of beautiful possessions.
“Butterflies are beyond a passion for the true collector. They’re an absolute obsession, making everything
else in life secondary,” he explained. “It’s what’s known in the trade as the ‘sickness.’ Marriages are destroyed, jobs are lost. Some collectors grow so fixated that they spend their last dime on a rare butterfly and become financially ruined. Think of it as the equivalent of acquiring high-end art, such as a Van Gogh or a Rembrandt painting. If you have the money, are good at collecting, and know when to sell, then the endeavor can be incredibly lucrative. If not, you tend to end up in deep shit.”
“That’s all very interesting, but you still haven’t told me why you got out of the trade,” I persisted.
Big Daddy cracked his knuckles one at a time and grimaced, as if putting off something distasteful.
“Look, I got out of the business when I finally realized what it was doing to me. At first the whole thing was amazingly alluring. You have no idea how seductive it is to get caught up and lose yourself in so much beauty. It’s like a great sexual thrill. But then I became greedy. I didn’t want just one of each species. I craved every single specimen. It got to the point where I’d go into an area and collect all the larvae I could. Then I’d rip out the remaining food plants so that no one else would be able to find them. Why? Because I knew that would help protect my investment and drive the market price up. I’d have done anything to ensure that I had the very last specimen. Then I’d turn around and sell it for mucho bucks.”
Simmons was right. Anyone who would push a species to the brink of extinction for ego gratification and profit was gripped by a sickness. I would have gladly slapped Big Daddy behind bars right now if only that were possible. Instead, I tried hard not to show my disgust.
“The problem began when I started to identify more with the butterflies than I did with my clients. I became so good at finding rare specimens, that I actually began to think like one while out in the field.” Big Daddy sadly grunted and shook his head. “That’s when I knew I had to make amends for my actions. So I joined the Franciscan order. I presume you already know about that?”
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