They had stood under the neon sign debating what to do, both of them filled with the certainty that there was no one left inside the motel, that Roy and Edith were long gone by then, along with the truck. Somewhere their friend was held prisoner. His life was threatened, and there was damn-all that they could do about it.
“Let’s see who’s home,” Bennet said, and the two of them beat on each and every motel door in turn until they had convinced themselves twice over that the place was empty. The action had moved south. Unless it had moved north.
Feeling empty and helpless, they climbed back into Lou’s car, throwing in the fishing gear and pulling off the false beards they’d gotten out of Roy Barton’s box of dummy makeup. They drove back into town, past the warehouse at Glass Beach, which was locked tight, apparently deserted. They circled around past Roy and Edith’s house, but it was dark and empty, too. At the harbor everything was equally quiet except for the sound of thunder from the storm to the north of them and a few scattered lights still on in the trailers at the Sportsman’s RV. There was no sign of life at Mrs. Lamey’s house or anywhere else in Mendocino, where almost everything had closed for the night. They drove back into Fort Bragg and stopped at the Tip Top Lounge for a late beer, then went tiredly back out to the street to keep looking.
Sirens wailed north up Main just then, and the two followed along behind, running out of highway within half a mile. The place was a mess of fallen trees and tom-up roadway. The mouth of Pudding Creek was inundated, and the Sea Spray Motel wrecked. Even at that late hour motorists were gathering to watch, and Bennet and Gibb pretended merely to be rubbernecking, and stayed in the car.
Bennet saw the cop from the harbor talking on his car radio, and reached into the backseat to retrieve his beard. There was no use being recognized now. Firemen seemed to have found someone—a body. Where had it come from? Had it just staggered out of the woods? It was lying in the wet grass. Bennet couldn’t tell if it was dead or alive. He had to know, suddenly, who it was—or barring that, simply that it wasn’t Howard Barton. Roy wouldn’t be able to stand that. Heloise Lamey was treacherous, more than a match for the boy.
Moments later they heard the approaching siren of a paramedic unit. Cars began backing out of the way to let it in, and the crowd along the edge of the collapsed highway pushed back toward the shoulder. The paramedics went to work on whoever it was, the crowd closing in around them, people murmuring. More cars pulled up, spilling out people in pajamas and robes, who stood on the highway looking at the flooded creek and at the salmon flopping and dying on the edges of the washed-over dunes.
The cop from the harbor was long gone along with three other men, down the dirt road toward the trestle where they had waded through the shallows toward the motel. Bennet could see them poking around the wreckage now with flashlights. There was the sound of glass shattering as they bashed out a window with a broken-off wall stud and climbed into one of the remaining rooms, probably looking for victims.
Bennet watched the motel carefully, waiting for the panicked rush that would inevitably come if they found someone, if Roy and Edith had been there. There was no excitement at all, though, and after a couple of minutes the cop appeared from one of the open doors and set out toward the creek again, apparently in no hurry, leaving the firemen to work the place over more thoroughly.
Bennet turned his attention back to the highway. The paramedics weren’t in any hurry, either. What did that mean, a corpse? The crowd parted momentarily, and Bennet got a quick glimpse of a leg and a foot. “It’s a woman,” Bennet said. “Someone wearing a dress, anyway. I can’t tell—”
“Hey!” Gibb shouted, nearly into his ear.
“What!”
“The truck!”
“Where?” Bennet shouted, looking back down the highway. There it went, pulling out from behind the Gas ’n’ Grub, heading south. “Let’s go,” Bennet said. “Step on it!”
Gibb backed the car around, honking his way past a dozen people. A child climbed up onto the highway right in front of them, happily carrying a three-foot-long salmon by the tail and mouth. Gibb braked hard, and the kid smiled into the windshield cheerfully, holding the fish up for them to see it. Three more children appeared, carrying fish of their own, and Gibb had to wait them out, too. Bennet drummed his fingers hard on the dashboard.
“Damn it!” Gibb said. “The damn thing wasn’t two blocks down.”
“What the hell was it doing at the Gas ’n’ Grub?” Bennet asked.
“Search me,” Lou said. He eased past the last of the children, pushing the pedal down into overdrive. The car shot forward toward town. It was late, after one in the morning, and Fort Bragg was mostly asleep. A half dozen cars headed north toward the excitement, but almost no one was southbound now. The highway was clear and straight. A pair of taillights shined about a mile down the road, and even at that distance they could see that it was Bennet’s truck, with the tin shed shoving out a foot over either side of the bed.
“Give the bastards room,” Bennet said. “Don’t let them know it’s us.”
30
IT was pitch-dark as Howard and Sylvia bounced along down the highway, riding in their Trojan horse, the shed creaking and moaning as it sawed back and forth with the truck’s movement. Jimmers rode up front with Stoat, who would have to make up some excuse for Jimmers being along with him. There wasn’t enough room in the shed, though, for three people and the machine, too, unless they threw out all the garden supplies, and Jimmers couldn’t see the point of that.
Howard sat on a pile of plastic nursery bags full of mulch, bracing himself with his shoulder against the cold, swaying wall. He would never have believed that a night could last as long as this one had. And it wasn’t over yet. He was caught up in the rhythm of it, though, like a long-distance swimmer, and would be all right if he didn’t think about the remaining miles. The truck swerved around an uphill curve, Stoat throttling down into second gear, and Howard tried to guess where they were on the highway, but it was useless.
Every now and then slivers of moonlight filtered through cracks, faintly illuminating the interior of the shed. In those moments he could see Sylvia sitting across from him on the aluminum lawn chair that she had managed to wedge open crookedly in the cramped space. Her eyes were closed, but Howard didn’t think she was asleep.
Perhaps it was darkness, or fatigue, or the lateness of the hour, but Howard’s emotional guard was down, and he knew it and welcomed it. Suddenly he wanted to talk. It was time to clarify things, to cast a light on elements of the mystery that were still in shadow. They had ten or fifteen minutes entirely to themselves, and he determined not to waste it, although he was equally determined not to be as clumsy and abrupt with Sylvia as he had been with Mr. Jimmers earlier.
“What else do you know about Jimmers?” he asked her finally, breaking a long silence.
“I don’t see all that much of him,” she said after a moment.
“He seems to be pretty fond of you, though.”
“He’s always treated me like a daughter. Because of him and Mother, I suppose.”
“Is that it?” Howard asked.
Sylvia was quiet for a time. “What else would it be?”
Then Howard told her about finding Mr. Jimmers’ book, with the altered—or unaltered—dedication and the screwy, too-early date. “I knew that didn’t prove anything at all,” Howard said to Sylvia. “Not absolutely. But obviously I had to find out more. So last night, when we went back down to Jimmers’ place after the fake sketch, I asked him outright about it. I told him that I had found the book, read the dedication, and figured out who you really are.”
“What did he say?” Sylvia asked, her voice hoarse.
“He wasn’t surprised at all that I knew. I think he was relieved. On the way back up to Fort Bragg he seemed almost happy about it. Maybe you didn’t notice it when we picked you up and headed down to the Tip Top Lounge, but he was about ready to pop with it. He didn’t say anything to
you while you were hiding out under the trestle?”
“No.”
“Well …” Howard shrugged. “There’s the truth, though, if you want it. You’re the only daughter of Artemis Jimmers.”
There was silence then. After a moment he heard her sniff. She was crying in the darkness. It was dark now, and he couldn’t even see her face. He leaned over, reaching out to stroke her hair, but he couldn’t judge the distance and poked her ear by mistake. She laughed then. “Clod,” she said, sniffing again. “At least now I don’t have to claim you for a cousin.”
Howard didn’t comment on this. “And you didn’t know?” he asked her. “Honestly?”
“Of course I didn’t know. If I had known …”
“What?”
“If I had known … I don’t know. Maybe I would never have come back up north all those years ago. None of this would have happened. Where would we be now? Married? Living in an awful house in the suburbs somewhere, in Inglewood or Garden Grove or Pacoima. You’d be working at Delco Battery or Tubbs Cordage, supervising the night shift. I’d be barefoot and pregnant.”
“And now I’m not working at all,” Howard said. “I’m a bum.”
“Not going back to the museum?”
“Nope.”
She was silent again.
“How does that strike you?” Howard asked. “Are you excited at the prospect of me lurking around up here, getting in the way?”
“I’ll have to ask my therapist,” she said. “I could use some help around the boutique, I guess—sweeping up and all. Minimum wage until you learn the trade, though.”
“Could I talk to what’s-his-name? Chet? I want to fly on his astral plane.”
“Mrs. Moynihan would like that. She’s another of your admirers, you know.” After a moment she said, “It’s not bad having two fathers, is it?”
“I don’t know,” Howard said. “I can barely remember what it’s like to have one. Uncle Roy was pretty much my father, too. I feel a little shabby because of that. It isn’t really my place to tell you all this. Uncle Roy and your mother kept it a secret all these years, and now I’ve torn the lid off it.”
Sylvia started crying again at the mention of Uncle Roy. Howard waited for a moment and then went on. “They’ve been on the edge of revealing it, though. They keep hinting about me and you … you know …”
She sniffed again. “I know,” she said finally. “They think you’d make a fine husband. Mom told me that. I thought it was pretty weird at the time. Still sounds a little weird. Why didn’t you tell me all this yesterday, when you found the dedication in the book?”
“Because of what happened on the beach. I didn’t want to sound like I was rationalizing things, like I was making up reasons to justify our … failing in love.”
“Our what?” Sylvia said. “Is that the kind of thing you said to Jeanelle Shelly in the garage that time? Now you’re saying it to me in a tin shed.”
“All right,” Howard said. “When we were down in Jimmers’ basement, you weren’t paying any attention to me, anyway. All you wanted to do was play with Jimmers’ tin toys. Why should I have told you? I wanted to keep it for ammunition, to be one up on you. I was going to hold it over your head if you ever started in on Jeanelle Shelly or the ice planetoids again. I should have guessed all of it from the first, anyway. You and Jimmers. You’re peas in a pod. How could anyone think you weren’t his daughter?”
“You just wait,” she said. He heard her yawn sleepily. “My memory is long. We’ll see who one-ups who.”
The truck bumped over a rut in the road just then, slamming from side to side and throwing Howard off his plastic sacks. He sat down hard on the plywood floor of the shed, hearing Sylvia’s chair collapse at the same moment, and suddenly she sprawled across him in a tangle of arms and legs, clutching at him to avoid rolling into the closed shed door.
The truck slowed down then to turn off the highway. Sylvia lay against Howard, breathing softly against his ear, her hair in his face and her arms around his chest. She kissed him, and then said, “Why didn’t we think of this fifteen minutes ago? A tin shed is nearly as romantic as a wrecked Studebaker.”
With that, she kissed him again, long and hard, and he slid his hands up under her parka, along the small of her back. Her shirt was still damp with rainwater, but she was warm beneath the jacket. He held on to her as the truck crept across the gravel parking lot of Uncle Roy’s Museum of Modern Mysteries and braked to a stop.
They quietly disentangled themselves then. Howard listened hard, full of sudden tension. One of the truck doors opened. There were footsteps, and then someone knocking against the door of the museum. Then came Stoat’s voice speaking to someone. There was laughter, then the word “What?” followed by “Why?” They were asking about Mr. Jimmers. More talking followed, too low to understand, except that it obviously wasn’t happy talk. Touchey’s voice rang out clearly then, sounding irate.
Howard knew they would never get out of the shed without making God’s own screeching racket, so he waited. But he would have to move fast when the time came—tear the doors open and vault right off the side of the truck. Stoat would let them know if it was safe—if Stoat could be trusted …
There was more talk and shuffling feet on the gravel now, but still no signal from Stoat. Howard heard Gwendolyn Bundy laugh and then ask, “So where is he?”
“Back at the Sea Spray,” Stoat said. “He’s tied into a chair.”
“I’m going up there. He needs a playmate. You say he’s tied up?” She giggled in what sounded like the voice of a tin can.
Glenwood Touchey said, “Perhaps I’ll go along, darling. We can—”
“Nyah, nyah,” Ms. Bundy yapped at him, interrupting. “You can have him when I’m done. You’re such a bloodthirsty little man! You can practice on the two you’ve got. Do you know, Stoatie, Glenwood wanted to take me in the woods just five minutes ago. And I mean in, not into. Do you want to know what he suggested?”
“Where is Heloise?” Touchey asked in a hollow voice, interrupting her.
“At home,” Stoat said, sounding relieved. “The whole thing was a success. She’s packing a bag and will meet us here.”
“Packing a bag?”
“A little vacation. She’s worked hard, and there’s a lot of planning to do. You know how big this thing is.”
“She owes me money,” Touchey said, his voice rising. “She sure as hell better show up. She told me she’d be here a half hour ago. We’ve got people tied up in chairs and she’s home packing a bag!”
“Settle down, Glen,” Gwendolyn Bundy said. “Be a little soldier. It’s late now to be full of suspicions, isn’t it? I told you something was wrong when she didn’t show up, but you were too damned stupid to …”
There was the sound of someone being slapped, and Gwendolyn Bundy let out a yelp.
“My ass I’m going to settle down,” Touchey yelled. “She said you’d have the money, Stoat. You’re her goddamn business partner. What’s going on? She’s got this precious sketch of hers and I’m getting stiffed, is that it? Or is it something else?”
There was a brief silence then, followed by a gasp and a shriek from Ms. Bundy and then the sound of Jimmers’ door opening. In a rage, Touchey said, “I’ve had my eye on you for the last week, you phony prick, and—”
“Put the damned gun away!” Stoat yelled.
Gwendolyn Bundy screamed, and there was the noise of a scuffle. “You seedy little pervert!” she shouted. “That’s just what we need, your damned penis substitute.”
“Shut up!” Touchey shrieked, and there was the sound of another hand slap, and then of someone hitting the ground, followed by a single gunshot that echoed through the open night.
Howard tore the shed doors open, cursing himself for having waited. He threw himself over the edge of the truck bed, trying to take his weight on his good leg and expecting either to be shot by Touchey or attacked by Gwendolyn Bundy.
Mr. Jimmers was
just then coming around the front of the truck, waving his hands as if to settle everyone down. Stoat and Touchey wrestled on the ground, and Gwendolyn Bundy kicked furiously at them, not seeming to care who she kicked. A look of vast surprise and anger crossed her face when she looked up and saw Howard. For a moment he thought she would throw herself on him in a rage, and he put his arms out to ward her off.
She turned and ran around the corner of the building instead, out toward the highway. Howard let her go. Stoat and Touchey still rolled on the gravel, their feet kicking. Touchey’s face was shriveled with insane anger, and he screamed nonsense into Stoat’s ear.
Sylvia ran straight past Howard, heading for the door of the museum. Right at that moment Touchey fired the pistol again, wildly, into the eucalyptus branches overhead. Sylvia flinched, slamming herself against the wood siding of the museum and then dashing up onto the little porch and throwing herself through the open door, disappearing inside.
Touchey waved the pistol in his right hand, which Stoat held by the wrist, jacking the gun back and forth now and slamming Touchey’s arm against the ground. Touchey gouged at Stoat’s eyes and hit him futilely on the back with his free hand, gasping and mewling, his mouth biting air. Circling around them, Howard reached down and grabbed the gun barrel as if it were the head of a poisonous snake. With his other hand he pried Touchey’s fingers off the grip.
Touchey went suddenly slack then, as if he had lost all his stuffing along with the gun. His mouth was pouty and sullen, like the mouth of a spoiled little boy set to cry. He sat up in the dirt and gravel, looking around. “Gwendolyn!” he shrieked. Gwendolyn! Damn it! You damn bitch!” But she was gone, out into the night.
“She ditched you,” Howard said. “Ran straight down the road.”
“Go to hell!” Touchey croaked at him, burying his face in his hands as he hooted out a long sob. “You can’t hold me here!” he shouted. “You’re all guilty of something.”
Stoat stood up, dusting at his pants.
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