A Passing Curse (2011)

by C R Trolson

  She pulled the wooden doll from under the bed. She’d dusted most of the dirt off yesterday, but the doll still smelled of earth. She had not told Ajax about the doll, the charm stone, the sandal, or the cross. She’d take his money, but trust was another matter. A paradox, for now, that she could live with. A million dollars. With that kind of money, if Ajax reneged on the deal and actually paid her off, she could mount a small expedition of her own, something closer of course, the Yucatan perhaps. But she didn’t have the money, not yet. Ajax had given in too easily, in fact, doubled the amount of her fee, a good clue he was planning to stiff her. Time would tell. Time would tell about a lot of things.

  After eating, she sat at the small desk. She examined the doll with her magnifying glass. She pulled out her small measuring tape. The doll was one foot ten and three quarter inches long. It was six inches across at the waist, the thickest part, and carved out of solid coast live oak. The padres had carved the stomach to mock pregnancy. The doll had fading blue paint for eyes, a red mouth, and brown painted dress. The hair was peeling black paint. There was nothing significant about the doll other than its intended use for shame and embarrassment.

  She examined the charm stone. It was green jade, California jade, unpolished and, except for the weight, resembling rough plastic. She rubbed her thumb over the scratches she’d seen yesterday. Yes. There it was. Some sort of writing. Three words. On a piece of hotel stationary she wrote Et El Hoc.

  After five minutes of studying the three words, she said, “Et El Hoc.”

  The words weren’t Latin, or rather, in Latin they made no sense. In Latin they came out - “and ‘blank’ this.” El didn’t have a Latin equivalent. El meant “the” in Spanish but Latin had no article as such. In Latin, Et translated as “and.” Hoc in Latin was “this.”

  Indian words transcribed into Latin? She wrote down Etel Hawk and atel hick. She played with the pronunciation. How many different ways were there in any language of saying the same thing? How many nuances of expression could change a meaning completely?

  She did not feel like going to the mission right now. Ramon was too scared to tamper with her dig. Skeleton two should be safe beneath the tarp, out of the sun.

  She wanted Et El Hoc translated. She also needed to do more research on the mission’s history. UCSB was a thirty-minute drive. The university’s library would have plenty on the Chumash and Spanish. There was no way getting around it. She’d have to spend hours in the library to put some sort of story to the artifacts she’d found.

  She scratched at the inside of her elbow, a sudden itch, and rolled her sleeve up. She saw the small welt, like a bite really, and scratched at it. Probably mosquitoes from the mission’s garden.

  A casual thought floated through her mind, a glimmer so scant that it did not seem important. For some reason, she could not remember what had happened last night in the bar. Yes. That was right. Ajax had not walked her to the room. He’d offered, but he’d said good-bye in the bar. She was positive.

  She brushed her teeth and washed her hands. She walked into the bedroom and noticed the wrinkled sheets. A sudden anxiety hit her. Her stomach sank. She rushed to the bed and shoved her hand under the mattress, searching. She yanked the mattress to the floor. The cross was gone.

  14

  Reese drove from the mission to his apartment, mixed a weak whiskey - he was drinking too much - and paced in front of the couch. He looked across the street. A parked green Ford Taurus. A man trying to hide behind a newspaper. At least he hadn’t cut eye-holes in the paper to look through. He had a good idea who it was but decided, for now, to ignore him.

  He focused, instead, on the crime scene he’d just left. The cross bolt on the door was exactly that: a heavy one-inch bolt with a six-inch throw, something out of a medieval castle. The bolt being closed said suicide, but Ramon swinging by his feet with his dick on the desk said murder.

  He’d once had a case where a guy shot his girlfriend while forcing her to hold the gun. When the guy left the apartment, he used a paper clip and a rubber band to hook the door chain shut, making murder look like suicide. The only problem was that he left the bent paper clip inside, and that, plus a few other inconsistencies, like the blaring one that women rarely shoot themselves, had the guy confessing inside of an hour.

  So, Ramon had been killed, and if the killer had not left through the window, that is, if the killer wasn’t a very slender midget, then there was a secret door, and if the killer had escaped through a secret door, it would be the first time, that he knew of, in police history. At least for the relatively short time he’d been a cop in Los Angeles. It all sounded too much like some English tea-room mystery. Maybe the killer had walked through the walls and rematerialized on the other side. He reflected that if anyone was capable of that it would be Ajax.

  He’d seen two homicide victims in less that nine hours, a quiet eight-hour shift in the bedlam of LA, but unheard of in Santa Marina.

  Cheevy’s death was serene compared to the hack job done on Ramon. The only similarity, if you discounted that both Ramon and Cheevy knew Ajax Rasmussen, was that both bodies were blood empty. What made things interesting was that Ramon’s blood was spread all over the floor and Cheevy’s was simply missing.

  He’d come to Santa Marina to find out who or what had pushed Homer Wermels over the edge and now he was involved with two homicides that might be related. He was positive Rasmussen was involved and wondered if the killings of Ramon and Cheevy were a message to him, a warning of some sort. Maybe it wasn’t a warning at all, but a sign from Ajax that he was on the right track, a sign to keep coming, a green light to come ahead. Or, more than likely, a red cape waved in front of a bull.

  He was idly thinking that maybe the Anaheim Vampire was not dead, but was alive and working in Santa Marina, changing his tactics with the geography, that maybe he’d killed the wrong person in that LA hotel room, when someone knocked on the door. He opened the door, not too surprised to find Hernandez standing there in sport jacket, slacks, and running shoes. His tie bright yellow.

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said and walked past him into the living room, looking around. “Some dive you got.”

  Reese left the door open. “I’m glad you like it.”

  Hernandez smiled. The brightly enameled teeth against his brown face were dazzling, an advertisement for good hygiene and healthy living. “You got a beer?”

  “In the refrigerator,” he said. Hernandez had the look of a man who was on to something. A man holding good cards. “What game are we playing here, Phil? Miss me, do you?”

  Hernandez found a St. Pauli Girl, twisted off the cap, and threw it in the sink where it rolled around for a few seconds. He brought the bottle to his lips. It was a long drink and he belched before answering. “It’s no game. Just a few questions about Homer Wermels.” Hernandez sat himself down on the couch, about where Rusty had been. That in itself was enough to piss Reese off.

  “Official questions?”

  “I don’t have a warrant.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “You shot Wermels after he grabbed your gun?” Hernandez asked. “That was your official statement. Homer Wermels came at you. You both grappled for your sidearm.”

  “I shot Richard Lamb, not anyone called Wermels.”

  “Come on, buddy, I know the score. I know why you’re here. And I know who’s who. You killed Homer Wermels after he made a play for your gun? That’s still your story?”

  “That’s right.” He guessed Hernandez had been in his old files. Hernandez thought he actually knew what was happening. “They call it self-defense.”

  “That isn’t right. At least not the self-defense part.” Hernandez drained the bottle and belched again like he was trying to rile him. Or was Hernandez a natural at being obnoxious?

  “Get on with it,” he said.

  From a sitting position Hernandez launched the bottle toward the kitchen trash can. The emerald bottle lazily swapped ends, landing
squarely in the can, clinking loudly against the other bottles.

  The plastic trash can rocked back and forth. “He was handcuffed. He had marks on his wrists.”

  “That came out at the coroners’ inquest,” Reese said. “You forgot?” Hernandez outweighed him by twenty pounds and was ten years younger. He’d played triple A ball, as he remembered, one of the Dodgers’ farm clubs. He imagined Hernandez would put up a good fight, but he was not going to give Hernandez a chance to fight. Instead, he was going to do Hernandez a favor.

  He hoped a warning would work. He saw it clearly: Hernandez pays a visit to Rasmussen, and Rasmussen, with Dale Carnegie blandishments, setting the ambitious cop up. He saw Rasmussen milking it out, leading Hernandez on, but in the end it would be like a pit bull with a lazy kitten. He hoped he could save Hernandez. “You forgot I was cleared of all charges?”

  “A whitewash job,” Hernandez happily declared. “The coroner’s deputy said Homer could have been into bondage or that you grabbed his wrists during the struggle, but the Feds are thinking it was handcuffs. Your handcuffs. And if he was handcuffed when he was killed, then that’s against the privilege of deadly force.”

  “You’ve read the manual,” he said. “I’m impressed.” He brought Hernandez another beer. After unscrewing the lid, Hernandez twist flicked the serrated metal top toward the trash can, banking it off the side of the counter, scoring a direct hit. The former ballplayer smiled at him, winked, and half drained the bottle.

  “What are you doing here, Phil? What’s your play?”

  “I’m on my own time.”

  “The Chief said you were promoted.”

  “Sometimes you can get more cooperation with these small town cops if you puff things up a bit. A lieutenant carries a bit more weight than a detective.”

  “The truth carries some weight. It always has.”

  “That’s fresh, coming from you. Anyway, who says I’m not going to make lieutenant?”

  “Not me,” Reese said and looked out the window. “So, you’re on your own time but you’re driving a company car. The handy old green Taurus.” Hernandez shrugged. “It can be dangerous for you here, Phil.”

  “You threatening me?” Hernandez straightened, but only slightly, as if any threat from him would, at best, be minimal.

  “It’s not me you have to worry about. It’s Ajax Rasmussen.”

  Hernandez sat up and smacked the coffee table flat handed, the kind of guy who was always hitting things. “I knew you were after him.” Hernandez was up now and shaking his head. “Listen. You can’t kill Rasmussen like you killed Wermels. He’s an important man.” Hernandez leaned forward. “I’m going to tell Ajax Rasmussen what you’re doing here, and then I’m go to re-open the Richard Lamb case.”

  “You don’t understand, Phil. I’m not after Rasmussen. He’s after me and since you’re here, he’s after you, too. I’m trying to warn you, do you a favor.”

  “Do me a favor?” Hernandez hooted and popped himself on the head with both fists, smiling like he’d won a prize, the smartest guy in the room. “I knew it. You’ve gone buggy, dude. You’re around the fucking bend. Why is the world’s richest man after you? Or after us? Gimme a break.”

  “Have another beer, Phil,” he said calmly. “I want to tell you a little story.” It took him thirty minutes to explain most of it, but in the end Hernandez drove away in the green Taurus unfazed. He didn’t even think it odd that in a short period of time two people had been bizarrely killed in the small town that hadn’t a homicide in ten years as long as you didn’t count the ten missing people. Hernandez had set his sights, Reese guessed, and little else mattered.

  The road to Santa Barbara lay on a two-mile wide ledge of flat land running along the coast for twenty miles, between the waves and the green-flecked, sandstone mountains. The campus was west of the city and set back from a bluff overlooking the ocean and clean white beaches striped with drying seaweed.

  Inside the library she swore at herself again for being so goddamn stupid about the cross and trusting people. Either Reese or Ajax was the thief. Some choice. A crooked cop or a klepto billionaire. Once she found out who had her cross, she’d simply steal it back. There was no sense dwelling on it.

  In an hour she’d read a dozen books chronicling the demise of the California Indians, nothing new, lessons already learned. The Indians had trusted the wrong people. Her mind wandered. How could she have been so goddamned stupid to trust Reese?

  An interesting fact, she noted, was that the destruction of the Indians decreased as their distance from the missions increased. A good lesson for keeping your distance.

  She kept reading. A few indexes mentioned language, but when she turned to the page, she only found one or two cursory paragraphs outlining vague linguistic theories.

  Hanging over the librarian’s desk, a large sign ordered, “Have Your Library Card and Student I.D. Ready.” She had neither but tried to look confident.

  “I’m looking for a book about the Coastal Tribes, specifically their language.”

  The librarian, a small Japanese lady who wore a nice plum tweed jacket and one strand of pearls, peered over her glasses. “You aren’t a student.”

  “I never said I was,” she said, somehow feeling old, as if she’d had hopes of passing for a college student.

  “Faculty?”

  “I’m here for the conference,” she said. Universities were always hosting seminars where academics and traveling experts expounded on their various metier. The local experts, not to be outdone, fenced with the visiting ones, both sets feeding off each other like worms in a jar. She could at least pass for a professor, that wasn’t asking much.

  The librarian nodded and, mustering a bit more grace, still not impressed with any visiting luminary, said, “You’ve checked the file catalogue?”

  “Of course.”

  The librarian squinted in the monitor and tapped at her computer. “I’ll check our aggregate files. Sometimes we have texts in reference that haven’t been cross indexed.” She was a minute typing and scanning her terminal before she looked up. “Nothing. But I don’t see why you can’t check with Professor Hamsun. His specialty is the Coast Indians.”

  “I know.”

  The librarian wrote the directions to the professor’s office on the back of scratch paper. “Good luck,” she said with little enthusiasm.

  Before searching out Hamsun, she made a detour back to her truck for the brown paper bag. Her head was already starting to hurt.

  Hamsun’s door was open, the large office cluttered with books and reels of brown recording tape. A large old man with a grey goatee and frazzled hair was bent over the ancient tape recorder with six-inch reels. His cardigan sweater was brown and ratty. The reels moved slowly. He played five or six seconds of a low voice sing-songing, “Wihiwiok, Wihiwiok.” Then he rewound the tape a short distance and tapped a tuning fork on the edge of the table. As the fork hummed, he replayed the tape, “Wihiwiok, wihiwihiok.”

  She cleared her throat. “Professor Hamsun?” She’d almost said, Professor Higgins, but there was no sense annoying him this early in the game.

  He turned, slowly straightened himself, and looked over his glasses. “Yes?”

  “Rusty Webber.” He ignored her outstretched hand. He had not changed in the ten years since she’d sat in a dusty sandstone blockhouse at Stanford with sixty other students listening to him drone on about the decline of Western civilization.

  “What do you want?” he asked gruffly. “Do I know you?” He made a motion with his hand for her to leave. She put the bag on an empty chair.

  “I need something translated.”

  “Does this look like the UN?” He hit the tuning fork and pushed the button on the recorder. “Wihiwiok. Wihiwiok,” it crackled. He cracked the tuning fork on the table. He turned up the volume. “WIHIWIOK. WIHIWIOK.” He paused to rewind the tape.

  “Et el hoc,” she said slowly.

  He turned. His eyes brighten
ed. “What did you say?”

  “Et el hoc.” She unfolded the paper and held it out for him. Hamsun seemed to wake up as he walked over and examined the paper. He was a head taller than she was. His glasses threatened to drop off his slender nose before a liver-spotted hand shifted them back.

  “Where’d you get this?” Before she could answer, Hamsun rolled his eyes, shook his head, and pulled a heavy book off the shelf. He opened the book, raising a swirl of dust. He coughed as he flipped through the pages. The smell of drying persimmons filled the room. “Iskoman family, consisting mostly of Chumash and Salinan. How’d you know it wasn’t Latin? You do know Latin?”

  “It doesn’t make sense in Latin.”

  “And that’s the problem. You hear something foreign and you reference it to something you already know.” He finally flipped to the center of the book, and finding what he wanted, ran his finger down the page. “You see, the Chumash had no written language. No alphabet, nothing. History was passed down in story and song, in cave paintings. When the Spanish came, the Chumash sometime used - with what they had learned from the priests - the Latin alphabet to communicate their sounds, their language, their history.”

  She had seen too many of his kind. They stuffed up the universities with their idiosyncrasies and petty meanness. Mostly they stuffed up the backwater studies: anthropology, botany, and paleontology were full of them: professional students who had turned into professional researchers or teachers, and, finally, into professional cranks.

  He lectured her, even as he was reading to himself. “In translating, one must bear in mind the inner patterns of nuance. ‘I killed her,’ can be a statement of fact. With a slight change of inflection it becomes a denial, a question of astonishment, ‘I killed her?’”

  He found something interesting and quit talking. He read to himself for a minute, chuckling a bit before looking up. “Chumash,” he said. “Malibu, Piru, Sespe, Ojai, Port Hueneme, Point Mugu, Simi Valley, all Chumash words. Look anywhere on a Southern California road map - a lot of Chumash.” He smiled sadly and trailed his fingers along the type. “That’s about all that’s left of the Chumash, once numbering in the hundreds of thousands, a few words.