Chapter 13
Trigger Points
“Why is it,” Sally asked Hawk, “that I get the distinct feeling that I’m being set up, but I don’t know what for, or how, or when, or by whom? Oh, yeah, baby, that’s it,” she said as he set the tip of his index finger in the middle of her right trapezius muscle, leaned down, and applied pressure, holding the finger down ten seconds, then letting go slowly, changing the angle, and repeating the process. Sometimes he used an elbow. She lay facedown on the bed, with Hawk straddling her hips, working on his trigger-point-massage techniques. He’d decided he wanted to develop a repertoire of massage moves: Swedish, Thai, trigger, Shiatsu, deep tissue, maybe even hot stones. Sally was doing her best to encourage his efforts.
“Uh-huh,” he said, trying another point and eliciting a satisfied reciprocal “unh” from her. “This could be a setup. But until you know more about what’s going on, you won’t be able to avoid it. You’d better talk to Dickie anyhow, and maybe Scotty, too. Breathe out,” he instructed.
She tensed at the mention of Scotty Atkins, then blew out a long breath and felt the tightness go out of the muscle Hawk was addressing. “Yeah. Dickie, anyhow. He probably already knows that there’s a hell of a lot going on among the Dub-Dubs, but maybe I can fill in some detail after that meeting this afternoon.”
“You can do more than that,” said Hawk, working his way down the right side of her spine, heading for her hip. “You can let him know you’re getting deeper and deeper, even when you’re trying to hold back. I can’t quite tell if it’s you who manipulated the situation, or if things are kind of developing as they go along, or if you’re being used. Probably all three.”
She heard and felt her bones crack. Aaaah.
“Adjustments are free,” he said genially. “Put it this way. It looks like you’re going to be spending time with Nina’s sister and her ex.”
“Cat and Stone,” she embroidered, unnecessarily.
“Sounds like the title of a seventies folk-rock album,” Hawk observed.
Sally laughed, then grunted when he inserted his elbow in a gluteal muscle crease she hadn’t previously known existed, and leaned down solid. “Agh. Man, that’s great,” she said. He leaned a little harder, just hard enough, and then gradually let up. He rubbed her hip with the palm of his hand, kneading away stiffness she hadn’t even realized had been there.
A thought occurred to her. “Wait a minute,” she said, and started to sit up.
“I’m not done,” he said, pushing her back down on her stomach on the bed, and laying a calming hand on her left shoulder.
Sally sighed. “Please, by all means, continue,” she said. “But let me work a little on this thought. Less than a month ago, I was sitting in my office minding my own business, when the fabled Thomas Jackson came waltzing in and gave me an ego massage the likes of which I’ve never experienced in my whole, fairly well-massaged life,” she said.
“Fairly well massaged?” said Hawk, leaning in over her deltoid. “Shall I take that as an insult or a challenge?”
“The latter, by all means,” she said, exhaling as the weight of his upper body came down on his elbow. Mmmph. “But keep listening. Since that day, two reasonably close personal acquaintances of mine have been shot. One of them I liked a lot. The other?” She paused. “Surely he had his virtues.”
Sally believed wholeheartedly in the old adage about not bad-mouthing the departed. What good would it do to point out that Jimbo Perrine had been a nasty redneck son of a bitch?
“Apart from the fact that they were both shot near Albany, both during hunting season, and you knew them both, is there anything else they had in common?” Hawk asked.
“That’s the obvious question, isn’t it?” Sally answered.
“You’d think,” said Hawk. “In fact, you’d think that coming up with the answer would go a long way toward figuring out whether the same person shot them, and, if so, who it might have been, and why.”
“And, of course, that’s what I do think,” Sally said. “But I’m not coming up with any answers. Aside from the fact that both of them lived in Albany County, and both had pretty strong opinions about hunting and wildlife and nature in general, I can’t imagine two people who had less in common. If you’d put them in a room together, the air would’ve gotten so toxic, you’d eventually have had to seal off the building.
“Meantime, there’s this whole Wild West thing revving up, with the truly goofy result that there’ll be a grand public event at which both Nina Cruz and Jimbo Perrine will be fondly remembered, and their memories fondly funded. What the hell do you think that’s about?” she asked him.
“I have no idea. Nels dropped some hints yesterday, but he didn’t give us much to go on. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like your Dub-Dub friends are fixing to have a big battle about the direction this outfit goes. That Kali seems to want to zero in on animal rights, which strikes me as a pretty hopeless strategy in this state. She seems like an extremely strange character in any case. Cat Cruz, on the other hand, is a world-renowned humanitarian who apparently has a much broader, more sensible agenda. Or at least the stuff she tells you makes her sound like I’d agree with her. As for Randy Whitebird, despite Stone Jackson telling you that the man uses expressions like ‘the carnivore holocaust,’ he’s acting like the kind of opportunist who knows how to latch onto money and power. The rest of them don’t really matter, do they?”
“No, they don’t,” Sally agreed, “except insofar as I can get them to tell me stuff I want to know. With one exception. What about Nels Willen?” Sally asked.
“What about him? He’s a puzzle, huh?” Hawk said.
“Oh yeah,” said Sally. The main thing she knew about Nels Willen was that he had managed to beat back panic and rise to the occasion on the morning Nina Cruz was shot. Apart from that, he seemed like a smart, nice, interesting man. Sally had known any number of beguiling men who had handled one or more crises pretty well. In her life experience, the perils of mistaking such good behavior for trustworthiness had become painfully clear, soon enough, sometimes even before the tequila wore off. “I like Willen,” she said.
Hawk didn’t see fit to mention her track record, but he found a way to tactfully bring up the necessity for independent verification of good behavior. “Willen’s been involved with environmental organizations besides this one. I can call one or two people in the Wilderness Society, the Trust for Public Land, the Conservancy. Find out what they know about him. You want me to make some inquiries?” he volunteered.
Sally flinched. “Yeah, you do that,” she said, as he resumed his ministrations. “Maybe the fact that you’re checking up on him will get around, and you, too, can get yourself shot.”
“More likely you can,” Hawk retorted, digging in perhaps a little extra hard with that elbow.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry. I forgot what I was doing. Temporarily distracted by the thought of bullet holes in you. I’m sure you understand,” he said.
She surely did. “Apology’s all mine,” she acknowledged. “Clearly, I’m opening myself up to stuff again, this time. And as always,” she said, stretching a hand back toward his leg, “I’m so glad you’ve got my back, no pun intended. But you know how I am, Hawk. Until I figure out if anybody’s setting me up, and if so, who it is, and if they are, what that has to do with Nina Cruz’s death and maybe Jimbo’s as well, I’m not about to leave this alone.”
Hawk rubbed her left hip, signaling the end of the massage. As a final flourish, he swept his palms slowly and heavily up her spine, from the sacrum to the nape of her neck, and then leaned down to kiss the valley between her shoulder blades. “I’m not about to leave you alone,” he whispered.
“Good,” she said, smiling into the pillow. “So just think with me one minute more. I’m trying to get a clear picture of the people I’m dealing with, starting with the ones who got shot. What’s your take?”
Hawk’s voice, soft, warm, came from hal
f an inch from the top of her spine, sometimes closer. “Nina was a diva and a lover and a martyr, and from what you tell me, a whole lot of other things. She planned to drop a bunch of money on a foundation that is either a thoughtful, flexible land trust and wildlife protection organization, or some kind of wacko animal rights fanatic society, depending on who you’re listening to. Jimbo Perrine was a decent bass player, but a reactionary bastard, about as unlovable as they come, and just about all he left behind was a wife and two kids.”
“And a grieving mother,” said Sally.
Hawk kissed the back of her neck, very softly.
Sally shivered and went on. “And now I’m suddenly on the job, at the urging of a couple of big-time Hollywood types, trying to figure out why these people died, what’s going on with the foundation and its assorted hangers-on, and what the Albany County Sheriff’s Department is doing about all this. Not to mention keeping the Millionaires in line, and dealing with Jimbo’s widow. And just for fun, diving into writing Nina’s life story, and taking in a substantial bequest to the Dunwoodie Center from the very same Nina Cruz.”
Sally spoke into the pillow. “I think I ought to tell them I’m too busy. Got classes to teach and the entire history of women to account for.” After a great massage, she always contemplated the thought that she worked too hard, and needed to reduce the stress in her life.
“Right. That’s what I think you should do,” said Hawk. “Tell them you’re too busy with your day job to do this benefit and have to sing with Stone Jackson. While you’re at it, let them know that a serious women’s historian like you has better things to do than writing a potentially best-selling biography of some second-rate folksinger. And that, by the way, you don’t want a quarter of a million dollars for your center.” And then he pinched her ass.
“Hey!” she said, slapping his hand. “Watch yourself, buddy!” Another sigh. “Why does this feel way too good to be true, and at the same time so awful I can hardly believe it?”
“Because it’s both,” he answered. “But you’re ignoring some obvious things. Nina told Jackson and Cat that you were her good friend. And you’re not just some small-town college professor, Mustang. I mean, you are that, of course, but not every college professor reveals international conspiracies, tracks down killers, finds treasure, unveils the lives of mysterious poets—”
“Okay, okay. You’re talking about that People magazine story,” she said, twisting her body and pushing up on one elbow to look at him. “That was totally embarrassing.”
Hawk rolled off her and onto his side, facing her. “No, I’m not talking about that story. I’m talking about the fact that while you’re wondering why famous people are bothering with you, you’ve forgotten that you’re a little bit famous yourself. Everybody around here ignores that fact as much as they can, and most of the time it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. The snow will still snow, there’ll still be whiskey to drink, you’ll still have to deal with brain-dead students, grade papers, and digest the food at the Wrangler.
“But in this case, Stone Jackson and Cat Cruz have sought you out because you’ve somehow gotten yourself in the middle of murder, solved the crimes, and written some damned good biography while you were at it. They really do have reason to think you can help them figure out what Nina was up to, and what might have inspired somebody to decide to kill her. If you want to believe they’re using you, fine. But if they are, it might be because they think you’d be, well, useful.”
Sally lay still a minute, trying out the idea. “When you put it that way,” she said, “it throws a different light on things. So maybe instead of being suspicious, I actually ought to try to help out.”
“As you wish,” said Hawk. “I’m just a humble masseur.”
Sally laughed.
Hawk leaned down and put his face close to hers. “All I ask is that you keep the police—and me—informed about what you’re doing and where you’re doing it, while you’re doing good deeds.” Kissed her again, a little less softly.
“Naturally,” said Sally. “I always tell my masseur everything.” But then she got serious again. “Seems to me that when people get killed, it’s usually because the killer decides that the victim either has the potential to do harm, or has already done so. I can imagine any number of reasons why somebody like Jimbo Perrine might get himself into a place where somebody else thinks he did them wrong— even leaving aside the possibility that some careless hunter really did shoot him by accident.”
“Having shot my fair share of state-regulated game animals,” Hawk said, “I’m dubious. Most hunters are careful to a fault. According to the Boomerang, Jimbo was wearing a DayGlo orange vest and an orange stocking cap. It’d be damn hard to mistake him for a deer. I’m sorry, but I can’t buy that one as an accident.”
She sat up, cross-legged, leaned an elbow on her knee and put her chin on her fist. “But what about Nina? Nels Willen says she was shooting at somebody on the morning of the day she was killed. He could be lying, but then there’s that letter I found, the fact that at least half the people involved with Wild West have apparently been Nina’s lovers at some time. Plus there’s the fact that Nina had a whole lot of money, which she was giving away at a nice clip. So it’s not far-fetched to assume that one or more of those once-and-future lovers had been sufficiently hurt by Nina Cruz, and/or had enough to gain from her death, to maybe do something about it.”
Hawk reached out and put a hand on the inside of her thigh. “You know what I love?” he said, stroking. “I love when you get so wrapped up in speculating that you forget you’re naked.”
Sally looked down, a puzzled expression on her face. Looked up, eyes wide. “Naked?” she said.
Hawk grinned. “Naked,” he said, and moved closer.
The telephone rang.
“Fuck,” said Hawk.
Sally answered. “Hello? Oh, hi, Delice,” she said.
“Delice,” said Hawk. “Fuck.”
“No,” said Sally, “I didn’t see the ten o’clock news. In fact, I pretty much never catch the ten o’clock news. Hawk’s usually in bed by then, and I figure I’ll survive without getting whatever the media geniuses in Denver or Casper consider the latest-breaking stories.”
She sat a moment, listening, while Hawk lay facedown, cursing quietly.
“You’re kidding,” she said, at last. “I don’t believe it.”
Hawk looked up.
“Wait a second,” said Sally, opening the drawer of the bedside table and fishing for paper and pencil. “I want to write this down....Slow down, Dee... spell it out.” She wrote. “ ‘Protease-resistant prion protein’?” She wrote more. “Wow. Where do you get this stuff ...? You called her this late?”
Delice said something.
“Yeah, yeah, not everybody’s a no-life loser like me either. But this is impossible,” Sally said. “Nina was a vegetarian. Had been for years and years. I don’t get how this could happen.”
More silence. “Yeah, all right. Yeah, let’s have coffee tomorrow morning. You can fill me in on what your vet pal told you. Let’s do it early, even though I don’t teach until the afternoon,” she said, and winced. “Okay. About eight, at the Wrangler. Thanks for calling.”
She hung up.
“What happened?” Hawk asked.
“The Casper station had a story about the autopsy report on Nina Cruz,” Sally told him, a dazed look on her face. “Not surprisingly, it listed the cause of her death as a gunshot wound to the chest. But there was more. Evidently, the medical examiner had some concerns about her brain tissue and sent a sample to be analyzed. According to the ten o’clock news, it looks like at the time of her death, Nina had symptoms consistent with new variant Creutzfeld-Jakob disease, or bovine spongiform encephalopathy.”
Hawk shook his head in puzzlement. “That can’t be. She’d be the first diagnosed case in the United States.”
“I know,” said Sally. “It’s too weird. How the hell could a vegetarian get
mad cow disease?”
Chapter 14
The Pork Chop Special
Blustery as it was the next morning when Sally woke up, she was grimly determined to get a run in. She was already eating way too many meals at the Wrangler, facing one more, and she had started adjusting her attitude to fit the circumstances. Pretty soon, she’d have to start adjusting the fit of her trousers. But if she told the truth, she was actually looking forward to the prospect of a large, greasy breakfast. As a one-time Californian and intermittently health-conscious human, she had a tendency to imagine each heartbeat as a strip of bacon, eaten or declined. She held out the hope that running at high altitude must counteract all the bad cholesterol and fat, even if only in penance points. And so she pulled on spandex tights and a long-sleeved T, did a couple of hamstring stretches and forward bends, zipped up the brown-and-gold Wyoming Cowboys windbreaker, and lit out for the territory.
After forty minutes fighting gusty breezes, listening to Morning Edition on her Walkman wasn’t keeping her entertained, and getting her core body temperature up wasn’t keeping her warm. She switched to a tape of kick-ass New Orleans rhythm and blues, but the Radiators somehow weren’t radiating. Her T-shirt kept riding up and leaving a gap between her tights and her top, and the windbreaker wasn’t breaking a damned thing.
Time to head for the Wrangler, and the hell with mad cow disease. She might be the only person in town fierce enough to brave the place, but she didn’t care. She’d stand by Delice Langham and get the breakfast she so richly deserved. Bacon and eggs, and potatoes fried in oil, if not actual lard. Tomorrow she would start in on a serious health regimen. She’d give up caffeine, maybe even cut back on the whiskey. Nothing but soy smoothies in the morning and leafy green vegetables at night. Meditation. Yoga. The works.
Tomorrow, for sure. Today, the windy old world owed Sally Alder a frigging heart attack.
If Sally was worried about the ways in which Nina Cruz’s death might affect Delice’s café business, she needn’t have bothered with the concern. As she sauntered to a halt by the Wrangler, she noted the packed parking lot. Pickup trucks stood shoulder to shoulder. A couple of eighteen-wheelers crowded the edge of the big lot, a rare sight. Sally knew that Delice had a following among the cross-country truckers, who sometimes made a point of stopping in for a burger and a little friendly conversation. But they rarely parked in town. Somebody was making a statement. Lots of somebodies.
Bye, Bye, Love Page 14