by Susan Slater
But didn’t that raise questions about the real .22? Was there a real .22 still alive and well somewhere? Ben cursed the holiday. Tomorrow he’d call every institution in Albuquerque that might have had as its ward one Harold Rawlings about ten years ago.
“Want me to have a copy made for you? My son gets videos done at the high school. They’ve got some pretty good equipment.” He hadn’t heard Rose return.
“That would be great if he has the time.”
“As upset as you look, there’s no way I wouldn’t make him have the time.” Rose smiled. “I’ll leave both on your desk after lunch tomorrow.”
Ben thanked her and walked back to his office. What should he do? What reason did he have to check hospitals? Did he really have enough to go on? He was suspicious, but that was about all. And actually what crime had been committed? .22 wouldn’t go for testing before the board until Thursday. Hadn’t Hannah said the appointment was Thursday in Albuquerque?
Then if all this was a charade, and the inheritance was gotten under false pretenses, there would be a crime and it would be time to bring in the authorities. But Ben felt an urgency. He needed to do something now. Three days. Could he come up with more evidence in that time? He knew he was going to try. And he knew he would ask Julie’s help.
CHAPTER TEN
Julie had walked Ben to his pickup after breakfast. There would be more fireworks that evening, and they made plans to go. She hoped her day would be productive. She wanted to talk with Sal and map out what she’d like him to say on camera. It wasn’t too early for that—talk about it a month ahead and rehearse until the on-air moment arrived. She’d worked with the uninitiated before. Everything would be fine, then add a couple cameras, a crew and suddenly the prize interviewee would become tongue-tied. She’d even seen them bolt—right off the set at air-time.
The toes of her sandals were stained dark brown from walking across the lawn. Someone had watered. Hannah probably, but she must have gotten up at dawn. Julie could see her pumping gas in front of the trading post. She wouldn’t have to do that much longer, one month, maybe less.
Julie wandered toward Sal’s shed and trailer. It wouldn’t hurt to check, but everything was closed tight. Locked. Julie rattled the doorknob on the trailer, then peered in the eight inch square window in the door. It was a tiny space but uncommonly neat for a man. But wasn’t that sexist and unfair? Julie admonished herself.
Next, she tried the shed. This time the door was padlocked shut with no windows to peek through. There seemed to be such a finality about Sal’s being gone—like he planned on staying away for awhile, took precautions, didn’t just disappear. But that was odd. He’d known that they needed to spend time together, how important it was that they continued to meet, discuss how he wanted his art presented. Why wouldn’t he have said something to her?
And the package, the fetish jar—she hadn’t thought about that. There had been too many opportunities for him to tell her he was planning on a trip—that it was why he needed to keep the jar safe. But maybe he’d picked up the package. He certainly wouldn’t disappear without it. He had seemed so earnest, taking her into his confidence. Yet, he’d been gone three days without telling anyone.
She shaded her eyes and looked back toward the boarding house. There were so many good angles. She needed to get to work on a shot script—at least, patch in some background around the interviews she had planned. She needed some fade-in, montage stuff for the opening to set the stage and capture the Southwest in color. Possibly a river shot would do that—river with bluffs rising out of the desert, the seeming contradiction of water in an arid setting.
Today might be a good time to check out the river—to make some preliminary decisions, mark areas that would get the desired results—the interest of the audience, the oohs and ahhs that would keep viewers from flipping to another channel. She was beginning to feel a little pressured. She needed to get the blessing of the producer, and soon. In fact, it would be better to spend the extra money and send whatever pictures she got by overnight mail. Just in case her thinking didn’t mesh with those in charge.
She needed to change shoes, throw on jeans, grab the camera bag. If she hiked to the bluffs and followed the curve of the river back, she wouldn’t miss lunch.
+ + +
A breeze dried the perspiration that dotted her hairline, neck, and tops of her shoulders—evaporative cooling—the thing that made the desert livable, pleasant even, in the summer. She had rolled up the sleeves on her cotton shirt and pulled the tail out. Another “do” for the desert was to wear natural fiber clothing. She liked it out here. It wasn’t really a matter of Ben talking her into it. There weren’t too many places in New York that she could hike to—and be alone.
And there was the beauty. A number of flowering cacti lined the path—little pin cushions of green with two- to three-inch red or yellow trumpets. She felt lucky to have found them; the flowers would be gone by tomorrow. Some things in the desert just didn’t last—one brief burst of color or scent and then oblivion.
It hadn’t rained for a week and the ground was crusty—a mixture of sand and fine dirt that crunched underfoot. It made a mockery of the swath of rich, black earth across the Midwest that produced the food staples for the country. By rights this land shouldn’t produce at all. But if you knew where to look and waited for a rain, it came alive.
The river had probably flooded this area fairly recently—maybe last season—replenished the minerals, enriched the soil. Julie thought she recognized marks on boulders that could have been made by standing water. The river was thirty feet in front of her now, the last twenty were covered by a stand of young cottonwood. She paused to aim the Nikon, checked the F-stop and took three good pictures, toward the river, away from the river and one of the bluffs.
If the riverbed was shallow and gravel-lined through this area, she’d wade. It would feel good and she could get some spectacular shots walking downstream unobstructed by the trees.
The coldness of the water almost made her reconsider. But the bottom was smooth with pea-sized bits of granite and an occasional marble-round piece of pumice, and she decided to brave it. When she first saw the cages in the shallows, it didn’t make sense. Why were there twenty-odd galvanized wire cages two- by four- by one-foot ringing a man-made pool, rock lined and two feet deep but closed to the current of the river? In fact, the pond was carefully constructed so as not to have running water infiltrate the basin at all but to rely on a pump attached to a gasoline generator that whirred and chugged, spewing water through a recycling tube some four feet in the air. It was a fountain, but not a very pretty one. There was no statuary, maidens dumping water from their urns, and there was no vegetation, lily pads with flowers, but the pond was clear, free of debris.
Heavy black plastic trapped the water and its inhabitants should they escape, but that seemed unlikely as each cage was skewered to a stake by a short length of chain that let it stray a foot but no further and each fist-sized door was clipped snugly shut.
Julie knelt at the pond’s edge and studied the arrangement before leaning over the cage closest to her. She had been right. If toads were the ones with warts, then these were toads—all of them. And they looked exactly alike. This wasn’t a varied collection but a large assembly of the same species.
The toads could choose to be immersed or retire to the drier part of their wire mesh homes. Most, it seemed, preferred the shallow water. It wasn’t the purposeful placement of the toads that intrigued her; it was the smell. The strong, unmistakable odor of tea. And not just any tea—Earl Grey.
She cupped her hand and let the water from the pond trickle through her fingers. It was tea, light golden brown, aromatic, sun-brewed to perfection. The toads were having a tea party. She couldn’t stifle a giggle. Feeling somewhat like the Mad Hatter, she retrieved a wad of tea bags that had been tied to a stake, allowing them to float toward the center where they would get sun, and checked the tags. For whatever it was worth,
she had been right. It was Earl Grey.
The toads certainly seemed to have good taste. But that might be all they had. Even though the pond was full of some kind of water flea that flitted in and out of the cages, almost sitting on the toads’ noses, no one was eating. Some of the ones who had chosen to pig-pile in the dry end of their cages looked lethargic. A white mucous trailed across their backs oozing, it appeared, from their small horn-like row of points. Had these toads been injured?
Automatically, Julie raised the camera—a shot of the pool, zooming in with the lens and a close-up of the toads. There must be some explanation. Of course, she was assuming these were the toads she’d seen in .22’s room—part of the hobby Hannah told Ben about. But he wouldn’t be selling the legs of these guys to any restaurants. And he would have needed help building this pool, adding a generator, the filters and water spout. He wouldn’t have known how to do all this.
And why were they all alike? Where would anyone get a hundred or so toads all alike? Trap them? Is that what she was looking at? Julie didn’t think so. This arrangement seemed more for exercise—take everyone out of the aquariums in the darkened bedroom and let them frolic in nature, eat in the wild, reproduce ... Only none was doing any of that.
Suddenly, Julie didn’t feel very comfortable. She didn’t want to run into .22 out here and be discovered yet again by his overprotective mother. Better to leave toad farming or whatever it was to others. But Earl Grey tea ... that was a puzzle.
She didn’t meet anyone on the way back and she took more than forty pictures, getting just the shots she wanted. She thought the guys in New York would be pleased. Although she’d love to see her desert shots printed as eight-by-ten glossies, it would save time to just send the files. The studio would receive the camera’s memory card quicker than she could have them printed in town and get the pictures back. It would be just as easy for the studio to print them in the first place.
The mail would be picked up at the trading post in the morning. Sending the card overnight delivery assumed it would get there by the end of the week, maybe sooner. She’d stop by the corner of the trading post marked Post Office when she got back.
+ + +
Breakfast had been peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat—with lettuce and mayo. That last addition bothered Sal. Unless .22 had helped and Hannah had left it that way, didn’t want to hurt .22’s feelings. It was just another queer twist to being imprisoned in the first place. But, the lights were on. He’d worked last night—to keep his mind off of things and not just because there had been a note from Hannah saying it was in his best interest to do so.
He could play along. He’d unpacked everything, set up the workbench, the miniature chemistry lab, the fans and dryers. He wouldn’t work very hard. But he knew she could spy on him. He felt her watching from somewhere in the darkness. So maybe it would impress her that he could change his mind and do things her way.
He smiled. Maybe, if she thought profits would lag, she’d let him out. He tried not to dwell on that—the out part. He thought of positive things, how his sister had expected him for Sunday dinner. Then they were going to view the fireworks at the Civic Center. That was yesterday. Her son was back from fighting a fire in California. She would be upset. But she’d know Sal wouldn’t have left—never without telling her—no matter what. But would her concerns be enough? And where would anyone go to look?
He’d tried thumping against the trapdoor with a leg from the bench but could tell from the sound that extra insulation had been placed above the opening. The sound seemed to stop and fall back around his ears. He’d had to take out his hearing aid in order to continue. But wasn’t the opening in the pantry to begin with? Not some place anyone other than Hannah was allowed.
Pounding was wasting his time. What an interesting thought. When he had nothing but time, he thought of squandering it. Sal had marked each day on the wall in pencil—the day, a slash, and a number. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this, but it seemed important. He was in control of something. That was what was important.
+ + +
Julie had gotten back to the boarding house in time for lunch and a message from Ben saying he was still at the clinic but would be home in time to pick her up for fireworks. She had looked forward to spending the afternoon with him. It was a holiday, after all. And then she’d laughed at her peevishness. She was probably more upset at finding two tourist buses blocking the drive and seventy-some people roaming the grounds and lining up for a ham sandwich and potato salad. So much for eating—it would take a couple hours to feed that mob.
It was mid-afternoon before the tourists went on to whatever the next stop was. The house was quiet. From her bedroom window she could see a young man from the village sweeping down the drive in front of the trading post, mounding what looked to be discarded junk-food wrappers along with a healthy amount of dirt that had sifted across the cement—the same young man who had seemed impressed when she’d handed him the package for New York. He had asked her about her job, said that he’d like to leave someday but probably wouldn’t get much farther than an art school in Santa Fe. They had both laughed. It hadn’t taken Hannah long to replace Sal. Julie watched as the kid hosed the drive around the pumps, stopping to refill the reservoirs of windshield cleaner, even wiping the squeegees. She hated to think anyone could take Sal’s place so quickly.
She missed Sal—it wasn’t only that she was beginning to worry about the show. He was a friend. But Julie felt she had lost her star, literally lost the main attraction. He would have been good. But why was she thinking in the past tense? Wouldn’t he turn up? She just wasn’t sure. She should probably start working on a backup plan. Maybe she should interview another carver, not wait too long. But she had a very expensive fetish necklace that she’d hoped to feature. What would she do about that? She turned from the window. Now might be a good time to make a sandwich.
The kitchen was empty. Five large heavy-gauge black plastic garbage bags were lined up by the back door—stuffed to overflowing with discarded paper plates. What a mess. What a lot of work. It was little wonder Hannah wouldn’t miss this.
There was a plate of ham slices on the second shelf in the fridge and she’d seen a loaf of whole wheat next to the sink. Julie collected mustard and mayonnaise and put them on the counter. What she couldn’t seem to find was the potato salad. She rearranged a few jars, knelt to look in the back and popped the lids off of three containers that held assorted leftovers from last night’s dinner but no potato salad. Oh well, chips might be nice.
For some reason she was giving herself license to chomp down a few nitrates and fat calories. All this because she was missing Ben? Maybe. But the trek to the river must have burned enough calories to compensate. She opened the cupboards next to the sink, a nice assortment of condiments but no chips. Where else would Hannah keep food? Hadn’t she seen a pantry? Of course—the door around the corner to the left of the upright freezer.
At first Julie thought the door was locked. It was heavy and didn’t want to budge. Humidity might make it stick but there wasn’t much of that. Julie turned the knob and put her shoulder against the panel of knotty pine closest to the casement and pushed. It burst open and Julie stumbled forward struggling to recover her balance.
The light from the kitchen illuminated a totally bizarre scene—Hannah held a plate with a ham sandwich, and stood over .22 who was cowering at her ankles. Light had been provided by a flashlight on a shelf above Hannah’s head. Then swiftly, barely acknowledging Julie, Hannah put the plate on the shelf and smacked .22 across the face. Two red welts rose immediately and .22 started to whimper, then cry.
Hannah glared at her, “I don’t know what you’re staring at. It’s called discipline—a little time-out with no lunch.” Hannah picked up the plate and turned back to her son. “See this? This is what you can’t have. Bad boys have to wait ’til dinner and then they won’t get dinner unless they’ve been good. Does a certain bad boy understand that?”
.22 stopped blubbering, and he nodded before tentatively reaching up toward the plate. Hannah gave his hand a resounding slap.
“That doesn’t look like understanding to me.” Hannah loomed over him. “Don’t you want to show Julie what a good boy you can be?”
“Me good.” .22 looked up at Julie with a tear-stained face, and she fought an impulse to drop to her knees and hug him. He looked so forlorn. What could he have done to warrant this?
“Me hungry.” This time .22 lunged upward toward the plate knocking it from Hannah’s hand. The sandwich scattered and .22 grabbed up a slice of bread stuffing the entire piece into his mouth.
Hannah was seething. Julie saw Hannah’s hand come up from her side, and she grabbed Hannah’s wrist and held on hard, keeping Hannah from striking the hungry young man again.
“I don’t believe in corporal punishment,” Julie said, and didn’t loosen her grip even when Hannah struggled.
“I don’t see that this is any of your business.”
“There are other ways to discipline that don’t include withholding food or hitting children.”
“Well, I’m just sure that you would know all about it.” Hannah sneered.
“I know right from wrong.” Julie let loose of Hannah’s wrist.
“I love you.” .22 looked up at Julie, then threw his arms around her, shackling her at the knees and buried his head in her thighs inadvertently wiping his nose on her jeans.
Couldn’t he have thought of anything else to say? Julie groaned inwardly as she watched color creep up Hannah’s neck.
“Let go.” Hannah was not pleased. She roughly twisted .22’s ear, pulling his head back.
Was it Julie’s imagination or did .22 look gleeful? Was he smiling as he pulled away from Hannah and burrowed his face deeper into her legs? And the bear hug was in earnest—she had lost feeling in her right leg. Suddenly, he released her as his left arm jerked uncontrollably. .22 fell forward and Julie lost her balance sitting back hard on the floor. Thank God for spasms. But if it hadn’t been for the thick carpeting, I could have been bruised, she thought and struggled to her knees. And new carpeting at that, she decided as she choked back a sneeze from the sizing. Must be a cosmetic touch for the new owners.