Black Valley

by Jim Brown

  Ava invigorated him.

  “I’m really glad they liked it, but I hope they understand what I’m trying to say,” she said as she lowered her legs beneath the silk sheets of their king-size bed. Nathan did the same but with greater caution. Silk pajamas on silk sheets made him nervous. Any sudden moves and he would shoot right off the bed.

  “Nathan, are you listening to me?”

  “Yeah, sure honey.”

  “Is something wrong? You seem distracted.”

  Nathan took off his glasses and set them carefully on the nightstand. He rubbed the sore spot on the bridge of his nose. One of these days he would get contacts – if they ever made contacts with the consistency of ashtrays.

  He had purposely not told her about Clyde. He knew she would become distraught. Better to wait until morning than upset her now and have them both lose sleep.

  “It’s Dean,” he said, then realized it was, in part.

  “Dr. Truman?”

  “Yeah, we had lunch together. And well, someone threw a brick through his classroom window.”

  “How awful. Was he hurt?”

  “No. In fact, he didn’t seem worried about it, which worried me. So I made him tell John.”

  “Good for you.”

  “John went up to the school with him.” He turned on his side, carefully. Elbow on his pillow, head in his hand so he could see her, watch her, breathe her. She favored him with a smile that sent electric shivers through his groin.

  “Is he still seeing Mavis? He needs a good woman, and she’s the best.”

  “No, she’s the second best,” he said. “I got number one.” She giggled and Nathan realized it was the first truthful statement he had made all night. “But no, they’re not really dating right now.”

  “Why not?” Ava asked genuinely concerned.

  “He says it’s Judy.” Nathan paused. He heard the living-room clock chime. “I talked to Mavis afterward. She said he stopped seeing her after she tried to visit him at home.”

  “His house? Why does he still live in that dilapidated place? He can certainly afford better. Especially now.”

  “I know. But he’s always been weird about that house. Almost protective.”

  “He’s a bachelor. Maybe he just didn’t want her to see the mess it was in.”

  “The few times I’ve been there it’s been immaculate. Everything neat, concise, orderly. Just like Dean. No. There’s something else. I just don’t know what it is.”

  “Back to my art,” Ava said, slipping off her pajama bottoms. “Tell me everything they said, every word they uttered about the painting. And I’ll listen quietly because it’s not polite to talk with your mouth full.”

  She slipped under the covers and Nathan Perkins began to lie.

  Piper Blackmoore shook her hands and flexed her fingers. The empty hall of the second floor of the Daybreak Hotel stretched out before her like a long, narrow question. Twelve rooms, six doors to a side. The flat, worn carpet was gray and burgundy in a series of triangles. She hadn’t noticed that before. Four doors down, at the next to the last room, multiple strips of yellow-and-black crime scene tape crisscrossed the broken entrance.

  “You okay?” Dean asked.

  She dry-swallowed and smiled as she pushed her hair behind her ears. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Sheriff John Evans carefully peeled back the tape. He motioned for Dean and Piper to join him.

  Piper’s eyes were as open as the door, drawn to the room like light sucked into a black hole. She could see the bed. Was there a body outline on the other side?

  The clerk who had broken down the door had been so distraught that he had to be medicated. That left Piper. She had agreed to retrace her steps after the sheriff told her that Dr. Truman had a theory.

  “I’m glad somebody does,” she had whispered.

  Dean touched her arm. She took comfort in the gesture, dry-swallowed once more, then recounted her story.

  The whole thing took less than five minutes. Part of the time Dean seemed as focused as a laser; at other times, distracted and distant.

  When she finished, all eyes turned to Dean. The professor didn’t seem to notice. He spent four minutes staring at the back of the broken door. He steepled his fingers and tapped his lips. His eyes moved rapidly, shifting from spot to spot, calculating as if reading unseen numbers, deciphering invisible words.

  “Got a passkey?” Dean asked.

  John held it up. “Got it from the relief clerk.”

  “Good. Let’s go to the next room and I’ll show you what happened.”

  Portland, Oregon was domed with a clear, purpling sky. Light gray ribbons of interstates crisscrossed the lazy Willamette River, disappearing into a city of multicolored brick, glass, and steel; a new city with an old-world charm. Seattle Lite, one travel guide described it. But Mason Evans knew better. It wasn’t what Portland had that made the difference, but rather what it didn’t have: the tourists and the aggressive commercialism. It was, at least for now, the undiscovered country, as beautiful as the land of Oz and almost as magical.

  It was Mason Evans’s birthday, and in a rare glimmer of mercy the vile woman who had once been his wife had allowed the kids to spend the day with their father. Or maybe it was just that the kids were getting too old for the Wicked Witch of the Northwest to sway them.

  The big man smiled. He was grayer, heavier, but still a formidable fellow with an imposing posture. He worked out daily, priding himself on his physique . He no longer worked on the construction sites, but when you owned a construction company, it helped to look like you could still hammer a nail with the best of them.

  “Jeffrey Hill’s daddy bought them a Jet Ski,” Donald announced without preamble. The fresh-faced, fourteen-year-old smiled as he gnawed on a slice of pizza.

  “Well, since it’s my birthday, maybe you should buy me a Jet Ski?”

  Donald wobbled his head, chewing with his mouth open; he paused for a moment, as if considering the idea. “Sure. Just bump up my allowance a hundred thousand dollars and I’ll buy you two Jet Skis.”

  “Eat your pizza, smart guy. You already make more than some of the fellows that work for me.” His birthday - Mason couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed it so much. Professionally he was a success. M.C. Evans Construction was one of the largest, fastest-growing companies in the state, but personally he just couldn’t seem to get the hang of things. His first marriage lasted only three years and had produced nothing but pain and alimony. His second lasted twice that long, but ended just as badly – with more alimony and, this time, child support.

  But the kids made it worthwhile. Tina had been born right away, Donald five years later. They were the only thing in his private life he had ever gotten right.

  “Tina, the pizza’s getting cold,” he called upstairs.

  “Down in a minute, Daddy.”

  He saw Donald every other weekend and whenever the Blazers were having a home game that wasn’t on a school night. But Tina – his time with her was precious and rare. And now that she was going to college, living in a dorm at the University of Oregon two hours away, it was even rarer.

  Seeing her bounce down the stairs, ponytail bobbing behind her, Mason was overwhelmed with a sense of nostalgia - remembering her as a Barbie-loving, cartoon-watching, lap-sitting Daddy’s girl.

  “I’ll just grab a slice of ‘za for the road,” she said removing a triangle of Canadian-bacon-and-pineapple from the box, and leaving a contrail of cheese, which she broke with her finger and looped on top.

  “I’ll just grab a slice of ‘za for the road,” Donald said, mimicking his older sister.

  She slapped the back of his head, as much by reflex as annoyance.”Why don’t you grow up, worm?”

  “Why don’t you throw up?”

  “Oh, that’s good. Snappy comeback.�
��

  “Snappy come back,” Donald echoed.

  “Donald.”

  The fourteen-year-old smiled, unfettered. “I’ll take a slice of ‘za. Why can’t she talk normal?” He looked at his sister as she bit off the point of her ‘slice. “It’s pizza, peeee-tzah. Not ‘zah. Whatcha do when you order a hamburger? Say, ‘Give me some ‘urgers to go’?”

  She slapped the back of his head again with her left hand, pizza wedge perfectly balanced in her right. “Jerk,” she muttered.

  “Jerkette,” he replied, then flinched, expecting retaliation. But she ignored him, concentrating instead on finishing her food.

  Mason noticed her overnight bag at the foot of the stairs. “You’re leaving? Already?”

  “Daddy, I have a term paper due next week.”

  “But there’s no school on Monday. It’s an in-service day. That gives you three days.”

  “But I’ve got a two-hour drive.” She abandoned the crust in favor of a fresh piece. “Oh, gross – onions.” She flicked the offending vegetables into the box lid.

  “You like onions,” Mason said.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since she fell in loooove,” Donald crooned.

  “Shut up, jerk.”

  “A new boyfriend?” Mason asked.

  “It’s no big deal, Daddy. Nothing to wrinkle about.”

  “That’s not what she told Deirdre on the phone this morning,” Donald said, then affecting a falsetto voice, reenacted the conversation. “Oh, Dee – he’s just the best, a real hunk. I’ve never met anyone like him in my entire life – he’s so different.”

  “Die, dweeb!” She flicked an onion bit at him. It struck his cheek, then dripped down onto his white T-shirt.”

  “Daaaad,” Donald wailed.

  “Jerk,” she snapped.

  “Kids,” Mason barked – saying that one word, that one way, that they both knew meant Stop this before I get mad and you get into trouble.

  Mumbling and whining, Donald left to wipe his face and change his shirt. Tina wasn’t the only one who was becoming image conscious, Mason noted with a measure of sadness.

  Alone with Tina, he pushed the subject. “Now about this boy . . .”

  “Daddy.”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “For one thing he’s not a boy. He’s a man.”

  Mason shuddered despite himself. “Does he go to the U. of O.?”

  “Yeah, but he’s about to graduate. He’s really nice, Daddy, and so cool.”

  Donald returned sans onion but still wearing the same shirt, a photograph in his hand. He stared at the picture as if trying to decipher some alien language. “He doesn’t look so special to me.”

  “Ahhhh – give me that you creep.” She moved fast, snatching the photograph from his hands and slapping the back of his head in what, to Mason, looked like one smooth stroke.

  “I’d love to stay and play games, but I’ve really got to go.” Then to her brother: “If for no other reason than to get away from you.”

  He smiled. “Thank you very much.”

  She smiled back. “You’re not very welcome.” She checked her watch. “Oh God, I’m late.”

  “Late? How can you be late?” Mason asked. “Classes don’t start until Tuesday.”

  “She must have a date,” Donald deduced. “A date with Mister Wonderful.”

  Tina glowered, retrieved her bag from the foot of the stairs, then returned to Mason, her small, delicate hand landing on his shoulder like a sparrow on an I beam. “Next time, Daddy, I promise, you can give me the third degree. But I really do need to get on the road.”

  He laid his hand on hers, covering it two times over. She gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, old man. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, honey.” He kissed her hand, then reluctantly let go.

  “Bye, creep,” she said to Donald as she hurried for the door.

  “Bye, dork,” he answered.

  At the doorway she stopped. “Where are my keys?”

  “On the table by the phone,” Mason answered on a hunch.

  “Yeah, here they are. Thanks, Daddy. I’ll call soon, promise.” And she was gone.

  That night, after he returned Donald to the clutches of his ex-wife, the house seemed a vacuum, as cold and lonely as the dark side of the moon. The place was really too big for just him, but he kept it anyway. It was too full of memories, too infused with the feel of the children, for him to sell it.

  He dropped a pair of ice cubes into a pebbled glass. They rattled like transparent dice, then hissed with joy at the first splash of Scotch. Minutes later he repeated the process but without the ice.

  When the phone rang, he half expected it to be one of the children saying they had left this or that. They always did. He was disappointed when it turned out to be business.

  “Mason?” It was his chief foreman. “We got that load of lumber in from Oakridge today. You want me to take it over to the Hamptons site in the morning?” The man had been with Mason for more than ten years. He was a quiet, cautious fellow who wouldn’t take his shirt off without running it through channels. Not the most vibrant employee, but the one least likely to pick the company’s pockets.

  “That’s what we bought it for, ain’t it?”

  “Just checking.” The phone line crackled. “You okay?”

  “Sure, I’m okay, why the hell wouldn’t I be?” Mason barked.

  “No reason. You just, well, you sound half-drunk.”

  “That’s right. Only half-drunk – and I’ll finish the job when I get off the damn phone.” Somewhere in the cavernous house a grandfather clock chimed. Mason was aware of the chimes, but couldn’t follow the count.

  “Alrighty, then. Just asking. And happy birthday.”

  Mason sighed, struggling to control his misplaced hostility. “Thanks.”

  He hung up without saying goodbye and reached unconsciously for his Scotch. so. He drained it in one turn.

  Something caught his eye. A photograph. The one of Tina and her new boyfriend? A fellow who was so totally cool. I’ll have to send it to her, Mason told himself. She must have left it on the end table when she was looking for her keys.

  The picture.

  He’s not a boy. He’s a man. The statement played in his head like an unnerving echo.

  Mason put down his empty glass, went into the foyer, and picked up the picture. Tina, dressed in a bright-yellow-and-green University of Oregon jersey, was smiling like the morning sun, and with her - with his arms around her . . .

  He’s not a boy. He’s a man

  In the picture with his daughter . . .

  I’ve never met anyone like him in my entire life – he’s so different.

  The room began to spin. His mind lost all mooring with reality. He struggled to maintain consciousness.

  Mason Evans had only felt this way one other time in his life: the night they had opened the coffin and found it empty.

  He began to scream.

  Despite her assurances, Dean was concerned for Piper Blackmoore. Even as he worked – calculating, evaluating, and postulating – he kept a close eye on the young history professor, watchful for the first hint, the first indication of shock. She had been put in a horrifying situation and had responded remarkably well, had even saved Clyde’s life. But now, as the surging tide of adrenaline began to subside, the mental, emotional, and physical effects of the event would surface. And returning to the scene of the crime could only make things worse.

  The room was identical to the one in which Clyde had been found. Same carpet, curtains, bedspread. Same layout: a single room, one bed, one nightstand, a wall-mounted television, no closet, and a simple bathroom with a shower, sink, and mirror. He checked the windows. John was right; the
y were nailed shut.

  He took a quick look at Piper. She was chewing on a fingernail. Her complexion was a shade paler than normal.

  The door to the hotel room contained the same interior lock as the other. He inspected the slide bolt. It was old, like the hotel. He slipped the small, knobbed handle up, out of the retaining notch. It held. He smiled and looked over his shoulder. The others watched as if he were Siegfried and Roy and a pride of white tigers all rolled into one. He found the attention uncomfortable.

  Dean reached into the sleeve of his raincoat.

  Nothing up my sleeve, he was tempted to say. He pulled a single black thread approximately fourteen inches long from the frayed lining. “Piper, you stay in here. John, why don’t you step into the hall so you can see what I do?”

  He waited until John was in the hall. The bolt knob remained outside of the notch. Dean looped the thread around it, stepped into the hall trailing the string behind him, then gently closed the door so as not to cause the knob to fall back into the notch. He pulled carefully, felt the thread grow taunt, pulled harder, then heard the faint clink. He then smiled.

  “Try the door,” he told the sheriff.

  John turned the handle. The master lock turned easily, but the slide bolt was now engaged, effectively locking the door from the inside. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Thread. He used a thread?” Piper’s voice carried through the door.

  Dean knocked. “You can let us in now.”

  She did, her eyes wide with surprise.

  “So the person who tried to kill Mr. Watkins locked the door from the inside by pulling the bolt into the holder with a thread?” Piper repeated.

  Dean held up a cautionary finger. “Possibly. It’s just one of the many ways the same circumstances could have been created.”

  “Many ways?”

  “Yes. I stopped reading locked-room murder mysteries when I was thirteen because the answers were all too apparent. And frequently I could figure out easier, better ways to do the same thing.”