Trophies and Dead Things

by Marcia Muller

Her eyes flew open in panic. “I can’t! Like I told you, there’s been a lot of trouble with D.A. I’m afraid after this Salcido business, they’ll shoot first, kill him, maybe the kids, too.”

  She had a point. Ramon Salcido, a Sonoma Valley winery worker, had gone on a drug-and-alcohol-induced rampage the previous spring, leaving seven people dead, including his wife and two of his three young daughters. Area sheriffs’ departments were now understandably more nervous than usual when it came to hostage situations involving children. And the situation with Taylor—a known substance abuser—was entirely too reminiscent of the Salcido case.

  ‘Is D.A. armed?” I asked.

  “The twenty-two we keep behind the bar is gone.”

  Ross was looking around. “Where is everybody? What happened to Jake and Harley?”

  Mia said, “They’re over to Occidental—big diner for this lodge they belong to. Just as well—there’s nothing they’d like more than to blow D.A.’s head off.”

  I glanced at Ross. She shrugged. I asked Mia, “Is there a boat we can use?”

  “Outboard tied up to the dock. D.A. took one of the rowboats. Does that sometimes, the damn fool, rowing around in the dark. I heard him cast off, went out to see what was going on. Then I heard my babies crying.”

  “And you’re sure he went to the island?”

  “He had a Coleman lantern. I could see it until he got there and then it disappeared into the trees.”

  I asked Ross. “Can you pilot a boat?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Once I get those kids away from D.A. I’ll want you to bring them back to shore, while I try to convince him to give himself up.” Quickly I glanced at Mia, regretting the way I’d phrased it. But she was staring off at the bay, probably searching for light from D.A.’s lantern. When I touched her arm, she started.

  “We’ll need some things,” I told her. “Flashlights—the most powerful you’ve got. Blankets. A first-aid kit, if you have one.”

  She nodded and set off for her cabin at a run.

  Ross moved closer to me, said in a low voice, “What do you think our chances are?”

  I looked out at the dock, where a pair of lights shone fuzzily through the fog. Imagined the expanse of water beyond them, and the uncharted terrain of Hog Island. And wished for my gun, which I’d locked away that morning—hoping never to need it again after last night’s shooting.”

  I said, “Not real good, but we’ve got to risk it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  I killed the stuttering motor as the boat scraped the bottom off the island’s shore. Ross jumped over the side, sloshing in the shallow water. I moved toward the bow, stepped out onto a flat rock, and together we hauled the boat up onto the beach. There was another vessel to our left: a blue rowboat that had seen better days. Ross reached for one of the powerful torchlights that Mia had given us and went toward it.

  She held the torch up, moving it from bow to stern. Then she bent, reaching for something inside the boat. She turned, her face furrowed with concern, and held the object aloft. It was a fuzzy white slipper child-size.

  I grimaced and reached under the seat of the motorboat for the other torch, then raised it and studied the fog-swept terrain. The island’s rocky beach rose to jagged outcroppings; then the thick and tangled cypress and eucalypti started, covering it all the way to the top. I could see no light anywhere. All I could hear was the soughing of the branches, the lapping of small waves. Ross still stood by the rowboat clutching the slipper, scarcely breathing.

  The engine’s racket had prevented all but minimal conversation on the way over. Now I asked, “Have you ever come out here?”

  Although I’d spoken in a low voice, the sound carried, echoing. Ross jerked, said, “Ssh!”

  “For God’s sake, he knows we’re here by now. No way he couldn’t hear that engine.

  “Sorry, I’m jumpy.” She moved closer to where I stood. “No, I’ve never been here before. When I first came up from the city, D.A. was always trying to get me to come with him. But there was something about the way he talked about the place made me not want to do that.”

  “What about the kids? Did he ever bring them?”

  “Plenty of times, before these past few months when he got so strange that Mia told him he couldn’t. They know the island as well as D.A. He said they would clamber all over it like goats.”

  “Well, that’s something, anyway. It’s not unfamiliar territory to them.”

  “But in the dark . . . D.A. told me that it’s rocky all the way to the top. There’re trails, but some of them come to dead ends. Further up are big rocks, sort of like steps that were built for giants. Where he liked to go was a flat rock at the very top. He could look out through the trees, see the whole bay. He said . . . ” She paused, shivering.

  “He said?”

  “He said he liked to lie on the rock and . . . imagine what it would be like to be dead and at peace.”

  A chill that had nothing to do with the wind off the bay enveloped me. “Then that’s probably where he went. Let’s see if we can find the right trail.”

  The tide had gone out, but not long ago. The rocks underfoot were slick. I trained my torch downward so neither of us would slip. There were two trails starting at that part of the beach—one paralleling the shoreline, the other snaking up into the jagged rocks. We took the latter.

  As we climbed, the smell of cypress and eucalypti became more pungent; the ground was carpeted in needles, making it easier to lose one’s footing. I became aware of night noises now: a scurrying to one side; branches rubbing together; the rustling of birds in their nesting places. The wind was not as strong as it had been on the beach, but still cold. It brought with it the odor of brackish salt water and the fresher scent of the open sea, not too many miles away. At the base of a high outcropping I stopped, wiping fog-damp off my face with one hand, holding the torch aloft with the other.

  Nothing but a sheer rock wall.

  Ross came up behind me. I said, “It looks as if this is one of the dead-end trails.”

  “Shit! Better go back to the beach. We can try the other.”

  We retraced the path we’d climbed on, Ross tripping once and nearly pitching headlong into a declivity. Passed the beached boats and began moving along the shoreline. Small waves sucked at the island’s edges, lapped the rocks, and washed up into the hollows between them. I lowered my torch once more, illuminating the treacherous ground.

  And saw her . . .

  Little Mia Taylor lay in a rocky depression that was partially filled with water, curled into a fetal position. She wore white pajamas printed with red and yellow and blue and green circus clowns, and one foot was bare. The other was encased in a fuzzy white slipper, the twin of the one Ross had found in the rowboat.

  Behind me Ross gasped. She tried to push around me, but I held her back. Briefly I closed my eyes, bracing myself for what could easily be the worst discovery of my entire life. Then I stepped across the rocks to the child.

  Mia didn’t stir as I approached her. I squatted beside her, touched her arm. Her flesh felt cold and clammy. A gust of wind ruffled her fine black hair.

  And then I heard her suck in her breath—a quick tremulous intake that was filled with grief and terror.

  Relief washed over me. I placed my hand on her head, smoother her hair, touched her neck. Her artery pulsed strongly. I said, “Mia, it’s okay now. Libby and I are here.”

  “Sharon?” Ross called.

  “She’s alive. Go back to the boat and get those blankets.”

  Ross’s footsteps moved swiftly away over the rocks.

  Mia began to whimper. I started to move her—carefully, in case any bones were broken. She didn’t cry out or wince; once I had her in my arms, she coiled her body even more tightly.

  “Daddy,” she said.

  “Mia, what happened to your daddy? And Davey?”

  “Gone.” Her voice was muffled against me. “Daddy let go of my hand.
I fell. I called him, but he didn’t hear. Davey screamed for him to stop. But they went away and left me.”

  D.A. probably hadn’t even noticed he’d let go of her. Too drunk or stoned to realize or care that she was gone. Anger flared within me, and I held Mia more tightly.

  Ross returned with the blankets. We wrapped the little girl in them. I said, “Take her to the boat. I’ll go after D.A. and Davey.”

  “You’d better not—”

  “For God’s sake, Libby, you can’t leave her alone in that condition! I’ll be okay.”

  Without a word Ross hefted the swaddled child. I stood, focused my torch on the trail, and set out alone.

  After a few minutes I was reasonably sure I’d found the trail that would take me to D.A.’s flat rock at the top of the island. It zigzagged steadily upward, around the trees and jagged outcroppings, past deep declivities. The wind grew stronger as I climbed; fog drifted in and out of the encroaching branches. Silence lay heavy all around me, but I knew it was deceptive; there was danger in the void that held an unbalanced man with a gun.

  Soon my ungloved fingers began to stiffen from the chill; I flexed them. My throat was scratchy, and I kept swallowing to relieve it. I’d lost my bearings, didn’t know which side of the island I was on now, or how far I’d traveled toward the top.

  Finally the trail came out onto a ledge. I stopped, breathing hard. Through rents in the fog I could see the eastern shore of the bay—faint lights winking here and there on the hillsides, others strung out along the water. I checked my watch, was surprised to find I’d only been climbing a little over ten minutes. I’d lost my sense of time, too.

  After I went a few more yards, the trail split. I took the arm to the left, but soon found it descending. I retraced my steps, took the other arm uphill. The terrain quickly became more rugged, the vegetation sparser. I came up against a rock ledge, raised my flash, and realized I’d come to the “giant steps”—three feet or more in height, set one atop the other. A light glowed beyond the highest step; I was very close to the place where Taylor liked to lie and imagine the tranquility of death.

  My heart beat faster. I stood still, strained to hear. No sound up there but the wind . . .

  I began climbing the steps, boosting myself up, remembering the old schoolyard game of Mother, May I?

  Mother, may I take a baby step? A banana step? A giant step?

  One more giant step. Then another. Light glowing brighter now. One last step, higher than the others. Rest before you climb it.

  I looked up, saw a ring of eucalypti faintly illuminated by the lantern rays. Their branches and ragged, curling bark were etched against a high-drifting fog. Nothing else moved up there. No one spoke. Did anyone still breathe?

  A sick dread of what I might find filled me. And then I heard a sound . . . a sob, Davey.

  A soothing voice said, “Hush.” Then it began to sing. The voice was D.A.’s the words in another language. Miwok? The cadence was that of a lullaby.

  Slowly I pulled myself over the last step. The ground above it sloped upward; my sight was blocked by a fallen tree. I flattened, wriggled forward on my stomach. Peered over the tree trunk.

  The slab of rock sat in the middle of the clearing. The lantern stood at its far side. Taylor lay on his back, one denim-covered knee bent upward, his left arm flung over his eyes. The pajama-clad little boy lay with his head on his father’s shoulder. He’d stopped crying, but his dark eyes darted around the clearing. I saw no gun, no other weapon.

  Cautiously I raised myself above the tree trunk. Davey spotted me instantly, and his eyes flashed with recognition.

  I shook my head. Pantomimed that he should pretend to sleep. For a moment he looked confused. Then he shut his eyes.

  Taylor’s singing trailed off in a minute or two. Resumed. Trailed off again. He sighed deeply, and then his chest moved up and down in a regular rhythm. After a bit his mouth sagged open and he began to snore.

  Davey opened his eyes, looking at me. I shook my head, waited another couple of minutes before I motioned for him to come to me.

  He sat slowly, watching his father. Slipped away from his encircling arm. Stood and moved quietly across the clearing. I pulled him down beside me on the other side of the tree trunk.

  Putting my lips close to his ear, I whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay now. Mia’s down on the beach with Libby. Can you get back on your own?”

  “. . . If I have a light.”

  “Come on, then.”

  We wriggled back to the first giant step, and I boosted him over it. Handed him my torch. He glanced around at the encroaching blackness, but when he looked at me again, his gaze was steady, resolute. In it I recognized the strength and pride his father had possessed so long ago.

  “Be careful,” I whispered. “Tell Libby I said to take you and Mia home. Then she can come back for your daddy and me.”

  For a moment he looked longingly upward, to the misty light coming from the clearing where his father slept. Then he turned and let himself down the next step.

  I remained where I was, giving him a five-minute head start before I went to rouse D.A.

  Taylor took a great deal of rousing. He thrashed and mumbled and jerked violently away from my outstretched hand. I got a firm grip on his shoulders and hauled him to a sitting position. He hunched over, black hair down in his eyes. For a moment his emaciated frame shuddered. The he looked up at me.

  Beneath the shaggy fringe of hair his eyes were as burnt-out as the first time I’d looked into them. He stared at me without recognition.

  I said, “D.A., it’s time to go home now.”

  He didn’t reply, merely moved the focus of his gaze to the lantern and then around the clearing. He put a hand on the smooth rock and stroked it.

  “Do you know where we are?” I asked.

  “I know.”

  “Do you remember coming here?”

  He considered, shook his head. “I often do.”

  “You brought your children with you this time.”

  “My children.”

  “Mia and Davey.”

  “I know who my children are.” Now a puzzled expression crossed his face. He continued to look around the clearing. “I was singing to them . . . Where are they?”

  “On their way home.”

  He nodded, as if he’d suspected as much.

  I sat cross-legged on the end of the rock, looking about for the gun Mia thought he’d taken. There was no sign of it. “D.A., why did you come out here tonight?”

  “It seemed time, I suppose?” He was entering one of his periods of lucidity now; I could tell by his expression and the tone of his voice. “But I’m not all that clear on it, to tell you the truth. There were some pills, and some wine.”

  “I see. What’s the last thing you are clear on?”

  “You’ll have to refresh me as to what day this is.”

  “It’s Friday, near midnight.”

  He looked down at his hands, making an effort to recall. “As near as I know, this began a couple of days ago.”

  “On Wednesday, when you went to San Francisco to see Tom Grant?”

  His fingers clenched spasmodically.

  “How did you know where to find Grant, D.A.?”

  “. . . There was a map, drawn for me. It showed where his house was.”

  Although it didn’t surprise me, anger at Libby Ross rose; forcing me to choke back a curse. After I got it under control, I asked, “Why did you go there?”

  “Just to see. I wanted to know what had become of the man who betrayed us.”

  “And you saw . . .?”

  “He was afraid. Oh, there was something about someone just having attacked him, and a bump on the head, but I knew I was the one he really feared. He hid behind scorn and ugly words and threats—just as once he hid behind Andy Wrightman. But in the end, he was very afraid.”

  I bit my lip, remembering the blood-spattered workshop and the ruin of what had once been human.


  “Tell me about the ugly words,” I finally said.

  Taylor made a motion with his hand, brushing the request away. “They were very unpleasant.”

  “Did he tell you about Jenny—about how he drove her to suicide by working on her guilt over turning you and Libby in, and gave her the gun?” It was the only expression I’d been able to come up with for Grant going to such lengths to keep his past from coming under scrutiny. He’d rid himself of a woman who was a great liability, but he’d done it by providing her with a weapon that he should have turned over to his fellow agents when they’d searched the flat on Page Street.