by Meg Gardiner
An image of Jorgensen’s attic formed in my mind. Spattered white droppings, brown furry forms clustered darkly in the rafters. It was an image I had seen before, in life. I tried to focus, to see it. Couldn’t.
I said, ‘‘Steel wool is about the only thing you can stick in a hole to keep animals out of your attic. It hurts their noses.’’
‘‘You don’t get it. The Brillo pads sealed the bats inside Jorgensen’s attic. He shut the bats in the house with him. He signed his own death warrant.’’
She was bubbling. Page one. It was like cocaine to her. I stared through her, trying to recall where I’d seen the image. . . . I grabbed her arm.
She said, ‘‘What?’’
Angels’ Landing. In the barn. Droppings spattered on old vehicles, and above them nesting forms hanging from the rafters.
I said, ‘‘Jorgensen’s death wasn’t a home pest problem gone wrong.’’
Her eyes were shiny, pinned on me. My head was pounding.
I said, ‘‘Let’s call Public Health.’’
I reached the Health Department investigator who had interviewed me earlier, letting him know that Sally was listening on an extension across her desk.
‘‘I heard about the bats and the Brillo pads in Neil Jorgensen’s attic,’’ I said. Then I leaped. ‘‘The hole where the bats got in. Was it natural or artificial?’’
Deep, uneasy silence. ‘‘Ma’am, I think you’d better explain that remark.’’
Direct hit. Across the desk, Sally’s eyes lit up.
I said, ‘‘Someone drilled or chopped a hole into Dr. Jorgensen’s attic, didn’t they? I bet you found fresh chunks of drywall and stucco on the floor inside.’’
‘‘I am not going to comment on that. Our investigation is ongoing. Now, would you please explain how you came up with such a theory?’’
‘‘Call it a hunch.’’
‘‘You’ll have to do better than that.’’
‘‘No, I think you will.’’ I hung up.
Sally said, ‘‘Oh, my God. How did you know? Where are you going?’’
I was halfway out the door. ‘‘To the police. Before Public Health calls and tells them I put rabid bats in Jorgensen’s attic. And Sally? We’re even. I just paid off my favor.’’
The detective, Chris Ramseur, was a placid young man with a banker’s soft hands. He sat behind his battered metal desk at the police station sipping coffee from a stained Star Trek mug, listening to me lay out my theories, occasionally glancing toward the lobby, where a female desk sergeant was entertaining Luke. He wore a knit tie and blue checkered shirt and looked like an English teacher, perhaps one at the end of a tough week. Except for the eyes—his were hard and calculating. Calculating me.
I laid it out for him. The Remnant was assembling an arsenal, and it included not just firearms, but biological agents. Kevin Eichner had refused to steal drugs for Chenille, but Glory had gotten hold of Botox, at the cost of Mel Kalajian’s life.
He had Glory’s photo out on his desk. ‘‘This woman hasn’t been turning up for work. We can’t locate her.’’
Meaning they could neither verify nor disprove her involvement.
I stepped it up to the next level. Public Health, I said, would tell him that rabid bats were put into Neil Jorgensen’s attic through a hole that was deliberately drilled, and then filled with Brillo pads.
Ramseur steepled his fingers. ‘‘You think the Remnant did this?’’
‘‘Yes. I think Dr. Jorgensen figured out that the drug thieves belonged to the church, and perhaps that they were after Botox. They wanted to get rid of him. But murdering both him and his partner would have drawn attention back to the medical practice and the robbery. So they found a way to make it look like a tragic illness.’’
Ramseur nodded. He finished his Star Trek coffee. I waited.
‘‘I understand you’re an author. Science fiction,’’ he said, and I thought, I’m cooked. ‘‘This is a fascinating theory you’ve developed.’’
He opened a file folder. Now he was no longer the friendly English teacher, but the vice principal, pulling out my permanent record.
‘‘You’ve developed quite an entanglement with the Remnant.’’
In the folder I saw a police report and the word fax. It had to be from the China Lake police department.
He said, ‘‘Witness to Neil Jorgensen’s accident. Report of intruders in your residence, allegedly belonging to the Remnant. Arrest in Kern County for damaging a sheriff’s department cruiser. Plus frequent mentions of your name in the paper. Oh, and your brother’s arrest for the murder of Peter Wyoming.’’
He drummed his fingers on the folder. ‘‘Why do I seem to hear ‘Dueling Banjos’ in the background?’’
I spread my hands out flat on his desk. ‘‘This is not some hillbilly vendetta between my family and the church. You know the Remnant is dangerous. I’m trying to tell you exactly how dangerous. They’re not going to wait around for Jesus to call them long-distance; they’re going to light up the night. Soon.’’
‘‘I understand your concerns, Ms. Delaney. Thank you for bringing this information to our attention.’’
My face felt hot and tight when I got up and went to get Luke.
The lobby had turned loud. A little girl stood at the desk crying, and a woman was holding up a ball-peen hammer, saying, ‘‘I want him arrested!’’ The desk sergeant was staring into a shoe box on the counter.
‘‘What,’’ the cop said, ‘‘is that?’’
The little girl’s face puckered and she let out a droning wail. ‘‘It’s Tooter. My hamster.’’
The mother said, ‘‘It got loose, and next thing we hear the neighbors screaming, saying, ‘Watch out for the teeth!’ ’’ She waved the hammer. ‘‘This is the weapon he used.’’
The little girl wailed. The cop backed away from the shoe box. ‘‘Tooter was rabid?’’
I grabbed Luke and walked out.
The courthouse takes up a city block, its dense white walls rising like cliffs, flanked by palm trees, giving off an aura of Spanish heat. Late-afternoon sun was etching the mountain ridges gold. Across the street from the courthouse entrance, the green Dodge pickup was parked in front of a fire hydrant. People noticed the man behind the wheel, whittling at a pencil with a pocketknife, and the woman next to him, sucking on a chocolate milk shake.
Inside the courthouse, Jesse was walking along the tiled hallway, talking to a paralegal. The day had been rough, fighting motions filed by Skip Hinkel. The paralegal commented that this whole trial could have been avoided if crusty, eccentric Anita Krebs had only prosecuted Priscilla Gaul for burglary. If she’d been convicted, Gaul couldn’t have sued for her injuries. But Anita thought she had suffered enough, losing her hand, and hadn’t pressed charges.
‘‘Yeah,’’ Jesse said, ‘‘rough justice can turn out rougher than people expect.’’ He put on his sunglasses, about to go outside.
The woman in the green pickup sucked up the last drops of her chocolate shake and chucked the paper cup out the window. Passersby scowled but she ignored them, staring at the courthouse entrance. Jesse and the paralegal came through the archway. The man behind the wheel flicked shut his pocketknife.
A meter maid’s three-wheeled scooter revved up beside the truck. Beneath her motorcycle helmet and aviator shades, the meter maid’s face was pinched. She grabbed her citation book. The woman in the truck started swatting the driver on the shoulder. He fired up the engine and hauled away, leaving the meter maid scrambling to get the tag number.
Jesse met us at Rocky Nook Park. The oaks were thick, leaves dry green, sunlight dappling the ground. Luke was climbing on boulders by a dry creekbed, and I was sitting on a picnic table, throwing acorns at a tree. They cracked against the bark like gunfire. Jesse came toward me slowly, careful with the crutches on uneven ground.
‘‘You and Detective Ramseur didn’t hit it off?’’ he said.
"He’s filing me under K for
kook." I flung another acorn. ‘‘I might as well have handed him an alien probe and a map of UFO landing sites.’’
‘‘The folks at China Lake wouldn’t like that. You giving away their secrets.’’
I gave him a look.
‘‘Sorry.’’ He sat down on the table next to me. ‘‘Tell me what you’ve got.’’
I told him about the stolen Botox, and the discussion of biological warfare I’d had with my father. I explained about Jorgensen’s attic and the reasons why people bitten by bats don’t know they’ve been infected until it’s too late. About needing more evidence to connect this rabies outbreak to the Remnant, and about the clacking sound I heard in my head, a big clock winding down to Halloween.
He stared up the dry creek. The breeze stirred the trees, and sunlight shivered gold across his white dress shirt.
‘‘I’ve been thinking about something,’’ he said. ‘‘Rabies used to be called hydrophobia. Correct?’’
‘‘Yes. Because victims have difficulty swallowing. They don’t want liquids.’’
He picked up an acorn, tossed and caught it in his hand. ‘‘Victims also get anxiety, confusion, numbness, weakness.’’
‘‘And death.’’
He tossed the acorn, caught it. A distant light was working in his eyes.
‘‘You know who had all those symptoms?’’ he said. ‘‘Peter Wyoming.’’
I stared at him.
‘‘Think about it. That day we went to Tabitha’s house, he knocked away a tray of iced tea, practically gagging. And in China Lake, when Brian confronted him outside the police station, you said he freaked out because Brian grabbed his arm.’’
I remembered it—Wyoming wrenching free, staring at his flesh in horror.
I said, ‘‘He practically hissed at Brian. . . . He said, ‘You lay hands on me but you’re not even here.’ Brian thought he was high.’’
‘‘It sounds like paresthesia. He could see Brian’s hand but couldn’t feel it touching him. His arm was going numb.’’ He added, ‘‘It’s a subject I know a lot about.’’
I blinked. ‘‘My God.’’
‘‘There’s your connection between rabies and the Remnant.’’
We looked at each other. Alarm and excitement crawled along my skin.
I said, ‘‘You really think . . . ?’’
He nodded.
He tossed and caught the acorn once more, then rifled it up into the trees. It spit through the leaves. Crows burst cawing from the treetop, flying black against the sky.
He said, ‘‘Who’s the guy you talked to at Public Health? I’ll call.’’
My brain snapped into overdrive. Rabies—had Wyoming’s killer set his body afire to destroy evidence of the virus? Had the China Lake coroner saved tissue samples that could be tested? If not, could we convince the authorities to seek an exhumation order? Talk about a mess . . .
‘‘What?’’ I looked at Jesse. He was working himself back onto his feet, had said something I didn’t catch.
He said, ‘‘You really spoke to your dad about germ warfare?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Dinner at your house must have been a barrel of laughs. Talking cluster bombs and biological attacks and ‘pass the peas.’ ’’
I heard the brass in his voice, and wasn’t in any mood for it, not about my family. I said, ‘‘And where are you eating dinner tonight?’’
He quickly gave me a contrite-schoolboy face, knowing he’d blown it. ‘‘Maybe I’ll just go back to the office now.’’
‘‘Excellent idea. Or maybe you could take up insulting people full-time. Folks would pay you just to shut up.’’
As I drove past the Old Mission church, my brain was still popping, working over my annoyance with Jesse like a hard piece of gum, but mainly thinking about Peter Wyoming. If he had been infected with rabies, had he contracted it accidentally, through some experiment gone wrong? Considering his germ phobia, I couldn’t imagine him working with the virus. What could have happened?
Luke slouched on the passenger seat, kneading his fingers together, staring at contrails streaking the sky.
He said, ‘‘I don’t want you and Jesse to get broken up.’’
I turned to him, taken aback.
‘‘Don’t fight with him. I don’t like it.’’
‘‘Luke, Jesse and I aren’t going to—’’
‘‘I mean it.’’
‘‘I love Jesse, Luke. We . . .’’ I rubbed my fingers across my forehead.
As if flak had started bursting in the air ahead, all at once I saw it. Jesse had given me shelter, and I was being so testy that he didn’t even want to come home. The guilt light pinged on, and I saw, like a heads-up display, my own stupidity.
I said, ‘‘Get my phone out of my purse and dial Jesse’s cell.’’
But when he handed me the phone, Jesse’s number just rang and rang.
Back at the house Luke kicked the soccer ball to me on the beach, and I berated myself. How could I make up to Jesse? Vintage wine, a month in Tahiti, lewd sexual acts? I was brushing the sand off Luke’s feet when I heard a car pull up.
‘‘There’s Jesse,’’ I said. Maybe an erotic circus routine—a high-wire, the splits. Or fantasy. Naughty nurse. Girl gladiator. ‘‘Let’s see what he wants for dinner.’’
But it wasn’t Jesse. Looking through the slender panes of glass that flanked the front door, I saw a rusting station wagon held together by faded bumper stickers. QUESTION AUTHORITY. GET OIL OUT. It was empty, no sign of a driver. A small ball of anxiety congealed in my gut. I called Luke in from the beach and locked the plate-glass doors behind him. I looked out the front windows again and saw a woman emerge from the garage. She was wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat above a denim skirt and Birkenstocks. It was Anita Krebs, the owner of Beowulf’s.
I stepped outside. ‘‘Anita?’’
She raised a hand and kept walking toward the ancient station wagon. ‘‘Sorry to bother you. I can see that Jesse isn’t here. I’ll be on my way.’’
‘‘Did you need something from the garage?’’
She waved dismissively. ‘‘It’ll keep. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’’
Something was going on. But I said, ‘‘What happened to Beowulf’s was appalling. I’m so sorry.’’
She stopped. Beneath the white skullcap of hair, her aged face wore a hardpan look. ‘‘They’re Brown Shirts. Taliban. They want God to be a sharp, hard rock in your shoe.’’ She crossed her arms. ‘‘Well, they won’t win.’’
‘‘Amen.’’
She snorted. ‘‘You should free yourself from that kind of language.’’ She took off her straw hat. ‘‘Priscilla Gaul’s attorney has filed a lien on the insurance proceeds from the fire. So that I won’t even be able to rebuild the bookstore.’’
‘‘Jesse knows?’’
‘‘Yes. He says it’s a strategy to force me to settle with Priscilla out of court.’’
‘‘Kicking you while you’re down.’’
‘‘It does feel that way.’’ Momentarily the feistiness faded from her eyes. ‘‘They’re all I have left, Evan.’’
‘‘Who?’’
She glanced toward the garage. ‘‘Pip and Oliver. With Beowulf’s gone, I—’’
‘‘Oh, no.’’ I started toward the garage door.
‘‘You must understand. I have nowhere else to take them.’’
‘‘No. You cannot leave your ferrets here.’’
I strode into the garage and flipped on the light. A scuffling sound came from under a tarp in the far corner.
Anita followed me. ‘‘It’s this rabies scare—people are skittish. Even though they’ve been vaccinated, nobody will give them refuge.’’
I flung off the tarp. There sat an animal carrier, and inside it two small faces staring out at me. They were weasel-shaped, colored like Siamese cats, pale bodies with dark paws and faces. Their ebony eyes were alert.
‘‘Hello, boys,’’ I sa
id. ‘‘Having a tough day?’’
‘‘There’s no alternative. My God, people are running over Chihuahuas with riding mowers. Out there, these two would be at the mercy of the mob.’’ She made clucking sounds at the ferrets. Her tough visage warmed, her eyes crinkling. ‘‘This is a case of necessity. And necessity is a legal defense.’’
‘‘That’ll never fly.’’
‘‘I’m afraid you have no choice.’’ Briskly she turned and headed for her car.
‘‘Anita, you can’t do this to Jesse.’’ I grabbed the carrier and ran after her. The ferrets slid and banged against the sides of the cage.
She got in the car and started the engine. ‘‘I left their litter box and food in the garage. Let them out to play—they’re delightful scamps. But do watch out; they can open cabinet doors.’’
I said, ‘‘I’ll turn them in.’’
‘‘No, you won’t.’’
She was backing up now, with me running alongside the car. The carrier bumped against my thigh. From within it came squeaks and clawing sounds.
‘‘If you turn them in they’ll be destroyed,’’ she said, ‘‘and you won’t let that happen.’’
Flooring the station wagon, she accelerated backward up the driveway, zigzagging out of sight. I set down the carrier and stood there, breathing hard.
Maybe when I’m seventy, I’ll learn to be that ruthless.
Luke came running up the driveway. ‘‘Who was that?’’
‘‘A lady Jesse and I know.’’
He crouched down in front of the carrier. ‘‘Whoa.’’
‘‘Don’t touch them. Keep your fingers away from the bars.’’
He curled his hands against his chest. ‘‘What are they? Are they ours?’’
I picked up the carrier. ‘‘They’re trouble. And they’re all ours.’’
20
Sunset was pink and soft that evening, the light giving the ocean a vast silver sheen. I didn’t know how I was going to tell Jesse about his two new houseguests, eating kitten food in their carrier in the kitchen. I had decided I couldn’t leave them in the garage, where it would get cold overnight. Feeding them had unnerved me—open the cage door, shove the food and water inside, yank my hand back before they gnaw it down to bloody bone—even though Pip and Oliver had squeaked and leaped happily inside the carrier. They looked Disney-cute, and I didn’t trust them for a second.