The Juliet

by Laura Ellen Scott

  It was a long drive but a good road, and the predawn chased them as they began the slow, winding ascent up to the crater’s rim. When the road turned to gravel, Budge took his time, crawling in a spiral that was sometimes obscured by mist. At the top, he stopped the truck and parked it sideways across the road.

  Budge got out and said, “You be careful up here,” and he tried to show Jub, but there was no way to capture the seriousness of the landscape with the weak beam of a flashlight. The crater was 700 feet deep and a half-mile across.

  “Help me get the bike out.”

  “And Dad.” Jub knew what they were there for.

  Budge thought it would do just fine to leave Theo in the back of the truck, but the boy insisted they put his father in the driver’s seat.

  Budge acquiesced. “Like a Viking funeral, eh?”

  The dawn came on quick then, making oblivion visible. When they pushed the truck over the edge, Jub leaned against Budge, out of exhaustion or reverence, it wasn’t clear. The vehicle rumbled steady for a while before the back end started racing the front, and soon it rolled over. And over and over. The journey to the bottom was dark, long, and oddly peaceful.

  Budge patted the boy on his shoulders. There was a roughness to the air that should have been almost unbearable in those thin pajamas, but the kid showed no signs of suffering. Jub was easy. A high quality boy in terms of tolerance to adverse conditions, but Budge wanted rid of him nonetheless. He didn’t need or want a partner.

  “The Juliet is in the saddlebag?”

  Jub nodded.

  “Good.” Budge reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled out the gore-stained hunting knife. “Here. This is yours now.”

  The boy accepted his inheritance with the same blank appreciation he showed for much of life. He’d do just fine, Budge thought. “You ever hear them say ‘Go west, young man?’ Because that’s what you need to do. Keep going until you hit ocean. And memorize this: 7B, Rock Haven Court, Del Rey, California.”

  Jub repeated carefully, “7B, Rock Haven Court—”

  “Del Rey, California. You got it.”

  Budge hopped onto the Hummer and gunned it, ignoring Jub’s open face. He took off, riding down the spiral road. He paused at the bottom to look up at the rim, where the kid was a wobbling speck on a glowing morning horizon. Jub was running after him. Silently.

  LAST WORDS

  Chapter 13

  March 24, 2005: Death Valley

  At sunset, Nene and Baron wandered over from the campground to the Alkali patio, lured by strings of fairy lights and a crowd of visitors. An old banner with the words MOVIE NIGHT flapped from the roof, and management had set up a DVD player projector and an old screen, with apologies that on such short notice they could only scare up a box set for The Summer Man series and not Dexon’s classic westerns. They’d also plundered their own gift shop for two documentaries: one on Death Valley ghost towns and another on the curse of The Juliet. Both were locally produced features.

  Food was available from the bar menu only, and both of the Alkali’s proprietors were needed to fulfill drink orders.

  Nene saw the blonde server arrive late, acting as if she was used to being late. She had excuses and an apron ready.

  The Glatters brought Missy along, and the dog provided comic relief while everyone waited for the show to start. Nene tossed the occasional fried mushroom up into the air, and the animal caught it every time.

  Nene spotted the wide man again, the one from Centenary. He was forced to angle sideways through the crowd to find a seat for one. She wondered about his ways. He was alone, though recognized by others, with handshakes. That struck Nene as peculiar to public service.

  She felt protected by the night, less exposed than when they first crossed paths. When he glanced her way he seemed not to recognize her from before. Then he saw the dog and gave a half nod.

  She leaned over to Baron and whispered, “I think that’s a cop.”

  “Could be.” Baron was busy swabbing the grease from his hands. “Best thing for us to do is jump up and run Scooby-doo style. Maybe make our escape hopping across the table tops?”

  The Indian gambler came out to serve the wide man personally. He brought out the man’s beer before he even ordered one, and they exchanged a few words. The gambler bent down to put his ear close to the man’s face as they shared a few private words of concern.

  Nene knew she was right. “Something is going on, Baron.”

  “Stay cool.”

  “I’m not worried, just curious. I’m always cool, Bar’.”

  * * *

  When the first episode of Summer Man started, the orders died down. The DVD transfer was poor and the show was terribly dated, but that made no difference to the audience. They were entranced. They loved the hokey plot that revolved around a mustached thief who was obviously a woman in disguise, and no one laughed when Rigg Dexon, aka Detective Trigger Summerman, pulled out a mobile phone the size of a brick. Terry distributed baskets of popcorn and turned down the patio lights. The projected images burned sharp against the star-flecked night.

  Dexon twenty years ago in a trench coat was the same as Dexon six days ago in a jean jacket. The script of the old TV show seemed to flow around him, like water or melting wax. Willie wondered if maybe he wasn’t a very good actor at all. Maybe he was just interesting and attractive.

  She was enjoying the privacy of darkness as much as she was enjoying Dexon when Scottie called her aside. He was grim and put his hand on her arm, urging her to a quiet corner of the restaurant where the ceiling flickered with light from the projector. Sometimes there was applause, sometimes laughter. Regardless, the joy seemed distant.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I’m just going to say it, Willie. Carter’s dead. He was shot at his place.”

  “Shot,” she repeated. She almost asked who would do such a thing, when she stopped herself. It was a stupid question.

  “There’s a retired cop friend of Tony’s out there, likes his gossip,” Scottie said. “He thought the news might be meaningful since you used to work for the guy.”

  “Was it a drug thing?” Dealers got shot all the time, if movies were to be believed.

  Apparently that was the wrong question. Scottie was exasperated with her. “Do you still want to play a game with this? We tampered with evidence that links two deaths in a single week. Tony and I were wrong to help you. Sometimes we make bad decisions, but that doesn’t mean we have to stick by them.”

  Scottie was pissed, and that helped to disperse the fog of Willie’s grief a bit. “Give me a little more time. Tomorrow, I promise. I’ll take care of everything.” Though she only had a vague glimmer of what taking care of everything would entail.

  Full confession, no doubt. Why was that so much more imaginable now? She almost looked forward to it.

  Scottie said, “You’ll need a lawyer. It’s all going to come down on you.”

  Sudden stripes of color zigzagged across the ceiling and walls like a homemade borealis. The colors danced for a while before reverting to a muddy yellow glow that merely trembled. Outside, a chorus of complaint erupted when a vehicle pulled into the Alkali’s lot with its high beams on.

  Willie fought the urge to tell Scottie that he was the best boyfriend she’d ever had, but she knew he wouldn’t think that was funny at all. She should have said something, anything. Scottie took a bullet for her. She should have thanked him, but the closest she could come was this: “It’s okay if you’re done with me.”

  Those sad eyes of his blinked slowly. “I’m not done with you, Willie. I’ve just got some new perspective.” He nodded to his injured leg and the cane he’d propped against the table like a witness for the prosecution.

  They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the muffled dialogue and dramatic music coming from the patio. Willie noticed a new addition to the dining hall’s décor—a framed autograph hung next to the
hostess station. She stood to examine it, and in the dim light she read out loud what Dexon had written.

  “‘I finally found my Juliet.’”

  Scottie said, “Quite a prize, isn’t it? I bought it from Tony’s daughter. She scored three Xs, three Os, and another three Xs from Dexon.”

  “Huh. Maybe it’s code for something.”

  “Willie.”

  She turned around, hoping he could see her grin in the dark. “Or maybe Dexon was just an Xs and Os kinda guy.”

  * * *

  The folks with kids left before the end of the second Summer Man episode, and the following documentary about ghost towns was short but dreadful, featuring unintelligible interviews and slow scans of old photographs. Only a dozen or so people remained in the audience, so the kitchen closed down.

  Willie leaned against one of the ancient cedar pillars on the patio, her arms crossed. The video about The Juliet was at least twenty years old, and better than expected, focusing less on facts than on the scandals and tragedies that the emerald left in its wake:

  The Egyptian Prince who had died as a child, most likely as a result of poisoning by his twenty-year-old wife or his brother. It was unclear because the hieroglyphs referred to both by the same name.

  Louis Stieg, the industrialist, stabbed with The Juliet by his Cherokee mistress.

  His twin sons, plagued by madness.

  Hobart Oliver, the film producer, who drove off a mountain road in Bolivia.

  His beautiful wife, the actress Marg Beale, decapitated by her own son.

  And finally, the policemen, Taylor and Laskowski, seduced by the curse into a life of crime.

  The narrator intoned, “And then the trail of The Juliet was lost…”

  Of the audience members who remained, most were chatty during the feature, especially the part where it was revealed that there were two parts to the famed gem. The only people not gossiping were the old couple with the dog. It was a peaceful, beautiful night. The scent of wildflowers and cigarettes braided together into a unique perfume, and the sniffles and sneezes of Willie’s customers had become part of nature, not even noticeable any more. The old woman’s dog was flat out on the concrete underneath their table, snoring.

  Willie wondered what the morning would be like, and whether she’d ever know another perfect night in the desert. She put her hand in her front pocket and realized she still had the truck keys. For a sweet few seconds she thought about grabbing the truck and driving far away, all the way to Alaska perhaps. A week ago that would have been a genuine option, but now she accepted that running away was just a fantasy. She needed to stay and untangle the knots she’d tied, if only for the sake of the man who had given her a future, Rigg Dexon.

  And for Scottie, too.

  The keys felt warm.

  Near the end of the video, it became clear that its sponsors were the good folks at LionTime Golden Grains, Inc. The entire documentary was leading up to the Nuggetz promotion, which at the time of the production had yet to launch, apparently. There was a cowboy strolling through a desert setting. A generic cowboy, not Dexon, so perhaps he hadn’t been signed yet. Then a cutaway to a young boy pulling map pieces from the box of cereal.

  The narrator had switched tones. Now he was energetic, willfully ignoring the tragedies of the past. Bright fortune was ahead: “Who will find The Juliet? Will it be you?” The boy grinned for the camera, holding up his box of Nuggetz. The picture of The Juliet on the box looked nothing like the archive images from earlier in the documentary.

  The commercial made everyone laugh, everyone except the old couple with the dog.

  Willie thought about them, that couple. Why are you here? It was a fine question. Worth an answer.

  Before the credits rolled, Willie was already in the green truck, turning the key. As she pulled out she saw the old couple in her rearview mirror. They were making their way towards the campground, letting the dog pull them along as they crept through the night without aid of a flashlight.

  * * *

  The Mystery House was invisible in the night except for where the truck’s headlights illuminated its stucco exterior. Willie shut off the engine, stepped out, and walked to the edge of the bluff to stare out over Centenary. It was a bowl of fallen stars where campfires burned and lanterns glowed. Far away, a tiny police car cruised slowly up and down High Street, flashing its blue and red light.

  Why are you here? Why are any of you here?

  The Dexon look-alike said he had a camp nearby. She entered the house and turned on the light in the entry, but stayed on the stoop to face the night.

  She said, “I’m here, Mister.” There was no need to shout.

  She waited.

  He said, “Come on up.”

  Willie walked out until she could feel the firm road beneath her tennis shoes. Up was up. She followed the rise of the road and was glad of the stars.

  “You can stop there,” he said. His voice floated overhead. “That’s the trailhead on the right. Between the boulders.”

  Willie put her hands out. Two smooth rocks the size of grizzlies crouched over her.

  “Through there.”

  She picked her way through a garden of hulking stones and fallen slabs with sand and razor weeds below, but there was light beyond. A fire.

  It wasn’t long before she found the tent and the campfire and the man smiling at her. The Dexon look-alike was out of costume. He had big, amused eyes like Dexon, but nothing else resembled the cowboy actor. His hair was curly and his face was clean-shaven. He was wearing worn-out jeans and a Dave Matthews T-shirt. He wasn’t even in boots. Barefooted, he sat behind his modest fire on one of those low beach chairs old ladies like to use to sit in the surf at Myrtle Beach. A backpack lay in the shadows but there was a cooler up front where he could reach it easily.

  “Welcome.” He’d prepared a low chair for her as well.

  Willie sat down, and he gave her a can of Genesee from the small cooler beside him. “Thank you.” She wasn’t a beer person, but this stuff was sweet and cold, striking her soul, if she had such a thing.

  The Dexon look-alike smiled a stoned smile as if the fates always delivered, and things like this happened to him all the time: lady folk coming out of nowhere.

  Willie asked her question. “Why are you here?”

  He leaned forward so he could open his legs and lean his arms on his knees. It must have been one of his specialty poses. He made a mistake though, when he casually brushed at the mustache that was no longer pasted to his upper lip. “You mean like in a metaphysical way?” He thought he was funny.

  “No. I mean why.” She lifted her can to the beyond. “Why are you, why are any of those people, here. In Centenary.”

  “To pay our respects.”

  Willie tilted her head at him. One of her specialty poses. “And that takes how long?”

  He laughed instead of breathed. “I guess it’s a hippie thing. Real celebration takes a few days.” He stretched his leg out so that it hovered over hers.

  Willie pulled her legs in, but they didn’t fit under the chair. “I understand the drive-bys and the rubberneckers. Flowers can only hold your attention so long, but that doesn’t explain you. That doesn’t explain the idiots camped out in Centenary.”

  “Hey sugar, be cool.”

  Willie smiled because she knew her smile was sort of scary. “This isn’t Woodstock. It’s not even the China Grove Fig Festival. Nothing is going to happen. Why are you sticking around? Why are they sticking around?”

  Fake Dexon drank deep and eyeballed her from over the can. Trying to decide about her. “This afternoon was interesting. You were especially interesting.” From nowhere it seemed, Fake Dexon produced a bong, tinted bamboo green. It was ready to go. “Here. Seriously. It’ll help the convo.”

  “I don’t know how to use that.”

  He blinked at her. He’d landed a virgin, a warrior nun. He took a deep hit, making a
show of his steps for her edification, then offered it over with the lighter. Willie thought she couldn’t go through with sucking on the pipe, but she managed to fake it.

  “You faked it,” he said. He was smiling. “If I was an Indian, and that was our calumet, you’d be dead.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Damn girl.”

  “What?”

  He took a deep inhale of the cosmos. “You get cute.”

  A thousand times. She’d heard that a thousand times. So she didn’t mind asking him again, “Why are you here?”

  Romeo eased back, sure of the score by now. “I’m not playing with you, but maybe your curiosity is too exclusive. I mean, start with the old man. Why was he here do you think?”

  Willie knew that answer. “He was looking for something.”

  “And suddenly she goes all coy and secretive. C’mon babe, say it.”

  “He was looking for The Juliet.”

  “That’s exactly right. And he wasn’t the only one, either.” He reached back into his cooler and brought forth a bag with Asian lettering on it. “Wasabi peas, can’t get enough. Here.”

  “No thanks. Are you saying you’re looking for The Juliet, too?”

  He pulled out the peas, one at a time, crunching them thoughtfully. “There are parts to the whole thing, with the emerald at the center like a wheel hub. I’m a fan of Dexon, and he was connected to the The Juliet back in the day, plus it looks like he was trying to re-connect in his retirement. And then there’s your straight up treasure hunters, history nerds, and witchy types chasing the curse…it’s a whole thing.”

  “Like a cult?”

  “No need to be abusive. We’re just a bunch of people with interlocking interests.” He burped so softly it was almost attractive. “Did you ever hear of ‘The Question’?”

  “Sounds religious,” she said.

  “Hmm. So ‘The Question’ is pretty simple. It was a kind of tagline that journalists used a hundred years ago to whip up excitement. The Question, or The Great Question, as it is sometimes referred to, is Where is The Juliet?”