The Woman in the Camphor Trunk

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  Anna peeked out the window again. The sinking sun dazzled her eyes. Thirty feet off, an outhouse stood nearly black against the glare. A man ambled from the privy toward the cabin, backlit.

  He drew nearer.

  Before Anna could fully register her fear, a second figure—a Chinese man—sprang from the cover of the trees, as silent as death, his long braid swishing from side to side. He raised an arm above his head and Anna saw the glint of steel. Then something was spinning in the air, hurtling toward the first man like a dark pinwheel. It sunk into its mark with a terrible thud. The marked man stumbled forward onto his knees and crumpled face-first into the weeds.

  Anna’s wrist began to tremble uncontrollably. She couldn’t peel her eyes away from the place where the man had fallen and the handle of what looked like a small axe protruding from his back.

  She should flee.

  Anna raced to the entrance but realized the cabin door swung in the killer’s line of sight. She stumbled to a halt. He might not come to the cabin. He might not find her if she kept hidden inside. She bolted back to the window. The killer was stepping on the body and, with two hands, jerked the hatchet one way and then the other. It came loose with a crack. He wiped the blade on the fallen man’s coat and gazed toward the open cabin door. His narrow shoulders rose and fell, rose and fell maniacally—fueled by adrenaline from the kill.

  Anna wasn’t much of a shot—not at a distance, not with the sun in her eyes. She hadn’t many opportunities to practice. If she were to hit him, she would have to wait for the killer to draw dangerously near. And so he did, stalking toward the cabin, the cleaver dangling down past his knees.

  Anna had miscalculated.

  Her hand still trembled. She stuck the barrel of her revolver through the window shutter, steadied it on a slat, and aimed at the man. He drew nearer. She could clearly see his hardened face, not ten paces away, and hear his heavy breathing—in and out, in and out.

  He seemed to notice the gun barrel sticking through the window and raised the hatchet.

  Anna fired.

  The shot went wide, jarring her hand with its violent recoil, sending her backward on her bottom as the axe hit the blinds and came crashing through, slicing her poncho and pinning it to the floorboards, tethering Anna.

  Anna rose on one elbow and shot blindly out the window. She wrested the ax free from her poncho with both hands and scrambled to her feet, positioning herself at the side of the door, gun aimed to shoot anyone who entered.

  She waited, listening, and heard silence.

  Anna peeked around the door and gazed back toward the body. The killer was running off toward the woods, disappearing beyond her sight. She heard him urging a horse to move. Shadows passed through the trees, and horse hooves pounded the trail out of sight. The beats receded into silence.

  Anna flew out the cabin door, shaking her wrist, saying a silent prayer to Saint Michael, patron saint of policemen, that the cleaved man was not Joe Singer. He lay facedown. Blood pooled over a slit between his shoulder blades and seeped down his coat into the weeds. His hat had tipped, covering his head. Anna quickly rolled him over. Glazed eyes stared into her face and didn’t see her. She fell back onto her bottom in the mud, panting. Her head was spinning, her own lungs as breathless as the dead man’s. She made an unladylike gasping sound, and tried to swallow it. The man was not Joe Singer.

  Anna whispered to Saint Michael, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  The dead man wore the beginnings of a beard, as if he’d been in the mountains for days, but his dandyish suit was completely inappropriate for a hunting trip.

  He was not Chan Mon.

  The man was Leo Lim.

  Anna glanced nervously about. She grabbed handfuls of her cashmere blanket and twisted them into coils. She would do well to sneak away and find Joe as soon as possible—for her safety and for his. But the forest seemed as dangerous as the cabin. Anna looked down at the body bleeding out into the wild grass, staining the green stalks crimson. She used a stick to poke the bloody corpse in all the places where a weapon might be harbored. She could use an extra gun. But this had been no fair fight. The dead man was unarmed. The killer was devoid of honor. This was a paltry clue. In Anna’s experience, most men were without honor in one way or another.

  Anna heard twigs snapping behind her.

  She swung about, raising her gun. Her eyes landed on the mule. It had wandered close enough for Anna to smell its musk. She put a hand to her damp chest.

  The late afternoon sun now hid behind silver clouds, and coyotes were yipping. She would be caught on the trail after dark, and she needed to find Joe post haste. The killer was somewhere on the mountain, and Joe might still be cuckoo, needing her protection. Even if he were sane, he shouldn’t be caught by surprise. Anna had to go. She slipped back into the cabin and collected the cleaver and the gray wool blanket from the bed. Leaving, she glanced over at Leo Lim’s body. He lay still. She waved politely and hurried off down the path toward the creek.

  CHAPTER 19

  The moon rose high in the sky. Anna could see it between the tops of the pine trees. Beneath the overhang, a fire burned in the circle of stones. She saw Joe emerge from the darkness with an armful of wood. Both vexed and relieved, she watched him stoke the fire. Anna tied Mule Robins to a tree and collected the string of fish she had stolen from Chan Mon’s pond. Joe straightened up, scanned the vicinity, and went back out into the night. He was heading straight for Anna, not seeing her. When he came close, she stepped out into his path. “How dare you?”

  Joe Singer threw her to the ground with a fancy wrestling maneuver, making Anna wish she’d studied judo. She landed with a thud on her face in a bed of pine needles with Joe Singer’s knee pinning her spine and an arm twisted behind her back. She held tightly to the string of fish.

  Anna wheezed. “Uncle.”

  “Anna?”

  “I wasn’t ready.”

  Joe dropped down beside her. “Sherlock? God damn it. Where have you been? I’ve been worried out of my skin. Are you all right?” She rolled over. He took both of her hands, and pulled her into a sitting position. He squeezed her against him, apparently thought better of it, and unsqueezed her.

  “I could ask you the same question,” she said, barely able to speak for lack of oxygen.

  “Me? I was down at the creek trying to catch you some breakfast. When I came back, you were gone. I thought Chan Mon got you. I’ve been looking for you all over this mountain.”

  Anna softened at this. While leaving Anna had been a stupid thing to do, Joe hadn’t intended to abandon her. Relief warmed her. Perhaps Joe didn’t think her behavior brazen. “I’m fine, but Leo Lim isn’t. I saw Chan Mon kill him with a hatchet. A hatchet, Joe. Just like our severed head!” She handed him the string of giant trout. “I caught these fish.”

  Joe took the fish, looking puzzled. “I know. I saw the body.”

  “You took the right fork? That can’t be. I saw your tracks. And I would have seen you.”

  “I went left.”

  “Then both trails lead to the cabin.”

  “Apparently so.” Joe helped her to her feet. “What are you wearing?” He raised his flashlight and shined it on Anna’s outfit. He shook his head. “You ruined my blankets.”

  Anna chose to ignore him. She had villains to catch and murders to solve, and she wasn’t going to be upset by unfaithful detectives quibbling over blankets. “I think Chan Mon may have killed Ko Chung. Who else would use a hatchet?”

  “A highbinder.”

  “Chan Mon is Bing Kong, then? And a poetry lover?” It went against Anna’s idea of a poet.

  “It looks like it, Sherlock. It would explain the death threat.” Joe walked to Mule Robins and removed a flask from his pack. He passed it to her. “You look cold.”

  Anna took a swig and handed it back. “You are the one that gets cold.”

  Joe covered one eye with his hand. “About that . . .”

  “Yes
.”

  “You know I was crazy.”

  “Well, you never do make much sense.” Anna tossed her head, her throat still burning from the whiskey. “I saved your life, you know.”

  “I could say the same thing.”

  “Then we’re even.”

  Clouds covered the moon, diffusing the light, causing it to glow. Joe looked up. “I’ll be relieved when we’re off this mountain. We’re no longer equipped for the weather.”

  Part of Anna wanted to stay on the mountain and for Joe to get hypothermia again, because when he was cold, he said the sweetest things. She sighed. “Let’s camp somewhere else. Chan Mon may have seen our camp.”

  They led Mule Robins to a spot down the creek far away from the trail, where the killer would be less likely to encounter them. Anna pulled Chan Mon’s quilt off Mule Robins.

  Beneath her homemade poncho Anna pulled the edge of the cashmere blanket tighter around her waist and tucked it into itself. She laid the quilt on the damp earth and sat down under a tree, leaning against it, exhausted and shivering. Joe lowered himself down next to her, his back to the trunk. Anna said, “The thief got the tent.”

  “I’m not going to sleep anyway. You’re wearing my bedroll.”

  Anna hugged herself beneath the poncho. “You’re tired. You should try. I can keep first watch. I’m too cold to sleep.”

  Joe looked at her, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “Sherlock, you’re shivering.”

  “Yes. It must be forty degrees out.”

  He began to unbutton his coat, as any gentleman would.

  “You can’t give me your coat. We tried that last night, and you ended up going cuckoo. I need you sane if we’re going to hunt the killer.”

  Joe looked down and blew out a long, thinking breath. He glanced up again, and they locked eyes. Anna bit her lip.

  Joe extended his hand to Anna and she took it. He pulled her bulky woolen form onto his lap and let her settle between his legs, wrapping his arms around her. He cleared his throat. “I’d do the same if you were Wolf.”

  Anna nodded, unpinning her hat and setting it on the ground so that it didn’t hit Joe in the face. She unbuckled her holster, laying her gun on the ground beside her.

  A minute passed, and Joe didn’t say or do anything objectionable, so Anna relaxed into him, letting her head loll against his shoulder. He smelled delicious.

  He said, “We can’t spoon.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I love someone else.”

  “Me too.”

  “Damn, my hands are cold.” He set his revolver down on the ground with Anna’s and rubbed his fingers.

  Anna unpinned a horse safety pin on each side of her poncho, took his hands, and brought them inside the blanket, settling them on her bent knees, covering them with her own. “I’d do the same if you were Wolf.”

  “Not if I’m within a hundred miles.” He laced his fingers with hers, almost possessively.

  She could feel his breath on her hair, and a pounding in his chest. She could feel his hands on her legs through the cashmere blanket, and the press of his body through four blessed layers of fabric.

  Anna played with his fingers.

  He said, “I love another woman.”

  “Me too.”

  “We can’t spoon.”

  “I don’t want to. I don’t love you. I never did.”

  “Are you warm?”

  “A little. It’s breezy. I’m not wearing underwear.”

  Joe was silent for a moment. “Oh God.”

  There was a whistle and a thud, and bark exploded above them.

  Joe dove on top of Anna as she yelped. A cleaver protruded from the bark, pinning Joe’s Stetson to the tree. Joe frantically felt the ground for his gun. “Where’s my rod?”

  “I think I kicked it!”

  Joe disentangled himself from her poncho, lifted her to her feet, and gave her back a shove. “Run! I’ll be right behind you.”

  Anna couldn’t run fast, wrapped as she was in the hobble skirt. Then the width of her strides forced her skirt to unwind, and the cashmere blanket fell to the ground. “Biscuits!” She knelt to retrieve it.

  Anna ran jiggling and bare-bottomed in her long poncho, which fell past her knees, trailing her cashmere blanket in her fist. She kept running all the way to the fork in the trail.

  She turned back to Joe, but he wasn’t there. She whispered his name, too frightened to call aloud, and searched the forest with wide, desperate eyes. Had he been cleaved? Seeing no one, she slunk back the way she had come, looking for her almost-lover.

  Anna heard a scream. This time, it wasn’t a cougar, but the cry of a man. Anna tore through the forest, pushing branches aside and stumbling through patches of poison oak. “Joe!” She broke through into a meadow. There, in the moonlit clearing, the cougar crouched, her teeth on the throat of a man who thrashed blindly in a slick of gore. The cat shook her head, and the man’s head bobbled like a toy. Anna could hear the grass beneath them, rustling with the struggle, but the man made no sound. Then his throat tore away and his head fell back. The cat ate.

  Anna’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. An owl flew silently from a tree. The cat looked up. It shifted its gaze past Anna.

  She heard Joe speaking in a low, calm voice behind her. “Whatever you do, don’t run. Just raise the blanket above your head. You need to make yourself look big.”

  Anna did, lifting the back of her poncho high above her head. She felt a breeze on her bare bottom.

  “Oh Lord,” he said.

  Anna dropped the blanket.

  “No! Lift it up,” he hissed.

  Anna did.

  “Now slowly back away.”

  Anna began to walk backward, feeling blindly for every step.

  The cat returned to her meal, tearing deep into the corpse.

  Anna reached Joe’s side. He raised his hand to hold hers and they backed away together.

  When they could no longer see the cougar through the trees, they turned and sprinted.

  They arrived back at the oak tree where they had not spooned. Mule Robins still loitered, secured to a branch. Joe leaned his forehead on his hand against the tree. Anna bent over at the waist, sucking in air, her stomach seizing. She gasped, “Why didn’t you just shoot him. He’s eating our suspect.”

  “You kicked our guns. I couldn’t find them in the dark with a man throwing cleavers at me.”

  “Only because you leapt on top of me. I was about to grab my gun and shoot him, but I was slowed down because you were holding my hands.”

  “Definitely a mistake,” he said, looking disgusted—with himself or with Anna she didn’t know. Either way, it stung.

  He found his pack leaning against the tree and retrieved the flashlight. He held it for Anna who dropped to her knees and began searching for their guns. Finding them, she handed Joe his revolver. She reached for the cleaver and Joe’s ruined hat. The handle felt smooth and cold, like steel. She grasped it, yanking so that the knife dislodged from the tree and came away in her hands.

  Joe untied the animal. “Anna, get on. Go down the mountain. A cougar that’s just eaten isn’t going to attack a girl on a mule. Still, keep your eyes open and your gun drawn.” He helped her mount the beast.

  Anna held the cleaver in one hand. “What about you?”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “I won’t go without you.” Joe handed her the reins and smacked Mule Robins hard on the flank. “Yah!” Mule Robins, already skittish from the cat, bolted before Anna could object, throwing her backward in the saddle. When she regained control of the creature and steered it back to the oak tree, Joe Singer was gone. She cursed. She had hoped he knew better than to try to save a half-eaten killer.

  She rode back to the path and waited.

  Anna heard a gunshot.

  Joe came running down the trail. “I didn’t want her to eat that poor bastard.”

  Anna couldn’t imagine wh
y. The man had thrown a hatchet at them. “Is the cougar dead?”

  “No, I just scared her off. Are you all right?”

  Joe moved to Anna’s side and raised his arms to lift her off the mule.

  Anna wasn’t about to slip into his arms, no matter how she had feared for him. She deftly dismounted on the other side, accidentally exposing her knees, and eliciting from Joe another “Oh Lord.”

  She lifted her chin. “Do you think the dead man is Chan Mon?”

  “He was Chinese. He had a queue.” Joe took the reins and brought the mule around. “We’ve got to go back for the bodies.”

  Anna rode Mule Robins, and Joe walked close beside her. Both held their guns. Joe shone the flashlight on the trail, lighting his steps. Night insects buzzed, and something rattled in the bushes. Anna could see her breath. She slumped in the saddle, exhausted, but afraid that if she closed her eyes, she’d fall off. She closed them anyway. Twice, she jerked awake, not having been aware that she had slept in the first place. They took the left fork and, after two hours, found the cabin and Leo Lim.

  Anna wiped her cheek, leaving a streak of dirt. “Let’s sleep. There’s a bed in the cabin, and I’m cold and tired. It’s not like the bodies will run away.” She swung her leg over the beast and plopped onto the ground.

  The cabin felt only marginally warmer than the wilderness outside. The fire in the stove had long since gone out. While Joe added wood and relit it, Anna unpinned her hat and let her hair down. She retied the cashmere blanket around her waist and smoothed Joe’s shirttails over it. She took off her poncho and spread it out on the bed like the blanket it was, topping it with the muddy quilt. “I get the bed.”

  She crawled in and pulled the blankets to her chin, her bare feet like ice. Joe stripped down to his skivvies. He lifted the covers and slipped in beside Anna. “We both get the bed.”

  She closed her eyes and held her breath. He turned his back to her. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

  She listened to his rhythmic breathing until she fell asleep.