Night Relics

by James P. Blaylock

  “Hold it right there!” Pomeroy shouted. He might as well save his breath. The boy backed out through the open door, turning and running down toward the creek and into the deep shadows of the alders beyond. The camera dangled from his hand. He was dressed weirdly, like Tom Sawyer, another backwoods hick in the making.

  Pausing just long enough to shove the box into the car, Pomeroy slammed the door and took off down the trail. He was damned if he was going to let the kid have a five-hundred-dollar camera. At the edge of the creek he paused, listening to the wind, to the tree limbs brushing together in a leafy rush of sound that seemed to fill the canyon from side to side. The kid was gone, just like that. But if he had crossed the creek there’d be wet footprints beyond, and there weren’t; no way he could have jumped across. The creek was too broad.

  Without waiting, he pushed through a thick stand of willows, breaking down the little pencil-thick stalks. The kid must have headed upstream. Downstream the vegetation was too thick. He wouldn’t have had time to get through it. Upstream, beyond the willows, there was a nothing little trail, mostly stamped-down grass. The wind shrilled through the alders, the tall straight trunks swaying ominously. Dead leaves blew into his face, and he covered his eyes with his forearm, pushing shrubbery aside with his arm. The damned place was full of poison oak, but he didn’t know what it looked like, and if he was going to get the Nikon back there was sure as hell no time to study it now.

  He climbed over a fallen tree and slid to the ground on the other side. Something caught on his pants pocket. There was a small tug, and he felt the material tear. Cursing out loud, he clambered out into a clear area again. The stream ran swift and narrow ahead of him, with broad, solid-looking rocks sticking up out of the water. That was it. That’s where the kid would have gone across. The trail went on up the hill on the other side, disappearing within the moving shadows of close-growing oak trees. The kid probably had some kind of hideout back there. The walls of the ridge were pocked with caves, mostly played-out old tin mines that had never amounted to anything. He stepped across the rocks in the creek, leaping the last three feet to the trail, then sprinted uphill toward the sheer canyon wall. The wind would hide the sound of his running, and if he hurried he could catch the kid before he had a chance to get to his hiding place.

  Beneath the oaks the ground was soft with a heavy layer of mulch, and it was damp and very nearly still. The trail simply ended there. The canyon wall rose steeply above, so that the limbs of the trees brushed against it, and a person could easily have climbed up the loose rock and scrub in order to walk straight out onto a limb. He searched the trees overhead, but there was nobody up there. There was nothing—no indication that the kid had come that way at all. If he had, he would have had to be a mountain goat to go any farther.

  Pomeroy turned around, heading back. It occurred to him for the first time that the kid might have seen him shoot the cat. He hadn’t checked before he shot. He’d just blasted away like some kind of idiot. But if the kid had seen him, why steal the camera? Pomeroy could use that to advantage—I won’t tell on you if you won’t tell on me….

  Had the kid picked up the damned camera and taken a picture? Pomeroy started to run toward the road. That was just what he needed. He leaped across the creek, leaving the trail and struggling up the loose dirt of the hillside, taking the shortest route back to the car. He saw the blue paint of the Trooper through the trees.

  At first it didn’t dawn on him that something was wrong with it, but then, just as he staggered up and stopped by the bumper, breathing heavily and sweating, he realized that the door was open. Five minutes ago he’d slammed it shut, but it was open now.

  He looked around, wary, glancing into the interior of the car and then jerking his head back. It was empty. If the kid had come back after something, he was gone now. Quickly, he walked around to the opposite side of the car to shut the door. Then he saw it: his camera lay in the weedy dirt, beaten to pieces. The case was cracked and the lens was gone entirely, probably having flown off into the bushes. The back of the camera had sprung open, and the film was gone.

  That was no good. The kid had snapped a picture, then taken the film with him and wrecked the camera out of spite.

  He noticed then that the front fender of the Trooper was dented in. The little bastard! He’d smashed the goddamn Nikon against the fender until the strap had broken! Pomeroy picked up the broken camera and tossed it into the car, onto the front seat. Insurance would…

  The box was gone—the cat, the goddamn tuna fish, all of it. He had put it on the front seat and shut the door. The kid had come back after the box. Why? He must have seen everything. Pomeroy rested his face in his hands for a moment, massaging his temples, then stepped back and kicked the fender. This was unbelievable. Set up by a kid. But for what reason? The kid couldn’t even know who he was.

  It didn’t make sense. Stealing the camera made sense, just like stealing anything made sense. But the rest of it—wrecking the camera, stealing the body of a dead cat … Unless it was a local kid.

  That had to be it—a kid who did know who Pomeroy was…

  He climbed into the car, fired it up, and swung around in a wide U-turn, heading out of the canyon again. He picked up speed. If he was right, then he might even catch them. He put it together in his mind, how it must have happened….

  Say he’d been followed after stopping off at Klein’s place. He’d never know it after getting out into the canyon, with all the curves and dips. Following him would have been easy. And there was the car he’d heard back up the road. What if they’d stopped a hundred yards down and simply come up along the creek? Clearly Klein was involved in this. He’d sent the kid in to do the dirty work because Pomeroy would have recognized Klein in an instant, and it would have been all over.

  He grinned and shook his head. Who’d have thought Klein would move that fast? You had to hand it to him. Maybe the Larry Collier threat had spooked him. The stove was so damned hot that he’d gone after a firehose.

  So who was the kid? The answer to that was obvious, although Pomeroy hated to think it. Beth’s kid? It had to be. And that was a dirty shame, because Pomeroy would have liked to be the kid’s friend. That was the trouble with a broken marriage. He had read an article on the dysfunctional family, and here was evidence of it. What the boy needed was a positive male role model. Beth would have to be made to see that. Klein had really lowered himself to use the boy like that.

  He passed three other cars getting back out to the highway, but he didn’t catch up to Klein. Probably they had too much of a jump on him. He’d wasted ten minutes in the woods and another five minutes with the wrecked camera.

  It struck him suddenly—what he’d do was make a phone call to Klein’s lovely wife. Tit for tat. If the rest of the damned neighborhood was involved, there was no reason to leave her out. And there was no need to rake up some scandal from Klein’s past, either, even though there was plenty of it lying around. Any allegation would do where a wife was concerned, especially if it involved sex. Never mind that it wasn’t true; the trick was to make Klein deny it.

  12

  “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” KLEIN ASKED. “HOW ABOUT a little privacy here?”

  “What are you talking about?” Lorna wasn’t in her bathrobe. She was dressed and made up.

  “You know damned well what I’m talking about. You were listening through the door.”

  “I was not listening through the door. Give me some credit.”

  He looked at her for a moment, breathing hard. There was no way he could put up with this kind of thing, not with this Pomeroy business looking more and more like a powder keg. Probably she was lying, which was the kind of betrayal he didn’t need right now. Still, he’d tiptoed around so much when talking to Winters that there was no way she could have understood any of it.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s just that a man in my position can’t put up with …”

  “With what? What is it exactly that a ma
n in your position can’t ‘put up’ with? This man comes around here this morning and starts a fight, and you’re talking about shooting him, for God’s sake. Shooting him! And that’s not my business, too? You can’t understand my thinking that might concern me?”

  “I got a little hot-headed, that’s all,” Klein said. “The last thing you should do is worry about it.”

  “I’ve been worrying. Now’s a fine time to tell me not to. You don’t sleep at night. You don’t say six words to me. You roam around like you’re waiting for something to happen. Don’t treat me like a fool. You didn’t used to be like this. Something’s wrong, and I don’t have to be some kind of shrink to see it.”

  “So you’re saying I need a shrink?”

  She stared at him. “That’s not what I said. It isn’t even close.”

  “Fine. I accept that. Now I’ll say it again: don’t worry about it. It’s just business. It stays in the office.”

  “Except when you take it to bed at night.”

  “And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” He felt a cold fury. She was pushing him too hard, and she wasn’t even drunk. He was pretty sure she was stone sober. Maybe that was the damned problem.

  “You can’t ever take anything at face value, can you? You’ve always got to fly off the handle about what you think I mean. And that’s because what I’m saying is true, isn’t it? And you’re so defensive about it you jump all over me when I say the most obvious things. All I’m saying is that something’s eating you up. I’d have to be an idiot not to know that.”

  He looked at her for a moment. She was really wrought up. This was exactly what he didn’t want. “Times are tough,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m going to ask you, though, one last time, not to worry. What would help is for you to relax on the issue.”

  “Should I relax about the phone call I got when you were out?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “While you were out walking in the hills, getting some air.”

  “What phone call, damn it!” But he knew suddenly what she was talking about. He could guess it. Pomeroy! The bastard couldn’t let well enough alone….

  “I think it was him, the man who was here earlier.” She crossed her arms in front of her as if to shield herself, and her voice went up an octave. “I think you ought to tell me what the hell is going on!”

  “Don’t swear at me!” Klein said. “Simmer down. That clown’s nothing to worry about, nothing at all. What did he say?”

  “He just asked if I knew what you were up to.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. What you were up to.”

  “Ignore him. He’s a horse’s ass.”

  “So what are you up to?”

  “I said ignore him. Don’t play his game. That’s the kind of tone he wants you to take.”

  “What game am I supposed to play? My game? I’m tired of it, sick and tired. I’ve been playing it long enough. Either you can let me in on your game, or—”

  “Or you’ll what?” Klein asked. “Mix another drink?”

  Immediately he was sorry he’d said it. Her face was frozen in stunned disbelief, as if she was working hard to grasp the notion that it had finally come down to this—insults and betrayals. She brushed her hair back from her face. Her hand was trembling. For a moment he thought she was going to say something more, but instead she turned around and walked away down the hall and into the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her.

  “Aw, hell!” Klein said, and he punched the wooden door casing with his fist. He couldn’t believe it how she backed down so damned fast! If she had slapped him, at least it would have shown some guts. He shook his hand, kneading the knuckles, and knocked on the bedroom door, but she didn’t answer. “C’mon,” he said. “When I say we shouldn’t worry about something, this is exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about.”

  Still she said nothing.

  “You know I don’t like ultimatums,” he told her. “Married couples shouldn’t hand each other ultimatums. That’s why I flew off the handle.” He listened, for another moment but it was too late. He’d screwed up. Using the drinking against her! He’d sworn he’d never do that. Hadn’t he just been thinking the same thing a half hour ago, up on the hillside? That it was her life? She could do what she pleased? What a mess.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. And when again she didn’t respond he said, “I can’t say any more than that, can I? I don’t know what else you want from me. I’ll say it one more time: I … am … sorry.” After a moment he started down the hallway, but then turned around and came back. “If that jerk calls again, hang up on him. What you don’t want to do is listen. He’s playing a game here. It’s all psychology. Just hang up as soon as you recognize his voice. Treat it like an obscene call. Don’t say anything and don’t give him a chance to talk.” He left again, going out through the kitchen door and into the garage in order to get his power screwdriver.

  Pomeroy and Lorna—he had to deal with both of them now: kid gloves for Lorna, something worse for Pomeroy. But what? He wondered when the bastard would make his next move. Probably it would be some kind of demand. This phone call was meant to show Klein that Pomeroy was serious. It was just a nudge to show him that there was some kind of precipice ready to open up. But Pomeroy wouldn’t try to push him over the edge until he’d made his money. Blackmailers were predictable that way. They didn’t wreck the guy they were setting up. That didn’t make any sense. Klein would bet ten dollars that there wouldn’t be any more phone calls that day. One was enough.

  He slid a fresh battery into the screwdriver and grabbed a little can to dump parts into. If he could, he wanted to replace that old sash hardware on Beth’s windows with something similar. Maybe they still made something the same general size. It wouldn’t take more than an hour and a half to run down into El Toro and pick the parts up. By then Lorna would have simmered down, maybe found some words to say. It was flat-out impossible to discuss anything when she wouldn’t even speak.

  It struck him right then that probably it would kill the day putting on the new dead bolts and all. Lorna was always ragging on him to spend the day with her, which usually meant going to the mall or something, so he hardly ever found time for it. And now here he was giving another woman a hand while his wife sat around in a funk. He couldn’t win. There weren’t enough hours in the day anymore.

  He had a friend who divorced his wife—big long list of “irreconcilable differences,” like he wouldn’t do housework or quit smoking or lose weight or whatever the hell it was. Then a year later he’d met someone new, and had quit smoking and lost all that weight. Even gave up beer. Now he vacuumed the house like J. Edgar Stinking Hoover, twice a week, and they washed dishes together at the sink, wearing matching aprons. His ex-wife was probably stupefied over it. Ironic, that’s what it was. Your marriage started out like a mutual admiration society, and then went downhill like a coaster wagon.

  He almost put the screwdriver down and went back into the house. But Lorna would want answers he couldn’t give her. Not yet. And he’d promised Beth about the dead bolts and the windows. Hell, that maniac had nearly broken in last night. Lorna would understand that. And if she didn’t, then she was simply dead wrong. That’s all there was to it.

  He let himself in Beth’s back door and counted the windows throughout the house. They all had the same kind of hardware on them, old as hell and bent up and with loose screws. A couple of the windows you could shake in their tracks, and the two pieces of the sash lock came right apart. Might as well replace it all. He moved a small table out of the way and eased the screws out of a set in one of the rear windows, put it in his pocket, and went back out, climbing into his truck in the driveway. What the hell would he tell her about “what he was up to” that wouldn’t just make things worse?

  13

  PETER COULD HEAR BETH INSIDE THE HOUSE, MOVING around in the kitchen, clanking pans. The teapot whistled, and through th
e open door there was the smell of bacon cooking on the stove. It was past noon, a little late for breakfast, but according to Bobby that made breakfast an even better idea, especially on a Sunday, which wasn’t an ordinary day anyway.

  Somehow Bobby was as solid and clear as a diamond, in contrast with the murky twilight of what Peter had seen last night and up on the ridge this morning. He wondered again how he was going to tell Beth what he had to tell her. Probably she’d advise therapy. If anything was certain, it was that what he had seen could not have been real. The confusion of day and night, of faces and thoughts and emotions—all of it argued some kind of terrible pathology. Except that apparently he shared part of that pathology with Detective Slater’s “hiker” and with old Bateman up the road….

  “How deep?” Bobby asked him, coming around the corner of the house. He carried a shovel that was taller than he was. Beth and Bobby had brought Peter a redwood trellis and a climbing rose in a five-gallon pot. It was covered with crimson blooms. The idea was that Bobby and Peter were going to plant it while Beth fried bacon.

  “Deep,” Peter said. “Up to your knees.”

  Bobby scraped a depression in the dirt near the corner of the porch. He stood on the shovel, trying to force it into the rocky ground. “I can’t,” he said. “The ground’s too hard.”

  “Sure you can,” Peter said. “Think about how the ants dug the Grand Canyon—one grain of dirt at a time. It took them years.”

  “Mom said we had to get the hole dug before we can eat, so that won’t work. We don’t have that long.” He jumped on the back edge of the shovel blade, pogo-sticking it into the dirt, then he dusted clods out of the hole with his hand.