Light the Hidden Things

by Don McQuinn

  Later, after parking beside her building, Lila stretched, taking a deep breath, marveling how the night air differed from that of daytime. Daylight's smells brought to mind sunshine and color and revelation. On the night's chill came hints of secrets, doled out bit by bit. Heavier scents, freighted with subtleties and uncertainty.

  Her thoughts wandered to considering where Crow's Airstream should be parked. By the campsites, of course. He liked to be outdoors - he'd probably enjoy cooking at one of the fire pits. It surprised her that she looked forward to seeing him working there, shadowy, flowing in and out of ever-shifting glow.

  Appropriate. A man who needed to be held, but a man as impossible to hold as the flames.

  She hurried onto the porch. If she ever said anything like that out loud, every tongue in Lupine would be inventing stories about the nightly orgy at Bake's old place. Martha's ridiculous fears would be realized - at the sound volume of a rock concert.

  The screen door squealed injured innocence when she shoved it aside. Zasu welcomed her home with the usual circular yapping. Lila scooped her up, savoring the uncomplicated love. In the living room, not wanting to break the softness of the night, she put Zasu down to fumble matches and an emergency candle out of a desk drawer.

  She told the dog, "Sometimes we just have to let go and live large, right? Let's hear it for heedless extravagance." Shielding the flame, she walked to the hearth and stood the candle on the stone slab. In the velvet-soft glow the chairs had their own rich warmth. Lila remembered the look on Martha's face when she spoke of the room's lingering aura of love. "When I was a little girl I always felt the love in here. Why can she still feel it right away and I have to make myself think about it before I get a tiny hint? What's wrong with me?"

  Maybe the thing with Martha and the room was just romantic nonsense. Bake and Aunt Lila loved each other, of course, but they spent their lives harnessed together like draft horses, pulling hard every day just to get by. Their love took reality into account; they shared it and it bound them in a comfortable whole.

  Maybe that was the real problem - getting confused about the difference between reality and dreaming. Wandering around in candlelight poking at feelings and auras and stuff might warm the heart but it didn't do much about handling the real world.

  Reality mocked dreams that weren't possible.

  She sagged against Aunt Lila's chair.

  Crow thought his reality ignored dreams. In truth, though, his life was a batch of romantic foolishness. Outrunning problems; that was all he was doing.

  Van was a man who knew the difference between dreams and goals.

  Unconsciously, she smiled faintly. His mule-stubbornness was kind of endearing. It wasn't as if he was unreasonable. When this new loan came through and he saw how much she could accomplish, he'd be big enough to agree she'd been right all along. He knew how to be part of a team. Van had absolutely nothing in common with Uncle Bake and Aunt Lila, but they'd understand each other.

  They'd never understand Crow.

  Searching now, Lila straightened and turned her back on the chairs. She spoke aloud, needing to hear a voice. "Are you still here, little-Lila-that-was? The way Bake and Aunt Lila are still here? Would I even know you? Would I take you in my arms? Could you love me back? Could you be my wise child, telling me to never forget love? Aunt Lila never said much about love, did she? For her, it just was. Like silly, clever Martha." Her throat burned, made it difficult to speak. She forced words, dreading silence more than pain. "Oh, Lila-that-was, why didn't you learn better about love? Help me learn now. Help me find what Aunt Lila had."

  From far away a coyote's wail shattered Lila's introspection. She called Zasu to her and picked her up again. She said, "Some good company I am, huh? Even the darned coyotes sound sad to me tonight. How about a nightcap for both of us? A touch of perspective-corrective; what d'you think?"

  Zasu's tongue was quicker than Lila's reflexes, so she got her cheek licked. She said, "I'll take that as a yes," on her way to the kitchen.

  Shortly afterward, sitting in Aunt Lila's chair in front of the fireplace, Lila finished her tea. Zasu's saucer of milk was long gone; she dozed at Lila's feet. The fluttering candle signaled an approaching end. Gathering Zasu's saucer and snapping her fingers for the dog to come, Lila returned to the brightly lit kitchen. She left their dishes in the sink with a cool "So what?" look.

  She flicked off the lights. The faint touch of the dying candlelight drew her back into the living room. Snuffing it, she put the stub safely in the fireplace. The moon had considerately moved and now poured through the windows

  As she turned to go to bed, she thought again of Crow and tomorrow's confrontation.

  Confrontation.

  The word shocked her. Unbidden, it made her admit to herself that she'd agreed to Martha's plan with secret reservations. Not that she'd make the trip intending to sabotage the deal, but she certainly wasn't going to encourage Crow. Someone had to be sure he saw all the downside issues. After that, it was up to him. If Hector Garza was right - if Crow would rather risk his life than accept friendship so he could keep alive his dream of running away from a world he didn't like - he'd only get what he deserved.

  His dream. Was he actually a dreamer?

  * * * * *

  The drumming of the ferry's huge engines made Lila fantasize a magical chant pulling the vessel away from the dock. Looking back, she felt herself drawn into the drowsiness of the slowly waking city. The tentative new light wove its own magic. Windows glinted from towers of gray and blue, concrete and glass. Seneca Street's steep climb away from the waterfront was a stream of ruby taillights. More traffic snaked along the double-decked viaduct. On the southern docks stood monsters. Cranes only engineers could imagine hoisted boxcar-sized containers onto the decks of freighters. Northward, the flying saucer top of the iconic Space needle gawked at the city sprawled at its feet,

  Abandoning the city to its stirrings, her gaze sought the curl of the bow wave just as it shoved aside a plastic bottle. The small example of pollution, linking as it did with the city, threatened her mood. She determined to enjoy the scenery and dump any more philosophical wanderings.

  The day made it easy. Strengthening sunlight struck flashes off the restless water. The snow crown of Mt. Rainier gleamed against peerless blue. Ahead, the jagged Olympic mountains stood stiff and fierce. There were only two early hour recreational boaters. One was the carefree dart of a small power boat speeding toward Bainbridge Island. Farther away, the sails of a much larger yacht conjured thoughts of birds.

  The Pastor came to stand beside her, unnoticed until he spoke. "Every time I see this it takes my breath away," he said.

  "I know what you mean. It never looks exactly the same, does it?"

  He pointed at the Olympics. "I read that's the shortest mountain range in the country. You can see it all from here. Wasn't even fully explored until around 1907 or something. Imagine."

  "Maybe that's where Bigfoot hides out."

  "He better like being wet if he does. You ever been to the rain forest over on the Pacific slope?"

  "I'm embarrassed to say I haven't."

  "Not to be missed. It's awesome when the weather's good - which isn't frequent, or it wouldn't be a rain forest, would it? - but when it's misty is best. Spooky. Everything's blurry and there's a steady pit-pat dripping. You forget it, think you're walking around in silence, and then something makes you hear it, and it's everywhere. It'll have you looking over your shoulder, believe me."

  Lila laughed. "It sounds like permanent Halloween."

  "It does, doesn't it?" For a few moments they enjoyed a companionable silence, and then he was serious. "You know, we're all congratulating ourselves on our good works. At the same time, we're joking around. This isn't the stuff of jokes. I'm worried about you."

  "Me? Why?"

  "Some of the things Crow said... I read up on post-traumatic stress disorder. It's dangerous for a non-professional like me to be making a di
agnosis, but there are symptoms..." He trailed off. Lila waited. Finally, the Pastor went on. "There's what they call avoidance - it's like he talks about his Corps; he never mentions what he did or saw. There's a thing called arousal, too, and he's mentioned he doesn't sleep well sometimes. We both know there's a lot of anger hidden in him. The other two symptomatic issues are intrusion - nightmares and so on - and lower functioning. That's when you have problems with relationships, for one thing." He grimaced. The wind almost smothered his next words. "I feel like a spy."

  She tried to relieve his discomfort. "He's a complex, troubled man. He knows about things like that. If he thought he had it, he'd do something about it."

  "I'm sure he's not dangerous. Not to anyone else. He's seen a lot. Sometimes the mind won't let go. He can get help. They've even traced some of the problem to specific proteins and genes. Incredible progress. And of course there's the psychotherapy. I read a little about something called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing - EMDR, for short. It's very effective."

  "That sounds like a guy with a German accent asking people, 'And how did that make you feel?'"

  His faint smile barely touched his features. "Or a tired old preacher trying to help people find themselves. I've dealt with a lot of troubled minds; it's part of any ministry. I'm certainly not trained to treat anything as potentially destructive as PTSD. If he agrees to this scheme, we have to research exactly what we're dealing with. We need to make him want help."

  "You're describing what every woman in the world knows about every man in the world. We're born knowing they need help." Lila made it light, eager to shut down the subject. In her heart, though, she heard Crow talking about how he came to own Major. It embarrassed her that, until that moment, she never realized how love had flooded his voice when he relayed a narrative that was violent through and through.

  All books start with a first page. Was that scene his first page? If I get a good grip on what that episode means to him, is that where I begin to learn about him?

  The Pastor was still talking. "That kind of support's vital. But a trained professional can best guide a person through the minefield of trauma. "

  She knew it was an innocent, straightforward comment. It still touched off a tornado of conflicting emotions. She regretted her over-reaction even as the words flew from her mouth. "Why didn't I see that coming? More women's work, is that what you're telling me?" Lila rounded on him, disregarded the way the wind caught her hair, blew it into a hag mask. "You're afraid I'll be so overcome with pity for the man I'll do the giddy woman thing, dedicate myself to saving him from himself? That's really insulting, Pastor."

  "No, no," he protested, and when she moved to leave he blocked her. "I'm worried about you because he's not taking proper care of himself. If he doesn't get help, he may hurt himself. No - not suicide. Just sink deeper into isolation. I know how much it'd hurt you to see that. That's all I meant. Really."

  Lila relented a little. "I'm too worked up. I took it the wrong way."

  "I said it all wrong. Not your fault. I've watched you throw yourself at Bake's place. You get into something, you don't hold back. I wouldn't want you to end up with some trauma of your own, you know?"

  "I appreciate that." She caught herself remembering Crow's drawled 'preciate it and felt the tug of a small smile.

  Pastor Richards seized on it. "You know, we can each come at him from our own direction. Sort of get him to talk to us about himself and that way get him to help himself, you see?"

  "If post-traumatic stress disorder's his problem, instead of just the physical damage of the concussion, he'll need all the help he can get. He has to want it, though. We can't do it for him. Like they say, God helps those who help themselves."

  He chuckled. "People do say so. Actually, it comes from Ben Franklin, who really didn't believe God got involved in individual lives. Even the brilliant ones get it right from time to time. In spite of themselves." He walked away.

  Lila watched him go, caught up in a comforting awareness that, even though the old cliche wasn't the least bit biblical, if you looked at it from the right angle it had a deeper meaning than she'd ever considered.

  Chapter 18

  The restaurant was much longer than wide. Small, plainly elegant tables for two ranged along the right side. Identical chairs fronted a short serving counter. Everything scrupulously clean. Van supposed it should be called minimalist.

  On the left, just inside the door, a woman bustled about her open kitchen. She glanced up at Van as he passed, too preoccupied by a steaming soup pot to offer more than a flickering smile as greeting. Small as a boat's galley, the kitchen served well. He inhaled deeply on his way by. His appetite surged at the tingle of spices and sturdy ingredients. The wine list chalked on the blackboard didn't interest him. He knew little of European wines and wasn't interested in learning more. The wines of Washington were enough to keep any man occupied. Except for the occasional foray into Oregon's impeccable pinot noir.

  The lunch crowd had come and gone, so he had no trouble picking a table at the far end of the room. Beyond that was a smaller room and adjoining patio that was semi-hidden, almost an afterthought. Both were vacant. When the waiter brought the menu, Van put it aside and ordered coffee, explaining that he was waiting for a friend.

  He barely tasted it before Piers walked in, dressed as if Seattle's embrace of casual style was an obligation - faded jeans, nondescript open-collared shirt, shiny waterproof jacket and heavy duty walking shoes. He took off a baseball cap as soon as he crossed the threshold. The unusual politeness added to Van's irritation. He warned himself to maintain a pleasant facade. This whole event was for Lila. He raised a hand to attract Piers's attention.

  They didn't shake hands. Van said, "Have a seat, Lang."

  Lang Piers dropped his cap on the table and settled onto the chair. He said, "I looked up the place. Basque, they said. Spanish, sort of. The foodies give it high marks. How do you pronounce the name?"

  "It's chore-ee. No American could pronounce Txori the way it looks to us." He handed his menu to Piers. "I recommend what they call pin-chos." He spelled out "pintxos," pointing it out on the menu, adding, "Small portions; you can sample different things without overeating."

  The waiter reappeared. "Would you gentlemen care to order?"

  Van said, "I'll have the gilda; the cured anchovies, olives, and pipparas. And the pear, bleu cheese, and walnut." He took a stab at pronouncing the latter; "Pera con valdeon, right?"

  The waiter nodded, smiling, accustomed to such questions.

  Piers said, "In plain English, the chorizo and white wine."

  As soon as they were alone, Piers leaned forward confidentially. He said, "This Andrew Richards guy is good. Before showing up in Lupine in 1965, he's invisible. "

  "And you think he's hiding?"

  "In 1965 he was 28 years old - if we believe even that much. How's a man live in this country twenty-eight years without leaving a mark?"

  Thoughtfully, Van said, "If you wanted to disappear, Lupine in the sixties would be just about perfect. Another wacked-out hippie wouldn't make a splash, not even a Bible-banger. And who suspects a preacher's a criminal?"

  "If he is one. I'm still digging. He was dead broke when he hit Lupine. He gets by month-to-month. Anything he doesn't need to live on goes into charity work."

  "What charity work, exactly?" Van's lips thinned to a taut line.

  Piers hesitated. Van sensed something held back. "Mostly loans. All legitimate, all local. There's a church board that approves all disbursements of church funds, including his pay. There's just enough interest charged to observe the law. It's all very discrete. Does a lot of good."

  "More than you're doing me." Van's hand bunched to a fist on the table. "I'm paying you to prove he conned Lila Milam into accepting money from him. Or at least prove he's a lying hypocrite. You got nothing."

  An unruffled Piers said, "Yes, I have. I'm working to a plan. It takes time to put something l
ike this together. The key point is this: I'm betting your man did something and took off before they could arrest him. I'm still digging."

  The waiter slid plates onto the table. Van practically twitched impatience until the man left. Then, angrily, "That's nothing to me. You know how I react to shabby work."

  Piers was as cold as Van was hot. He said, "I was going to bring that up. You know I wouldn't be working for you if I had any choice."

  Van speared some salad. "I paid you what the last job was worth."

  "You stiffed me for almost half. You threatened to blackball me with all your friends."

  "Business is business," Van said. "Pay's based on the value of the product."

  Piers lifted another forkful of food, chewed, then, "This job's not business. Why am I backgrounding Margaret Short or an old preacher like Richards? And Lila Milam; you call her business?"

  Van's color rose. When he made a move to stand up, Piers pointed his fork like a weapon. "Don't make a scene, Mr. Vanderkirk. That could blow our confidentiality right out of the water, you know?" Van settled, a boiling pot straining to keep from spilling over. Piers waited, then went on. "I told you I had information and a plan. Let's say the Pastor gave money to Ms. Milam. I'm not saying he did, but let's guess a number. You pick one you like. I'm guessing twenty thousand dollars. No crime there - unless it was church money that wasn't approved by the board. That's embezzlement."

  "That much? Church money?"

  "I never said that."

  "You're conning me. I don't believe you know a damned thing."

  Piers shrugged. "You'd be surprised by what I know. For one thing - consider this free advice - computer records are forever. If you ever want to check out someone's assets, hire yourself a hacker and a forensic accountant. They'll strip a person naked in no time."

  Van stared at Piers long and hard before pushing his plate aside. "If that's supposed to make me believe you know something about my divorce settlement, it's not working. Here's some free advice for you. Nobody bluffs me. If you thought you could make trouble for me, you wouldn't be here whining because I'll only pay what you're worth. Just shut up and do what I told you."