Last Chants

by Lia Matera

  “I’m not suicidal.”

  “I’m just saying, as a judgment call—”

  “It was right! I was right.” God, the man annoyed me. “I have good judgment.” If I’d had my law degree handy, I’d have brandished it as evidence of my practical nature, proof that I was not my mother’s daughter.

  We stayed in chaparral, dusty and full of meanly barbed shrubs, until we reached a dirt access road. Edward crossed to the center of it, scanning each direction, his hand shading his eyes like the Deerstalker.

  “They must be gone, following the mushrooms.”

  “How big a family?”

  “Two preteen boys, an older girl, a mom, and a dad; illegal Cambodians; supposedly came to visit relatives, then melted into the forest. I guess they make enough cash doing this to support themselves during the dry season.”

  “Well, unless Billy Seawuit was picking their mushrooms—”

  “There were a couple of shootings north of here over mushrooms. Pickers have their territories. It’s a cash crop, same as pot. Hell, chanterelles are eighteen bucks a pound at the supermarket. And there’s a mushroom up here the Japanese will pay four hundred dollars a pair for.”

  The woods were a busier place than I’d supposed. “What next? I’d love some lunch.”

  “You want to go tell our friend you changed your mind about the jerky?”

  Edward always did find himself very cute.

  Before we reached the cabin, purely by accident, we spotted another encampment.

  Edward whispered, “There’s two of them. You better stay here. Keep your eyes open.”

  He crashed swiftly through the brush and into their camp. I was tempted to follow. But I had the impression Edward wanted me to watch his back.

  I shifted so I had a better view. Two middle-aged men stared up at him from a ground tarp. They’d had recent haircuts, and their clothes were nice and warm and clean-looking. There were backpacks beside them and thermoses between them.

  One man leaped to his feet.

  The other said, as if giving him a cue, “Great day for backpacking.”

  “You drive down from the city?” Edward sounded casual, neighborly. I gave him points. “Lousy weather up there lately.”

  “No, we’re from Watsonville. Getting away from the wives.”

  “Corporate retreat?” Edward laughed at his own joke. “Have you been out here awhile? A couple of nights? I’m looking for a buddy I hope didn’t get lost.”

  “You lost someone on a hike?” The seated man did all the talking. “That could be bad news. Although there are lots of trails; your friend should be okay if he stayed on them.”

  “I’m hoping he’s just late getting started. I thought he’d be at my place by now, but maybe he got hung up en route; that’s possible, too.”

  “Still, you have to look.”

  “That’s right,” Edward agreed. “It’s a little early to call the rangers and all that, but . . . You guys been out here a night or two? Seen anybody?”

  The standing man finally spoke. “No.”

  “What does your friend look like?” the seated man asked.

  Edward answered, “Burly guy. Plays the panpipes when he hikes.”

  “Well, we just started our little trip,” the seated man said. “Just about to have some lunch and push on. But if we see your friend, we’ll tell him you’re worrying about him.”

  “You must have trail maps on you,” Edward observed.

  The standing man sat back down, exchanging a glance with his companion.

  “Could you show my friend where he is, how to get into town? If you see him.” Edward continued to sound casual.

  “Will do,” the man said.

  “Thanks.” Edward crashed back through the shrubs, collecting me and hustling away from their camp.

  We walked in silence for a few minutes, then Edward stopped, motioning me to stand still. He listened for a moment.

  “Good.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I was afraid they didn’t buy it. I was afraid they were going to follow.”

  “Who were they? They sure didn’t look like the backpacking type.”

  “No. They sure didn’t.”

  “What are we going to do about them?”

  “Not much we can do. If we phone in a tip to the cops, they’ll be all over the woods: They might find Arthur,” he pointed out.

  I frowned over my shoulder, trying to devise a plan. We’d come to gather information from the human fauna in the woods. But we hadn’t asked these men anything.

  “But shouldn’t we bring up Billy Seawuit? Or something?”

  Edward shook his head emphatically. “They don’t have rifles, they don’t have fishing gear; they’re not your usual guys on an outing. They’re not dirty; they haven’t been out here long. And I don’t like it that they’re so close to my cabin. But I’m not going to go ask them questions that let on I’m suspicious. What’s the point? Best case, they lie some more. Worst case, they pull out guns and blam.”

  Edward walked on. I had no choice but to follow my guide. I hadn’t even realized we were near the cabin.

  I didn’t have to keep my mouth shut, however. “But you agree those guys aren’t who they say they are. We should do something.”

  Edward sighed, stopping again. “I did do something.”

  “All you did was chitchat. They could be knee-deep in all this, and we’ll never be able to produce them.” I imagined myself in court, trying to introduce evidence that the woods were full of strange characters, any of whom might have killed Seawuit. “Do you think . . . ?” Again I cast about for a plan. “Could we try to trick those two guys into touching something? Get their fingerprints?”

  He snorted. “Like I’ve got me a fingerprint lab at home.”

  He started walking again.

  I didn’t. “Edward!”

  He turned. “I told you: I did do something.” He motioned for me to catch up.

  When I reached him, he opened his hand.

  I was surprised to see a cigarette lighter-sized object there. Bending closer, I recognized it.

  “A camera?” I looked up at him.

  He smiled. “Just like a real private eye.”

  “I didn’t see you use it.”

  “Oh, that would have been brilliant. Hold it up to my eye and say, ‘Smile, lying scum.’ Of course you didn’t see me use it.”

  “Are you sure you got pictures?”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “They might be vampires; no soul, no image.”

  “Vampires,” I reminded him, “don’t manifest here. Pan does.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When we got back to the cabin, there was no sign of Arthur having returned. Our cups and dishes were still stacked in the sink, the portion of breakfast we’d set aside for him was still uneaten.

  “Where could he have gone?” I couldn’t keep worry out of my voice.

  “Kids today,” Edward agreed. He crossed to the kitchen sink and started washing his hands, splashing water over his face. “How ’bout we go into town for lunch?”

  I wanted to groan; I was hiked out. I wanted to sit and languish. As hungry as I was, it didn’t match my exhaustion.

  “We’ll take the Jeep. I’ll take you for a drive after.”

  “Perfect.” I emptied my shoes of dried mud clumps and a cascade of dirt. “You didn’t bring extra socks, did you?”

  “We’ll get some provisions.”

  “Socks, underwear, T-shirt. Okay? I’ll pay you back when this is over.”

  “We’ll get our film developed. You’ll love the back views of you crouched down looking for evidence,” he promised.

  His ratty old Jeep seemed the height of luxury after wooden chairs and way too much walking in city shoes. It was also a treat to see the world more quickly.

  I was surprised how close to town Edward’s place was—by car. The cabin seemed so lonely, so remote, and yet it was an easy drive to the supermarket.

  In exc
hange for the ride, I was able to take Edward to the hip restaurant.

  Ever skeptical, he looked at its plank exterior and general air of a run-down saloon. “This is your idea of happening?”

  “I ran into the people from Cyberdelics here.”

  “Since when do nerds know the hot spots?”

  “They’re not unmitigated nerds. One’s kind of a hippie-nerd, another’s a surfer-nerd.” I wasn’t sure how to describe Galen Nelson.

  We pushed through the restaurant’s screen door. A big-screen TV, mounted high over the bar, showed a grainy, washed-out commercial, the sound muted. A few languid flies buzzed over green vinyl tablecloths.

  Couples in flannel shirts occupied the window tables. A few men with bill caps were seated at the counter, giving the waitress their orders. On the walls, beer ads jostled chess tournament sign-up sheets and missing dog notices.

  In the back corner, because we’d spoken of the devil, were the three men from Cyberdelics. Their conversation stopped when we approached. I stopped, too. I wasn’t sure if our meeting yesterday had been friendly or hostile. My predominant memory was of being smacked, then swooped away, by Toni Nelson.

  Finally, the man named Louis said, “Hey, Alice.” A leather cowboy hat was tilted back on his head.

  “Hi.” I elbowed Edward, hoping he’d registered the phony name. “I guess I found the best restaurant in town?”

  Galen looked grumpy, not acknowledging me. But the youngest of the three men—Jonathan—laughed his goofy laugh.

  Jonathan said, “They have chili fries.”

  Even chili fries sounded good to me after a mountain hike.

  “Mind if we join you?” Edward asked, in no way consulting me first.

  Galen raised his brows, still saying nothing. But Louis said, “Sure. Pull up a table.”

  Edward, showing off, lifted a two-person table with apparent ease, depositing it at the end of theirs.

  The waitress stepped up then, looking alarmed. “Hey—don’t break anything!” She picked up a catsup bottle that had rolled to the floor.

  She looked Edward over. “You need a menu, Samson?”

  “Naw—I’ll try the chili fries. And a cheeseburger,” Edward replied. “The diet plate.”

  I pulled up a chair, accepting a menu.

  “You want me to bring everything out together?” the waitress asked. “Or you fellows going to scarf down like hogs while these people wait for theirs?”

  “Hogs,” Jonathan answered immediately.

  And, a few minutes later, he proved to be distinctly hoglike in his eating habits.

  While the three dove into burgers and chili fries, Edward did something I wasn’t able to do. He bonded, guy to guy.

  It started with his gesturing toward the big-screen TV. “The Niners looked pretty good last season. But I don’t know about that play-off game.”

  “Young still chokes in the big ones,” Louis agreed. “He’s no Montana.”

  Galen raised a brow. “The offense is ragged. You can’t blame Young for that.”

  While I looked over the menu, they made puppets of saltshakers and spoons, showing how “play-off” plays should have gone.

  After I ordered, everyone looked a little ill at ease: A female was among them. In the nineties, one couldn’t simply ignore a female. The football players turned back into cutlery.

  I changed the subject. “A friend of mine was telling me about the Pan legend up here.”

  Jonathan nodded emphatically. “Yeah. I’ve seen him.” He colored, glancing at his companions. “No shit, I have.”

  I sat forward. “When?”

  “End of last summer. I was up near Skyline where the meadows are, and I saw him running like the fastest thing you ever saw, just ripshitting downhill through a meadow. It was a trip!”

  Galen broke his silence to say, dryly, “What makes you think it was Pan?”

  “He was naked.” Jonathan seemed to believe that settled it. “Hairy fuck. Way past wild. Definitely Pan.”

  “There are probably more than a few naked wildmen up here,” Louis pointed out.

  “You ever seen any?” Jonathan countered. “Besides in the mirror?”

  Louis laughed, his chili fry poised halfway to his lips, dripping red grease.

  “I saw him last night,” I told them. “It really scared me. I’d never heard the legend. I didn’t know what to think.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be persuaded by the wives’ tales.” Louis spoke with his mouth full. “I’d be careful.”

  “Did your guy have goat legs?” I asked Jonathan.

  He nodded. “Yeah, what a trip.”

  “If you saw him in a meadow in the summer,” Galen observed, “the grass would have been thigh high.”

  Jonathan nodded again.

  “How do you know he had goat legs if he was in thigh-high grass?” Galen demanded.

  “They were so hairy. You could tell. The sun was all absorbed into the hairiness.”

  Galen shook his head, going back to his lunch.

  “I couldn’t see his legs,” I admitted. “So I guess I can’t be sure it was Pan.”

  “You can be sure it wasn’t.” Louis smiled.

  “Well, who knows?” Edward chimed in. “Nobody would believe a person could make a computer turn off with thought waves, either.”

  I’d described my afternoon with Toni Nelson to Edward. God, the man was indiscreet.

  The temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.

  Edward continued, “I’ve heard that’s what you guys are into.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “From Alice here,” he said, hardly missing a beat.

  If I’d had my lunch before me, I’d have dumped it over his head.

  “Your wife told me,” I confessed to Galen. “After I left yesterday.”

  “Toni told you that?” Galen asked calmly.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Louis watched him, brows raised as high as they could go, beagling up his forehead. Jonathan continued eating as if nothing had happened.

  “Well,” Galen said, “Toni exaggerates. She conflates what we say about where the technology’s going and what we personally are working on. She’s not into computers. She’s an artist.”

  “I thought her and Stu had a software company,” Jonathan said innocently.

  Galen looked annoyed, to say the least. “Stu is Toni’s ex-husband,” he explained. “The business failed.”

  I waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, I asked, “Did she do any actual software designing?”

  “A bit.” His tone was clipped.

  “But your computers don’t respond to thought waves?” I tried to sound merely curious.

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Lie to me some more. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

  “Too good?” Edward said. “It would probably be a disaster—get your computer off daydreaming with you and who knows what it would do. Think what kind of e-mail it would send.”

  Jonathan smiled but didn’t look up from his lunch. Louis said, “Talk about some flaming.”

  I had learned only last month that flames were outrageously rude or angry electronic mailings.

  “Talk about your porn.” Edward seemed determined to come across as a Guy guy. Or perhaps all traces of refinement had atrophied. You see a lot of that in former boyfriends.

  The waitress brought my lunch and Edward’s, giving Louis a chance to shoot Galen a look a lesser sleuth would have missed. (I’d have to quiz Edward on whether he’d caught it.)

  “What do you do, um? Did we get your name?” Louis asked him.

  “Edward Hershey,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I’m an honest-to-God private eye.”

  That stopped every fork at the table.

  “Are you on a case, Edward?” Galen asked him.

  “Nope. I own a crummy shack near the creek. And this is my first year of decent fishing. You see the article in the Valley Press about the coho? Makes
you glad we had a wet year!” He glowed with enthusiasm. “Or don’t you fish?”

  “Yeah, I fish,” said Louis. He proceeded to cross-examine Edward about bait, lures, casting techniques.

  They talked for a while—apparently, Edward was passing the test. I asked Galen if Toni was doing better today.

  “You say she ran into you after you left?” Galen wiped his fingers on one of a stack of napkins beside his chili fries.

  I nodded. “She apologized for the nose thing. She was very friendly about it. I was glad not to be left with a . . . strange impression of her.”

  I could see Louis’s glance waver from Edward, see his slight smile as he eavesdropped.

  “And she told you we were doing stuff with brain waves?”

  Again I nodded. “And smells.”

  “Smells, yes,” Galen admitted. “Basically, a circuitry model of our own nasal setup. We have nerve ganglia in our noses with jigsaw puzzle-type receptors to particular odor molecules. We figured out a way to mimic it with a combination of hardware and software. In theory, anyway.”

  Theory, my foot. They had several patents pending, or they wouldn’t be discussing it.

  “What would you do with the technology?” I couldn’t decide if Galen was being forthcoming or simplifying most of the truth out of his description.

  “We don’t really have an application in mind. We don’t have to—we’ll license the technology out. I’m sure there’ll be quite a few uses: smoke detectors, chemical reaction alarms, devices to alert health care workers when diapers need changing.” Galen spoke matter-of-factly, pushing away the remains of his lunch.

  His explanation was a far cry from Toni’s description of e-mail following body pheromones rather than circuitry highways.

  Their discussion of fishing concluded, Edward butted in. “Alice tells me you guys are the hottest of the hot. I’m kind of surprised you’ll talk about what you’re developing. Don’t you have any problem with industrial spies? Or is that just Hollywood movie stuff?”

  Galen’s face pinched up as if his skin had shrunk. “I wish it were,” he said forcefully. “Last year, we found one camping behind town. Can you imagine? Engineers sneaking around trying to break in at night?”

  Edward looked duly astonished. “You hire security people? Just like the Silicon Valley boys?”