Last Chants

by Lia Matera

  Galen grinned, the first truly pleased look I’d seen on his Sheriff of Nottingham face. “We’ve rigged up our own system. It works, too.”

  “Ooo,” Edward said boyishly. “Indiana Jones stuff, huh? Gizmo alarms?”

  “No,” Jonathan said breathlessly, “we leave Toni in the store at night. Heh heh. Heh heh.”

  Louis hid his smile behind a napkin. Jonathan oomphed as if he’d been kicked under the table.

  Edward, of course, couldn’t let it go. “A wild one, huh? My last lady, I could have entered her in a rodeo.”

  “She was that big?” I inquired.

  I saw Galen gesture for the check.

  This was my last chance. I turned to Jonathan. “This Pan character that runs around here? Has he ever done anything . . . violent? Hurt anybody?”

  “So you don’t believe he’s a Greek god?” Louis sounded satisfied.

  “He looked life-sized to me,” I admitted. “He scared me. I just wondered if he’s dangerous.”

  “Naked man running around the woods night and day.” Again, Edward had to put in his two cents’ worth. “I wouldn’t get too relaxed around him.”

  “But the legends about him, do they report him actually doing harm to anyone?” Again, I addressed Jonathan. Edward would leave tonight, and I’d be in the middle of the spooky dark woods with a frail scholar twice my age. I didn’t want to worry about “Pan” bursting through a cabin window.

  On the other hand, he might be a welcome explanation for Seawuit’s murder.

  “I don’t know much about the legends,” Jonathan said, his youthful blankness unperturbed.

  “I’ve heard about him, but I’ve never heard anything like that,” Louis offered. “Just sightings. I don’t know anyone who’s gotten close to him. In fact, I’m not sure I know anyone who’s actually seen him. Except you.”

  “And me,” Jonathan added.

  “And what were you on, Mr. Reliable?” Louis asked.

  Jonathan flipped him off.

  “What about Billy Seawuit? This man,”—I couldn’t refer to him as a demigod—“do the police know about him? Is he a suspect?”

  Louis shrugged. “We thought we’d be talking to the police quite a bit, but you know, except for right after they found the body, they haven’t been back.”

  “They only talked to you once?” I looked at Galen. “They’ve also been to your house, right? I heard he was staying with you.”

  “They looked through his things. That’s it.”

  “We called for an update this morning,” Louis continued. “But they didn’t seem in any hurry to talk to us again. It could be they’ve got a suspect in mind.”

  I wondered whether it was Arthur. I considered bringing him up. Edward jumped the gun.

  “He was an assistant for that mythology guy, wasn’t he? That PBS guy?”

  “Arthur Kenna. Yes.” Galen was starting to squirm. “We should get back. Mary! Check, please.”

  “I wonder what a mythologist’s assistant does,” Edward mused. “He wasn’t here checking on the Pan legend, was he?”

  Louis and Galen exchanged glances.

  “No,” Galen said. “Arthur Kenna was consulting with us. We like to use mythological ‘wallpaper,’ for lack of a better word, in some of our programs. Almost like old-fashioned dioramas, only inside the computer. As a setting for menus.”

  “Well, I thought . . . ” Edward looked puzzled. “I thought it was the assistant that was working for you.”

  Galen nodded impatiently. “That’s what brought him here. We asked Kenna to help us design the settings. Seawuit came with him and stayed on.”

  “What kind of work was Seawuit doing for you? You don’t suppose an industrial spy had a run-in with him?” Edward’s chutzpah amazed me. But I supposed it was a necessity in his line of work.

  “Stu’s the one that had a fight with him,” Jonathan said.

  The waitress brought both checks then, though Edward and I weren’t finished. In that moment of distraction, Louis signaled Jonathan, briefly making a T of his hands. “Time out”: the only sports gesture I recognized.

  Galen tossed two twenties on the table, then rose. Louis and Jonathan rose with him.

  Galen would have ignored Edward’s question and Jonathan’s answer, would have said good-bye and walked out with his entourage, I was sure. But for one thing.

  Jonathan said, “Wait a sec. I need to use the head.”

  Galen hesitated, as if looking for a way to say, Catch up, then.

  Edward jumped in. “So your old lady’s ex-husband—Stu, right?—he had a fight with Seawuit?”

  “Just a rumor. If he did . . . ” Galen was silent so long, I began to doubt he’d finish the sentence. “It wasn’t just the divorce. They lost their business. Stu’s not a bad guy, but that’s a lot for anyone.”

  “Toni mentioned him,” I put in. “She said he’d been experimenting with brain waves.”

  Galen’s nostrils flared. His lips clamped as if in spasm.

  “Yeah, right,” Louis said. “To hear Stu tell it, he invented macaroni.”

  “What was his beef with Seawuit?”

  “Chip on his shoulder.” Louis shrugged. “Could be anything; you know the type. Like Galen said, it’s hard to start all over again.”

  “But this industrial spying business . . . ” Edward wouldn’t let up. “You think maybe Stu’s been spying on you—trying to get back at you?”

  Galen shot him a withering look. “We’re not hillbillies up here, we’re not the Hatfields and McCoys. We’re computer professionals.”

  Before Edward could respond, Louis changed the subject back to fishing.

  I worked on my lunch, letting Louis talk trout while Galen stood stiffly by.

  When they left, Edward leaned back in his chair, saying, “High five, girlfriend. That was muy interesante.”

  “Are you taking Spanish lessons or what?”

  “No way. Yo hablo already. You don’t speak Spanish, you don’t get much PI work, not around here.” He attacked his burger. A few mouthfuls later, he added, “What do you think he’s going to say to wifey when he sees her tonight?”

  “Do you think those two guys in the woods were industrial spies?”

  He shrugged. “I hope so. I hope they try to break into Cyberdelics: I want to know what the computer gizmo trap does.”

  “Do you think spies could have murdered Seawuit to keep him from helping develop TechnoShaman?”

  “They’d be damn fools if they did. A computer product worth killing for?”

  “You’re being naive, Edward.” I pushed my remaining crumbs away. I’d practically licked the plate. “I had to do my homework to get the job I just blew off. You wouldn’t believe the incredible stuff computers can do now—they can create actors and movie sets out of cyberspace. No one’s going to need Hollywood by the time they’re done. Imagine how much money’s going to be lost or gained in that transition. Or look backward: What if Apple could have had Bill Gates killed and kept Windows out of existence? You don’t think they’d be way better off?”

  “Okay, granted. Something as major as Windows or computer-made movies, that would get a few people excited. But this isn’t really the big time, right? This is Boulder Creek.”

  “You’ve got that completely wrong. Cyberdelics is big enough to be treated like royalty by my law firm—ex-law firm. God, Edward, Apples were created in a guy’s garage.”

  “True.” He picked up the check. “You don’t happen to know Stu’s last name, do you?”

  “No. Edward, if those pictures turn out, will you show them around?”

  “To who?”

  “To whoever could tell you if the men are industrial spies.”

  “Like there’s a special bureau for that.”

  I sighed. “Can you do a computer match?”

  “On my Bat Computer?”

  “You must have some way to find out.”

  He shrugged elaborately. “Photo development pe
rson at the drugstore might recognize them.” He checked his watch. We’d been told to return before one o’clock.

  “Then why did you even take the pictures?” I snapped.

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been dying to play with my new spy toy!”

  I sat back, trying to relax. Maybe he did know how to find out who the men were. Maybe he was just too contrary to tell me straight out.

  Information from Edward, I was beginning to realize, tended to come as punchlines at my expense.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  We reached the drugstore at ten minutes to one, only to be greeted by a CLOSED sign. For the next ten minutes, I listened to Edward rail about “mountain hours” as he paced back and forth, pounded on the door, checked and rechecked the back entrance. Eventually, we ran our errands and embarked on a scenic tour.

  We spent most of the afternoon on steep winding roads, Edward pointing out sights and landmarks. I could certainly understand Arthur’s passion for the land, if not the full flaky extent of his feelings.

  When Edward finally turned onto the gravel road to his cabin, I was feeling relaxed and satisfied. I had cash in my pocket, some thrift-store clothes, and groceries in a sack.

  “What the—” Edward slammed on the brakes.

  I came out of my cozy haze. “What?” But I saw the problem before the word left my mouth. There was a car parked in front of the cabin. A big purple Dadmobile. “It’s Don Surgelato’s.”

  Don knew my history with Edward. He must have gone to Santa Cruz to check whether Edward had seen me. He must have found out—from a neighbor? property records?—that Edward had a place up here.

  “I don’t see him in the car.” Edward seemed to know the score. “He must be poking around the back. I hope Arthur stayed gone.”

  He gave me a light slap on the shoulder. “Get out. Hurry.”

  I got out, quickly taking cover. I didn’t want Surgelato to notice Edward’s Jeep had stopped. And I certainly didn’t want him to notice me inside it.

  Edward took off toward the cabin, Jeep wheels kicking up gravel and dust.

  My first impulse was to dash away into the woods. It warred with my desire to linger, to try to get closer and see what Surgelato was up to.

  I moved deeper into the woods, but tried to stay oriented. I stopped often to listen, in case Surgelato was lurking out here rather than waiting at Edward’s.

  It must have been around five-thirty. There had been plenty of daylight on the road. But the forest was one giant shadow across a floor of needles, leaves, and vines. I walked slowly, trying to keep the road to my left and the cabin up ahead.

  I spotted a fallen log with a cozy-looking throw of lichen. I had a city-girl’s aversion to sitting directly on top of anything green—it might have bugs or cause rashes—but I needed to choose a perch before it got much darker. I didn’t want to wander too far afield. I wanted to stay close enough for Edward to find me if I couldn’t find him.

  I sat gingerly on the lichen. I looked way up to the tops of the redwoods. I could see dark birds against the fading daylight. I tried to get comfortable.

  Some people might have meditated. But I’d grown up with political activists; I argued with myself.

  I’d sworn I wouldn’t let my brain jump on the Surgelato hamster wheel again. I’d let him know I voted yes on a relationship. And he’d gone back to his ex-wife. Nothing had begun, so there wasn’t much to miss. But I’d managed to get maudlin about it often enough.

  I didn’t want to speculate why he was getting personally involved in searching for me now. Maybe his wife didn’t want to, either. But it hardly mattered: Surgelato and I had lost the moment. I just wished I hadn’t been the last to know.

  I watched the woods grow darker. I could hear the tapping of woodpeckers and the sound of falling pine cones. I didn’t see any animals. Even on our hike today, I’d seen only jays and banana slugs. This would have been more reassuring if I hadn’t seen a mountain lion Tuesday.

  The gap between twilight and night didn’t close, it slammed shut. One minute I was daydreaming, and the next, it was pitch black around me. The darkness made me claustrophobic, it seemed so dense and tight.

  I took a few deep breaths. I wasn’t far from the cabin. I could always scream.

  A second later, I almost did. I heard voices close by. I saw a halo of lantern light and heard one voice clearly enough to keep me silent.

  It was Don Surgelato, saying, “So no calls, no letters, no nothing?”

  “Not since last time,” Edward answered cheerfully.

  “And that stuff in your car? It’s for who, again?”

  “You don’t have to take my word on that, Lieutenant,” Edward responded. “Ask anybody in town: I spent the day shopping with a young lady named Alice. I hope to reap the benefits this evening.”

  The lanterns weren’t headed toward me; they were defining an arc closer (I thought) to the cabin.

  “I still don’t get why you’d look for her here,” Edward said.

  “I’m out of other places to look.”

  “So she didn’t show up at work: She’s not exactly career-oriented. She probably blew it off. She’s probably off at some neo-hippie-yippie-ban-the-Republicans commune.”

  Surgelato’s next statement wasn’t audible.

  “This wouldn’t be the first time she played hooky.” Edward’s voice carried. “Ask Judge Shanna.”

  The last comment was maddeningly unfair—it was Edward who’d screwed up my clerkship with his “favor.”

  I remained there long after their voices and lanterns faded. Good thing, too. As I prepared to stand and stretch, I heard them again.

  They’d circled back toward the cabin.

  Edward was saying, “So what’s the deal really? Between you two.”

  “There’s no deal.”

  Edward’s voice quieted to a confidential hush. I couldn’t hear him anymore.

  It took all my self-control not to jump out of concealment and pummel an apology out of Edward. Discussing my business, my private life . . . Long after I couldn’t see the lanterns or hear the men, I fumed.

  Eventually the night air cooled more than my anger. I wondered if I remembered the direction to the road. I wondered if Edward would come shouting for me after Surgelato left.

  Minor concerns came at me like a Greek chorus. Without visual distractions, my brain had time to amplify them.

  For starters, where was Arthur? He obviously hadn’t been at the cabin; neither Surgelato nor Edward had given the least hint of it. That left a hell of a lot of other places he might be. For all I knew, he was aboard a spaceship with Pan at the helm.

  Most of the rest of my worries involved either insects or mad woodsmen. I wavered about which I feared most. I itched. I imagined loutish footsteps.

  I alternated being scared and being bored. I wondered if this was one of those experiences where you think you’ve been out for hours and are annoyed to learn it’s only been minutes.

  I gave up on Edward finding me.

  I walked cautiously, I hoped toward the road. A heavy overcast screened moonlight that had helped me last night.

  I broke branches and tripped over a log. By the time I’d fallen a few more times, I knew it was a stupid idea. I picked myself up and sat on a stump, feeling welts rise on my scraped flesh.

  I heard twigs crack, leaves rustle. After so many false alarms, I was rationing my adrenaline. But the sounds continued. Someone was out here.

  I inhaled a scream.

  To my shock, I heard the dark shape say, “Willa.”

  “Arthur! Oh God, thank God, you’re the cat!”

  He clapped my back awkwardly as I embraced him. “The cat?”

  “You know, in horror movies? When the heroine goes to check out a noise and something jumps on her?”

  “And it turns out to be the cat, yes yes; so it does.” Then, more concerned, “You’re all right? Are you lost?”

  “Maybe a little. Have you been out here al
l day, Arthur?”

  “No. I was back for quite a long spell, but I saw a car coming—not Edward’s. I thought you’d want me to leave. I was on my way back when I heard noises and saw you out here.”

  “The car was Surgelato’s—same cop as at my apartment. I’m not sure if he’s gone yet.”

  “Do you think we’d better wait awhile longer, then?” He disentangled himself from my needy embrace.

  “No.” I wanted to be inside. “Yes, we probably should.” I didn’t want to be inside with Surgelato, after all. “You want part of my stump?”

  I sat down, leaving room for Arthur.

  “You heard the piping?” Arthur’s voice was agitated, boyish. “Wasn’t it a miracle? Pitch perfect, flawless breathwork, a heartrending tune.”

  “You mean tonight? You heard him tonight?”

  “A short time ago. You didn’t hear?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve been wandering about,”—his voice was hushed with the thrill—“hoping to encounter him.”

  “You wouldn’t even be able to see him, not tonight.”

  “Oh, but I have a pocket light.”

  “You have a flashlight? Jesus, Arthur, let’s use it.”

  “Certainly.” He aimed a thin beam across the duff.

  I looked at his hand. He was holding a tiny keychain light.

  “I found it in a cupboard. I didn’t want to waste the battery,” he explained. “But perhaps my night vision’s better than yours.”

  “It must be—you saw me, but I only heard you.” I vowed to eat more carrots.

  “I was given the gift of night vision by my spirit animal many years ago,” he explained matter-of-factly.

  I didn’t even want to know the details. “Maybe you’d better turn the light off.” I hated to do it, but, “We should wait here awhile longer; make sure Surgelato’s gone. Then we’ll turn it on and find the road.”

  “Fine.”

  The night seemed even blacker after the brief luxury of light.

  “Oh, Jesus!” I grabbed his arm. The piping had begun.

  “We’ll signal!” Arthur sounded breathless, beyond excited.

  I nearly crushed the hand that held the penlight. “No! No, Arthur, it’s a man, not a demigod!”

  “A man who’s manifested here for at least three centuries?”