Henderson points Bonner in the direction of the unoccupied secretary’s desk.
“Just so long as the F.B.I. don’t mind payin’ for the charges,” Whitcomb reminds them in a loud voice, before Bonner even gets settled in and lifts the receiver.
The first order of business is to make sure the bodies are being taken to Sacramento as instructed—and now Bonner has a few additional demands. Louis Thorn confirmed that Harry hadn’t performed any emergency maneuvers. It occurs to Bonner that, instead of being suicidal, perhaps Harry was intoxicated or incapacitated in some way. He wants to have the Yamadas’ blood tested if possible. Bonner can feel Henderson and Whitcomb listening in as he gives the coroner instructions to send some samples down to the F.B.I.’s laboratory in Los Angeles.
“I’ll be staying in town for a few days,” Bonner says, once he has hung up the phone.
“I woulda thought now that you know exactly where your runaway Japs are, you’d be on your way,” Whitcomb says.
“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid,” Bonner says. “Given the crash.”
“I heard you ordering those tests. Can’t imagine what kinds of nonsense you’re imagining went on, but you ain’t planning on harassing any of my citizens here, are you? You know as well as I do, the two Japs in that plane was the ones who crashed it, open and shut. We should all just be thankful no one got hurt.”
No one got hurt. Bonner doesn’t point out that two people, in fact, died. He knows it’s the wrong point to make, the wrong deaths to count. “I just need to round up sufficient information for my report,” Bonner says instead. “It’s routine.”
Whitcomb doesn’t reply. Bonner is intrigued by the fact that Whitcomb seems to want to protect Thorn from scrutiny.
“Know of any hotels?” Bonner asks, directing his attention to Henderson.
“Sacramento’s got plenty,” the sheriff says, pretending to be absorbed again in the paperwork on his desk. Bonner knows Sacramento is a good hour away.
“I’d like to keep closer to the evidence,” Bonner replies. He tamps down his annoyance with Whitcomb and directs his question to Henderson instead. “Know anybody renting out a room?”
“I heard Lindy MacFarlane is looking to take on boarders,” Henderson offers in a cheerful, eager voice, oblivious to the sheriff’s prohibitive evil eye. “If you like, I’ll draw you a map to her place and telephone ahead to let ’er know you’re coming.”
“Much obliged,” Bonner replies, earnestly grateful. A fresh thought occurs to him. “Tell you what, Henderson,” he continues, “maybe tomorrow evening, after I get settled in, I can buy you a beer to repay you for your kindness.”
Deputy Henderson’s face lights up. “That’d be mighty generous of you,” he says. It is plain he is thrilled at the prospect of being seen out drinking a beer with an agent from the Federal Bureau.
“I believe I heard something about a place here in town . . . Murphy’s Saloon, was it? That the place where Joe Abbott tends bar?”
“How’d you know that?”
“Just something Louis Thorn mentioned,” Bonner replies with a nonchalant shrug.
“Funny thing to come up.”
“Indeed,” Bonner agrees.
He sighs, takes the hand-drawn map and the address Henderson has scribbled down, and prepares to leave. Across the room, Sheriff Whitcomb finally looks up from his desk, and Bonner can feel the sheriff’s hot glare. Why won’t the sheriff help him, anyway? That’s another question gnawing at Bonner. For now, he’s merely content to track down a place to get a meal, a shower, and a shave.
“Say, is Murphy’s Saloon pretty easy to find?” Bonner asks.
“Easy enough.” Henderson nods. “It’s on the main drag here in town.”
“All right. See you there tomorrow around six o’clock,” Bonner says, and, tipping his somewhat damp fedora back on his head, leaves.
8
The MacFarlane house is a small, vertical Victorian cottage located on the outskirts of town, near the railroad tracks. The first thing Agent Bonner notices when he climbs out of the Bureau car is that the house is in a state of disrepair. The most noticeable defect is that the house leans; it is as though a clapboard-sided creature has heaved a great sigh and forgotten to straighten up its shoulders again. It also appears as though the house was once painted white by some unseen optimistic hand, but for want of more whitewash over the years it has now been left to lapse into a weather-beaten gray. Yet, despite the house’s obvious lack of regular maintenance, it bears a welcoming air—even if it is a lonesome, almost wistful welcome at that.
When Bonner climbs the rickety porch stairs and raps on the door, he is surprised by the sight of the woman who opens it. He expected an elderly widow but is greeted instead by a young woman close to his own age, with chocolaty-brown curls, a fetching mouth, and large, brooding eyes. There is a flicker of something in them that reflects the house’s appearance—something curiously lonely yet welcoming.
As she peers out from behind the screen door, she visibly flinches to see Agent Bonner standing on her porch. Her smile vanishes and the expression that replaces it remains frozen upon her face.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is William Bonner,” he explains awkwardly. “I’m in town on some business for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I’ve come to see about renting a room . . .”
His introduction peters out as he waits for some response from her. Instead, she stands there, staring, looking him over from head to foot, openly evaluating each detail in turn.
“Yes, I know,” she says finally. “Dwight Henderson telephoned from the sheriff’s office.”
“Then I’ve come to the right place,” he replies, wondering—if she had indeed expected him—what accounted for her startled expression. He glances at the slip of paper where Deputy Henderson scribbled down her full name next to her address and some bare-bones driving directions. “You must be Rosalind MacFarlane.”
“I am. Come in.”
She turns and disappears into the darkness within, and after a brief second of hesitation Bonner follows. Inside, the house is as ramshackle as it is outside, but with a wealth of furniture and potted ferns. The stained-glass window over the front door, as dirty as it is, lets in light in a murky kaleidoscope of colors and patterns.
“Would you like some iced tea?” Rosalind asks over her shoulder as she paces through the house.
“All right,” Bonner agrees. He glances around, looking for signs of other boarders. “Forgive me, but is it just you here?”
“My grandmother passed on not long ago and left this house to me. I had intended to sell it . . .” she says, and pauses. “But things changed, and I decided it would be wiser to take in boarders instead.”
Her explanation doesn’t directly address his question, but Bonner takes it to mean there are no other guests at present.
She shows him to the sitting room and proceeds to rattle about in the kitchen for five minutes or so, then returns with a tray laden with two glasses and a small pitcher of iced tea. They sit sipping for several minutes. It occurs to Bonner that he ought to raise the question of his accommodations and the price. But as his eyes adjust to the dark of the house’s interior, he begins to make out his hostess’s face more clearly, and something stops him short.
“Have you been crying, ma’am?” he blurts out before he can stop himself.
She looks at him but does not answer.
“I beg your pardon,” Bonner rushes to add, ashamed. “It’s none of my business.”
“You can have the spare room upstairs,” Rosalind answers, as though deaf to both his question and his apology. “I charge two dollars a night. Three if you want two square meals included. There’s only one lavatory in the house, so that we’ll have to share. How long do you intend to stay?”
He can’t help but feel she has a peculiar way abo
ut her. While it is natural to cast the occasional glance at a person’s face while engaged in conversation, it seems to Bonner that she is staring at him, and staring quite intently at that. Uncomfortable, he shifts in the worn velvet armchair and clears his throat.
“Well, now, I suppose that depends . . .” Bonner begins to reply.
“On?”
“On how long this investigation takes.”
No flicker of expression passes over Rosalind’s face as she continues to hold Agent Bonner in her stare. When she speaks, she says in a matter-of-fact voice: “And that will depend on how long it takes for you to explain how those two escaped Japs turned up dead in that airplane crash today.”
It is a statement, not a question. Agent Bonner’s eyes widen; he is surprised she should know so much and speak with so much authority. He frowns, slightly alarmed. Rosalind waves a hand to put him at ease.
“Dwight likes to gossip,” she explains.
“Dwight?” he repeats. “Oh—yes . . . Deputy Henderson . . .”
“As I mentioned, he telephoned to let me know you were coming.”
“Sure.”
Bonner considers this. Ordinarily, he doesn’t like to discuss the details of an open case. But it occurs to him that just as Deputy Henderson has leaked the day’s gossip to Rosalind MacFarlane, she might be the recipient of other town gossip as well. Bonner thinks back to the bruises on Louis Thorn’s face. Thorn’s flimsy lie struck him as an obvious cover-up.
“The deputy and the sheriff,” Bonner says, “they mentioned something about the Thorn family having some kind of bad blood with their Japanese neighbors. They said it was more or less common knowledge among folks around here.”
“Yes,” Rosalind answers. She does not elaborate, and the air in the room thickens with the ticking of the mantel clock.
“Well, what I don’t understand so much is how those two boys—Louis Thorn and Harry Yamada—got to be friends if there were hostilities between their families.”
Rosalind’s gaze is vacant. She shrugs.
“I suppose it was the airplanes that brought them together,” she says.
“How did that come about?”
“Well, first, that flying circus came to town. That was likely the beginning of it,” Rosalind replies.
“That would be Earl Shaw’s Flying Circus?” Agent Bonner asks, pulling out his notebook and glancing at his scribbles from earlier.
“I suppose so. Didn’t go myself. That barnstorming act came to town and kicked up a ruckus. And rumor had it them two boys got it in their heads to run away with the circus, so to speak.”
“And that’s when they became friends?”
Rosalind shrugs again. She sniffs as though irritated. “That’s when they had something in common, I suppose.” She aims a somewhat bitter look at Bonner. “I can’t tell you why they became friendly. I don’t know that anybody in this town can tell you that. But loving those airplanes gave them a reason to cross paths.”
“May I ask, Miss MacFarlane . . .” Agent Bonner begins. Her words have given him permission to ask what he really wants to ask. “Do you have any reason to believe Louis Thorn would hurt Kenichi or Haruto Yamada?”
She looks at Bonner, saying nothing. For the space of a minute, she gazes at him in silence.
“No,” she finally replies. She presses her lips together in an expression that Bonner can’t quite make out.
Bonner has the distinct impression she is lying.
* * *
Hours later, after dusk has come and gone, after the earth has cooled and the air has turned fresh and crisp again and filled with the music of crickets, Agent Bonner prepares to turn in for the night. It is plain that indoor plumbing was an afterthought to the house’s architect: The sole lavatory Rosalind mentioned earlier is little more than a small structure accessed by going through the kitchen. In the bathroom, Bonner finds a bar of hand soap and uses it to scrub away the soot still on his skin from the crash site, then splashes some water on his skin and decides to tidy up the remainder of his person first thing tomorrow morning. He pulls the brass chain to switch off the electric bulb overhead and makes his way back up the creaking stairs to his bedroom. Rosalind showed him the room two hours earlier, after the dinner she’d cooked for him as part of his room and board.
She lingered in the room after that initial showing, pointing out the room’s various quirks: the nightstand drawer with a broken handle, the best way to open the window for a night breeze. When she ran out of details that might warrant explaining, she simply stood in the middle of the room, waiting, between Bonner and the rickety queen-size bed she had only minutes ago apologized for as she pointed out a couple of lumpy springs.
Bonner had the sensation that she wanted something . . . that she either wanted to tell him something or she wanted something from him. He had an urge to reach one hand up and touch her shoulder—lightly, just to reassure her somehow. But before he could do anything, she abruptly turned and, without so much as another word, left the room.
A strange hostess, indeed. She retreated to her own room, and he had not seen hide nor hair of her for the past two hours.
Now, as he slips out of his suspenders, unbuttons his collared shirt, strips the latter off, and pulls his undershirt over his head, he thinks he hears the faint metallic groaning of unoiled hinges. His back is to the door, and when he looks behind him, he notices that it now hangs open a crack. He’s nearly certain he pulled it shut after he made his way upstairs from the bathroom.
The dark splinter of doorway stares back at him.
“Hello?” he speaks into the quiet of the room.
No one answers from the hallway. Agent Bonner waits a full minute, listening, but there is nothing. It is an old house; the door doesn’t quite fit in the doorjamb anyway, being slightly too small on one side. It has likely cracked open out of regular habit. He pulls the quilts back and slips into bed. The sheets are pleasant against his skin—clean and cool.
He lies there, thinking about the Yamadas, about the spectacular airplane crash he witnessed earlier that morning and about Louis Thorn’s cagey behavior both before and after the fact. He thinks about the “flying circus” that, according to Rosalind MacFarlane, brought the two young men together in an unlikely friendship—or, at the very least, some sort of alliance. He thinks, too, about his new landlady and the strange intensity of her stare.
William Bonner’s eyes are closed and he has almost drifted entirely off to sleep when he hears the floorboards creaking just outside his door and the soft footfall of someone hurrying away down the hallway.
9
Earl Shaw’s Flying Circus
Newcastle, California * May 4, 1940
Two biplanes approached each other from opposite sides of the horizon. They moved in steady progression, both of them exactly the same height above the ground, piloted toward each other over what seemed like an impossibly smooth, invisible road. If they continued on their course, they would meet in the middle of the open field, somewhere just over Louis Thorn’s head. As they approached, the whining drone of their engines filled the air as though the sound were liquid and the curved dome of the sky were an empty drinking glass. Each time Louis thought the whine of the engines couldn’t get louder, it got louder still. And it wasn’t just that the engine noise increased; its reverberation intensified, too, until eventually it felt like a hive of bees thrumming within Louis’s own chest. His heart pumped faster.
Louis had first heard the unfamiliar sound—fainter, farther off in the distance—while milking the cows during the early hours of dawn, and wondered what it could be. A few hours later, while on an errand for his mother, he rode the old mare into town and on his way back took a shortcut through Irving Sumpter’s fallow field. The two biplanes completely surprised him—not to mention his horse—seeming to abruptly materialize in the sky. Once he’d recovered f
rom his shock, Louis recognized the sound as a louder version of what he’d heard earlier that morning, and realized it must have been these two airplanes arriving in the area.
He climbed down from his horse to watch. Now the two biplanes were almost overhead. It was funny: From a distance it looked like they weren’t going that fast—no faster than an automobile, anyway. But as they drew nearer, their true racing speed was revealed. Now they were very close to each other; Louis no longer had to turn his head from side to side to alternately check on one, then the other. Both fit together in a single glimpse of cloudless sky. One biplane was red with white stripes painted on the tail, the other royal blue with a sprinkling of white stars on the tail. The two of them made a deconstructed American flag reassembling itself.
It looked as though they were bound to collide. Louis understood this was purely for show, but he found himself holding his breath anyway. At the very last second, the two planes tipped their wings sideways in a very narrow pass, turning so they flew head to head as they moved past each other, the topsides of their wings appearing to nearly touch. They leveled out again. Then both arced upward, the whining pitch of their two engines changing as it became clear they were intent on executing a pair of loop-the-loops in opposite directions.
Louis watched in amazement, squinting into the cockpits at the pilots, trying to imagine seeing what they were seeing. His stomach lurched a little just trying to picture it: the earth surging away, disappearing, rising overhead like a moon, and eventually rushing toward you again. What only a bird might see. Downright unnatural for a human. Having completed their tandem loop-the-loops, the two biplanes flew on, going in opposite directions yet again. Two circles of white vapor trailed behind in the air where the planes had completed their perfectly symmetrical maneuvers, a pair of wedding rings floating down from the heavens.
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