Last Chants (25 page)

A few seconds later, he said, “Yes.”

“Then let's talk about what you see. What do you see closest to you?”

“A woman in a beige trenchcoat, a man raising his jacket collar, a young fellow with a hat over a shaved head, a canvas safari hat. There's an eagle feather in the hatband.”

Edward nudged me.

“A girl trying to put up an umbrella,” Arthur continued. “Such a lot of umbrellas up, and yet it isn't very wet. They look like corks bobbing in a river.”

“Let's keep looking close by you for another moment,” Fred suggested. “Who else is standing near?”

“A couple passing on my right, chatting. He says, ‘We'll cream them in court,' and she says, ‘That's naive.' A conversation behind me, too. I don't pay attention.”

“Can you pay attention now, Arthur?”

“But it's not . . . it's only one person—” His voice picked up a whisper of bewilderment. “Talking to himself. Something about the police.”

“Arthur, what can you tell me about his voice?” Fred looked much more excited than he sounded. I wondered if therapists took workshops from FM deejays.

“It's not an old enough voice.”

“Old enough for what, Arthur?”

“For the man who made the fuss. It's a younger voice.”

“Then what happens?” Fred was looking flushed in his unbuttoned shirt and earth-tone blazer.

“I feel something in my hand. I don't want it, I'm going to let it drop. But the voice is whispering, ‘Take it take it take it.' Something hard with a sleek surface. I don't know why I let my fingers close around it. I suppose I don't want it to drop. Someone behind me values it, and so I don't want it to break. I try to see who's doing this, but we're too crowded, it's difficult. My neck won't turn easily this morning.”

“What do you feel in your hand, Arthur?”

“The scarf. I raise my hand to look at it. It's a silk scarf.”

“Can you describe it?”

“It's yellowish. It has a pattern of tiny brown dots.”

“What style is the scarf?”

“I don't know. Masculine, perhaps an ascot. I can tell now that there's a gun in it. When I open my hand to look at the gun, the scarf slides away.” He paused a moment. “Odd—it falls quickly, as if there's a weight attached. It slides away, and I hardly notice it.” His frown looked painful. “I'm so surprised—I open my hand to look, and I almost drop it. I'm fumbling, perhaps that's why the scarf falls.”

For a moment he said nothing. But his frown deepened. His eyes moved from side to side as if he were dreaming.

“What's happening around you now, Arthur? Can you freeze the movie at the next frame?”

“Two men pass me on my left. They rush past. One's bulky. He wears a fedora and a trenchcoat. One is smaller. He wears an anorak and jeans. He's hatless. He turns and glances at me. I've stopped walking, you see. He turns as if he's irritated. I'm a logjam in the river.”

“Do you recognize him or his companion, Arthur?”

“No,” he said. “A man in front of me raises his hands and begins shouting for help.”

“Is this someone you've noticed on the street before?”

“No.”

“Can you see where he came from?”

“No.”

“Did he come from behind you, Arthur?”

“I was looking at the gun. Not at the street.”

“But you noticed two men when they passed you.”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“But you didn't notice this man approaching you?”

“No. I only stopped staring at the gun because I heard him shouting for help. I found him looking at me. It startled me.”

“What did you do then, Arthur?”

“I tightened my grip on the gun. I was afraid it might discharge if I dropped it. And I looked around to see why the man was shouting.”

“What did you see when you looked around?”

It took him a minute to respond. Edward was sitting forward, elbows on his knees. I held my breath, waiting for Arthur to say more.

“The young man with the eagle feather in his hat. He was behind me. I caught a glimpse of him over my shoulder, the back of his head. He was walking away from me.”

“You'd seen him earlier.”

“Yes. He'd walked past me some moments before. He was walking away from me again.”

Fred looked at Edward, nodding. His voice remained phlegmatic. “What else did you notice, Arthur?”

“The man who was shouting. Before he put his hands up, he
reached into his pocket. He fiddled with something there.”

“Can you describe the motion, Arthur?”

“No. Just that he reached in and did something. Or checked something.”

“Then what did he do?”

“He raised his arms and called for help.”

“Can you see the people around him, Arthur?”

“Yes.”

“How are they responding to his calls?”

“A woman is panicking. She backs into another woman. A man and a woman pass by quickly, hardly glancing at him. Another man looks irritated by the noise he's making. A woman on his left seems angry until she sees me, then she looks scared.”

“And what is the man doing now?”

“He's telling me I can have his wallet.”

“What happens then, Arthur?”

“Other people move over as they walk. A woman crouches. A man blocks foot traffic by throwing out his arms. He speaks over his shoulder to people coming up behind him. One of them doubles back, breaking into a run. A voice behind me says, ‘Stay back, stay back, he's got a gun.' The man tells me not to shoot and that he'll reach into his pocket and give me his wallet.” Arthur stopped. His breathing had quickened. “‘No, don't do that,' I tell him. And I see a policeman. I feel such relief. I can straighten it out now, you see. I say, ‘Officer.' But I can't say more right now. Willa has suddenly put herself in front of me. I'm looking down at the top of Willa's head. She can't seem to part her hair properly; I've always meant to tell her.”

My hand strayed to my part. It would have been straighter if I hadn't just run my hand through my hair.

“She says, ‘If you back up, he won't hurt me.' And so I try to back up, but there's someone behind me. I say, ‘But Willa,' and she says, ‘Will you what? Will you kill me?' I don't understand; I simply don't understand her. I look at the man in front of her and at the officer, and they seem very surprised. They're goggling as if Willa meant me, so I explain that I'd never hurt her. Then Willa says, ‘Maybe if you let him go, he'll let me go.' I still don't comprehend who she means. The policeman is paying a
great deal of attention to her, but I simply can't determine the context. There are so many people about. Some are backing away, and some are running. Everyone is staring at Willa. The policeman is very young and has a crewcut and has nicked himself shaving. There's minor pandemonium, and I'm hoping Willa will turn to me and tell me what she fears so that I can help her.”

Edward looked at me, shaking his head.

“Go on, Arthur.” Fred's tone was gentle. “What happens then?”

I listened to Arthur tell the rest of the story from his point of view. Having been there, I knew the facts. But he described a completely different reality from the one I'd experienced.

From Arthur's perspective, I had exploded onto the scene and demanded he come with me. I had pulled him into my gravitational field like a rogue comet, and he had followed and obeyed because my determination left him no alternative.

I slumped on the couch, arms wrapped around myself. Maybe if I hadn't intervened, Arthur could have explained about the gun, pointed out the scarf. Maybe the cop would have believed him. Maybe the whole thing would have been cleared up with only minor inconvenience.

I'd be at work right now, and Arthur would be dealing openly with the police about Billy Seawuit's murder.

I felt like I was staring at the corpse of my future happiness. I looked around Fred's office, hoping to distract myself before I cried. I glanced at the clock: We'd been here forty-seven minutes.

Fred was again guiding Arthur through the moment when I'd reached behind me, grabbing his arm and forcing him to follow me down an escalator.

Even in his trance state, Arthur looked bewildered.

I felt my hand wander toward the Kleenex. Any more of this and I was a goner.

Fred was prompting, “You followed Willa down the escalator, Arthur?”

“Yes, I followed her. Because I realized at that moment what it was really about. At that very moment, you see. I needn't have gone along with her. I knew Willa was running from the police and that running would not serve my interests. But I saw what it was truly about.”

We waited. There wasn't a sound in the room except Arthur's breathing.

Finally, Fred said, “What did you realize, Arthur? What was it all about?”

“It was about Willa,” he said firmly. “She was obviously the one I was supposed to meet. The dove had sent me there that morning to meet Willa.” His face smoothed into relaxation. “And so I followed her and did as she wished. She was an emissary of a greater will, you see. Though I might not understand it in this context, she was clearly the vessel of grace.”

Edward rolled his eyes.

I could only shrug modestly. It's not easy being a vessel of grace.

Moments later, Fred roused Arthur. He jumped, as if wakened from a dream.

“I was afraid I wouldn't be able to go under,” he said apologetically.

“No, no,” Fred assured him. “You were very clear in your remembrances. I'm sure it was very helpful.”

Arthur's jaw dropped. “You mean we've been—?” He glanced at the clock. “Oh, my. We have been.” He looked at me and Edward. “Was it useful?”

“Yes.” Edward's tone was decisive. “Definitely. In fact, I think we can tell you who put the gun in your hand.”

“Really?” Arthur sounded impressed.

“His name is either Joel Baker or Martin something, goes by Martin Late Rain, wears a safari hat. You spotted him—the hat, anyway—twice in the crowd on Monday. Me and Willa saw him up in the woods Wednesday; took his picture. Galen Nelson swears he's an industrial spy.” Edward looked at me. “I shouldn't have let that photo out of my sight.” Then, to Arthur: “Nelson talked me into letting the police have it. I haven't picked up the duplicate, and it's probably not the greatest idea for me to go into town today. Damn. Damn, I'd like to show it to you and get an ID.”

I briefly described yesterday's encounter with him, feeling a little sheepish. “Martin Late Rain” had seemed so personable, so concerned about me. I'd much rather believe Galen Nelson was lying about him.

But the fact remained: “You told me Monday morning you'd had the ‘feeling of an eagle,'” I reminded Arthur. “Just now, you said this person had an eagle feather in his hatband. I assume eagle feathers are pale gray?”

“Yes. With a black tip.”

It sounded like Martin's—Joel's?—hat, all right.

“I'm impressed, quite amazed,” Arthur said. “I didn't think this would come to anything.”

Edward looked pleased with himself.

“May I remain when he questions you, Willa?”

“I guess so.” But God, I hated the idea of Edward being there.

I reluctantly switched chairs with Arthur. It was no use asking Edward to leave. He was the private eye, after all. This was mostly for his benefit.

I sat there awhile, watching Fred's little strobe light and listening to his ocean-waves tape. My problems with Edward were insignificant compared to my problems with the police. If I could add anything to the knowledge pool . . .

A moment later, I seemed to wake up.

Fred nodded, smiling as if he knew me pretty well. I looked at the clock. Damn. A half hour had passed. What had I said?

I looked at Arthur. He wore a sentimental smile, and his eyes were damp.

I looked at Edward. He wore a huge grin.

“What?” I asked defensively.

Arthur answered, “I'm quite touched, my dear. Touched that you would risk so much for me. And impressed that you would act so decisively.”

Edward laughed. “Mighty Mouse to the rescue!”

Fred wheeled himself back behind his desk. “You're being a jerk, Edward.”

“You and your clinical jargon, Fred.”

As soon as we left the office, Edward began humming the Mighty Mouse theme.

W
e sat waiting for Edward in his Jeep. It was parked on what looked like a country road but was actually a rural pocket in the middle of Santa Cruz. Horses grazed in a wet meadow studded with huge oaks and ringed with Monterey cypress, their branches pointing inland. It was impressively bucolic, considering we were around the corner from a 7-Eleven. Edward was sitting atop a wooden fence, speaking into Fred's cellular phone. His booted feet were hooked between the rails. He faced the horses, giving us a view of his back.

Arthur seemed to be nodding out in the front seat. I could see his head bob.

Edward glanced over his shoulder, beckoning to me. I slid out the back, leaving the door open.

Edward had just clicked the phone off when I reached him. “Bad news,” he said. “They still haven't found Toni Nelson. They've called for city cops to join the search.”

He patted the spot next to him, offering me a hand so I could climb up. “I need to talk to you about a couple of things.”

“Okay.” I tried to get comfortable on the rail, but I was still a mass of aches and strains.

Edward must have noticed my wince. “God, I almost forgot.” He pulled something out of his pocket, handing it to me. It was a tiny container of pills. “Fred gets samples up the yin-yang. He noticed you were looking beat up and stiff. It's a painkiller. You're going to need it today.”