The Faceless One (30 page)

They had gone swimming together, staying within sight of both sets of parents. Donna had bragged that she was a mermaid, and young Stan had scoffed, calling her a fibber and a faker. She had gotten angry, and said she could breathe underwater for as long as she wanted. Stan had told her she couldn’t even hold her breath until he counted to ten because she was just a bragging baby.

Livid, Donna had taken a big breath and ducked under the water. Stan counted to ten, going neither too fast nor too slow. When he reached ten, he expected she would surface triumphantly, and he would ask her how she could hold her breath so long.

What Stan didn’t know was that Donna had planned to surprise him by swimming behind him. But she had gotten turned around in the dark water and swum far out beyond what their parents considered safe. When she had surfaced, she had panicked. She went down, sucking in a great deal of seawater as she did so.

Stan happened to look her way as the last flaming red curls descended beneath the choppy water. He began screaming for help, and both his father and Donna’s had come running, his older brother Brian close behind. Donna’s dad found her, but it was his father, a beat cop from Brooklyn, who had given her mouth-to-mouth. She had coughed up seawater in a sputtering wail, and they had bundled her up and taken her home. The Robertses and the Pedigos were good friends after that, and every year Stan got a Christmas card from Donna, who now lived in Portland with a sculptor named Rhonda.

Donna Pedigo.

She had almost drowned.

Fish. Drowning out of the water, unable to breathe.

He realized that his subconscious was trying to tell him something.

Having an idea of what to look for, he delved into his memory. Checking, he now found gaps in those areas dealing with swimming, drowning, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and CPR.

Why did the Big Boss need all that?

The Big Boss was incorporeal; he didn’t need to breathe. That meant someone else did. And Stan doubted that the Big Boss was using this information to kill or torture someone; he already seemed to have a knack for that.

Saving someone?

Why in God’s name would the God of Fuckups save someone? The answer came into his head tentatively at first, then with assurance: He needed the person.

He glanced back at the package, sitting ominously amid the wrappers and cans.

He needed someone, someone affiliated with the package.

Someone who could be killed.

The facts clicked together into his head like magnetized pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He couldn’t kill the Big Boss, but he could kill someone important to him.

Stan patted the service revolver in his waistband. Maybe he wasn’t so powerless after all.

Jimmy’s uncle came to visit him at the Holiday Inn.

He and George had set the alarm for 2:00
A.M
. They planned to hit the museum by three and be back by four. From there, they would have to wait for instructions from Raven. If none ever came, they would dispose of the artifacts in keeping with their sacred nature. Jimmy had no intention of returning them.

Despite his anxiety, George had fallen asleep around eleven. Jimmy had sat up, watching the lights through the window. He was still not sure George should be going, but it would be impossible to carry out the theft without a car. He had made no plan for the theft, other than the time of arrival. He figured he would receive guidance once he arrived. If no guidance came, they would return to Golden Summer the next day. This option had put George a bit more at ease. Jimmy figured George was banking on Raven’s being a no-show.

His uncle walked up and stood next to him. He looked solid and healthy, neither like a spirit nor someone who had died nearly sixty years ago.

“Hello, Uncle,” Jimmy said, trying not to wake George.

Uncle Will looked out at the lights and frowned. “It’s crowded here.”

“I know,” Jimmy said. “I don’t like it either.”

His uncle looked at him and shook his head. “You’re not a boy anymore.”

“No. I have grown old.”

His uncle pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Your hair has been cut.”

Jimmy’s hair was well past his shoulders but a Tlingit shaman never cut his hair and often did not even comb it. His uncle’s hair hung down to his ankles. It was thick and matted, silver and white. Jimmy nodded.

“It’s true, I have not kept my hair.”

“You have forgotten everything,” the old man accused.

“Not so. I am here.”

Uncle Will shook his head. He looked at Jimmy sadly.

“So much depends on you, Mouse.”

“I know, Uncle.”

“I cannot help you when you confront The Faceless One. My stay here is tenuous, and he
would scatter my spirit like ashes from a fire. But I have brought you three gifts, which will help you. They are useless, though, if you have forgotten my teachings.”

“I have not forgotten, Uncle. Your lessons remain large in my heart.”

The old man nodded. He reached into his cloak and placed three objects on the windowsill: a small, covered basket, an object wrapped in soft leather, and a tiny bentwood box, cunningly made.

His uncle embraced him. “I love you, Mouse.”

Jimmy felt tears welling up in his eyes. “I love you, Uncle.”

His uncle drew back. “I must go now. The way is long, and I do not want to become lost.”

“Do you see Rose?” Jimmy asked. Now more than ever, he ached for her.

His uncle smiled. “She waits for you. Be strong, nephew.”

Uncle Will walked toward the door, fading away before he reached it.

Jimmy’s eyes went from the door to George’s bed. George was sitting up, wide-eyed. “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said.

Jimmy went to the windowsill and looked at the gifts his uncle had left.

The basket contained juice from the devil’s club,
Oplopanx horridus
, a spiny ginseng plant used in purification rituals. The object wrapped in leather was a soul-catcher, one his uncle had received from his own uncle many years ago. It was very old and brittle but carried a tremendous amount of power. Jimmy carefully wrapped it back up. He picked up the tiny box. It was exquisite, worthy of a great treasure. Taking a breath, he opened it and looked inside.

Inside was what looked like a small triangle of dark leather. It was the most powerful gift he could have received, aside from the gifts of Raven.

George looked over his shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice hushed.

“The tongue of an otter,” Jimmy said. George made a face, and Jimmy carefully closed the box. “It is a most powerful talisman,” he said, “for with it, a shaman may fight demons or witches.”

“Even The Faceless One?” George asked.

Jimmy nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”

George scratched his head and rubbed his eyes. “Dead uncles, otter’s tongues, Faceless demons, and robbing museums. I tell you, Golden Summer is gonna be even more dull when we get back. They’re gonna have to have an all-nude review to keep me awake from now on.” George looked at the digital clock radio on the nightstand. “One thirty. Let’s go grab us a Grand Slam at Denny’s before we bust into the museum.”

Jimmy got dressed and wondered if he would see Golden Summer again. He doubted it.

* * *

After breakfast at Denny’s, they headed for the Southwest Museum. George had had the Super Grand Slam, an amazing array of eggs, pancakes, bacon, ham, and sausage. Jimmy had opted only for black coffee. Now that he truly was on a path, he must fast and purify himself. George had grumbled about eating alone, but that hadn’t stopped him from polishing off all of his meal.

The streets were empty as they left the Pasadena Freeway. The parking lot for the museum was empty, and pools of light from the lampposts were like moonlit ponds scattered over the dark ground. They parked as close to the front entrance as they could. As they descended the steps toward the entryway, movement on the large totem pole caught Jimmy’s eye.

A raven was perched on the top of the totem pole. It peered at them sideways, then flew off.

“Is that good?” George asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Hope so,” said Jimmy, wishing he had asked his uncle about
Naas shagee Yéil
.

They walked up to the front entrance and peered in. It was very dark inside, the only light coming from track lights that had been dialed down to minimum illumination and the moonlight spilling in through the doors and skylights.

Jimmy pulled on the door. It was locked.

“Worth a try,” he whispered to George. Jimmy looked around and found a large rock in the planter near the door. He hefted it.

“Wait a minute, now,” George protested.

Jimmy threw the rock at the window, turning his face away as he did so. The shattering of the glass seemed preternaturally loud, as if it signaled the end of the world.

The shattering was followed immediately by the ringing of an alarm.

“We’re dead,” George said, but Jimmy was already ducking and stepping through the ruined door.

Jimmy calmly opened the alarm panel.

“Raven, Uncle, guide my hand.” There was no answer in his head and the alarm continued its shrill protest.

“We’d better go, Jimmy,” George hissed.

All this way for nothing? He glanced outside, and the raven sat on the railing. It tapped on the railing, as it had done on his balcony a lifetime ago.

And Jimmy knew.

He inhaled, then punched at the keypad. Three-four-six-eight-seven-seven.

The alarm stopped, as if the bell had been pulled from reality by unseen hands.

* * *

In the men’s room, security guard Dex Baylor was reading the sports page on the toilet. Dex was twenty-five and had big dreams of being a cop, then one day a detective. He had applied for the Los Angeles Police Academy, but his scores on the entrance tests were average at best. He had taken the job with the museum to bolster his résumé. He was a conscientious security guard, but the museum had a spectacular lack of things worth stealing. Besides, he was entitled to a fifteen-minute break, which he often took at this time. He heard the shrill call of the alarm and felt a chill go through him. It was almost three in the morning. None of the museum staff would be trying to enter at such an hour. He finished his business as quickly as possible and hitched up his pants. The alarm stopped, but he felt a vibration against his eardrum, as if it were a tuning fork in a vacuum.

Drawing his gun, Dex went out into the cool darkness of the Southwest Museum.

Jimmy and George easily found the displays of Tlingit artifacts. The museum was not very large and was laid out in a simple “T” pattern.

The shaman’s cloak was behind a series of stanchions and a velvet rope and could be retrieved easily. The rattles, however, were locked in their glass cabinets. Neither George nor he had the skill to pick the lock. Jimmy debated leaving the objects where they were but knew that all weapons might be needed in a fight with The Faceless One. He went to the mannequins on display and pulled an arm from a figure of a Haida chief. Going back to the case, he swung the heavy plaster arm and broke the glass of the display case, which shattered in a cacophony of notes all along the scale.

* * *

Standing near the Plains Hall, Dex heard the glass shatter in the Heroes exhibit. There was no longer any doubt, someone was in his museum. He was headed for the main hall when he saw a black bird hopping along the floor.

How the hell did a crow get in here?
he wondered. Maybe through an open door or window. He turned from the bird toward the main hall when he heard a voice.

“Daddy.”

Dex turned. His five-year-old daughter, Claudia, was standing where the black bird had been.

“Claudia?”

She giggled and ran for the front door. Dex ran after her, all thoughts of catching master criminals forgotten. Had his daughter done this? How the hell had she gotten here from Arcadia? Claudia stepped through the broken front door and headed toward the museum library. Dex followed, calling to her.

* * *

In the main hall, Jimmy was reverently wrapping the rattles in towels from the hotel and putting them in a shopping bag.

“Did you hear that?” George asked.

Jimmy shook his head, mentally going through a list of ceremonies and the necessary sacred objects to perform them.

“Sounded like someone calling out,” said George.

Jimmy removed two copper knives from the display, blades inscribed with animal spirits and hilts of wood wrapped in leather thongs. He placed these in the shopping bag, then asked George to hold the bag while he retrieved several ivory talismans. These he wrapped in a washcloth from the hotel and placed in the bag.

“Let’s get the cloak and go,” he told George.

“You don’t have to tell me twice, Crazy Horse.”

* * *

Outside, Dex’s daughter was climbing a small hill adjacent to the museum. Dex was frustrated. He still couldn’t fathom how the little girl had gotten there. She must have broken the glass door but he couldn’t reconcile this act with the same little girl who hugged him and blew him kisses when he left for work in the evenings.

“Claudia, you come down here right now!”

She laughed merrily as he climbed up after her, getting dust all over his shoes and stickers in his socks.

“You get your butt down here right now before I give you a good spanking!”

The little girl stuck her tongue out at him. Then, to his great shock, she turned into a black bird and flew off.

Dex stumbled, fell heavily on his back, and knocked the wind out of himself. He lay there for a moment, wondering what the hell he had just seen. Was he going crazy? Was he
hallucinating? What would his boss say?

There was a car in the lot, a large one. Dex intended to get the license-plate number, but a dust devil enveloped him, making his eyes sting. His vision blurred with tears, and he fumbled his way back to the museum.
God, what a screwup
, he thought miserably.

* * *

Jimmy hurriedly collected the Chilkat cloak, the headdress, and the octopus bag. The two old men were weighed down like mall patrons after a day of Christmas shopping. George carried two shopping bags containing the smaller objects, including the rattles and the octopus bag. Jimmy had the Chilkat cloak and the headdress. Both were heavier than he remembered. They made their way toward the front door, both silently wondering why no guards had confronted them.