Elisha’s Bones (27 page)
Esperanza is still in charge of the mouse, clicking on images, pausing for only a second or two, then flashing through several more without so much as a blink. After the shock of discovering the first symbol, an idea formed, and Espy and I have spent much of the evening following up on that idea. I feel guilty for involving myself in something like this when I’ve only just arrived, but our hosts seem to understand our need to see things through. Meredith has been in once with coffee.
“Can you slow down a bit?” I say.
“Even at this speed, it will take us two days to get through all these hits. Suck it up and deal with it.”
Search engines are remarkable tools, but they have one main flaw: there’s no way a user can know the exact combination and sequence of words that will produce the desired result. Usually the search terms are too narrow, so one is forced to generalize the criteria in successive attempts until, suddenly, there are a million hits through which to sift. There’s no happy middle ground, no matter how smart they make the application.
We’re at the million-possibilities stage, which means that even if my fledgling theory proves correct, it’s like looking for digital needles in an information haystack. I’m about to tell Esperanza to keep at it while I go stretch my legs when an image flashes on the screen, then disappears, and although I didn’t see it clearly . . .
“Wait, go back.”
She stops, shifts the mouse, and clicks.
It’s a color photo of a wall-mounted shield. On it is a picture of a thin-faced brown bear sitting on its haunches, holding a scale in one paw. Beneath it are three short lines, almost like a stunted paw swipe. The first thing to strike me is the fact that I’m seeing it in color. I don’t have to guess what was in the mind of the artist who carved it into a limestone wall in the jungles of Venezuela. It’s the most beautiful, oddly shaped bear I’ve ever seen.
Below the photo is a short description:
DiPastina Coat of
Arms, Verona, circa
a
.
d
.
1876.
Espy takes her eyes off the screen, turns, and looks at me. She doesn’t have to ask; she can see it on my face.
“All of them are crests, aren’t they?”
“I’d bet everything I own on it.”
Before Espy and I call a halt to our online search, and after we research the DiPastina clan back to the third century, we have another visit with good fortune when we’re able to match a third Quetzl-Quezo carving to a line of Frank nobility from the seventh century. It’s with the discovery of this third one that the appearance of an identical icon in each of the crests—the oblong disc with the
S
squiggle—earns avid interest. On the walls of Quetzl-Quezo, the symbol was an oddity. Incorporated into more than a dozen family crests stretching back more than a thousand years, the symbol is worth a great deal more study.
Espy studies the screen. She sees it, too.
“How big is this thing?” she finally asks.
“Much bigger than us.”
M
y eyelids fly open, and the first thing I realize is that apprehension fills my stomach like a solid ball of undigested cheese. It’s always a bit unnerving to wake in a strange place, even for an experienced traveler. There’s that moment between sleep and wakefulness—when one’s unconscious mind is feeding stimuli rapid-fire to the part of you fighting off cobwebs, when everything takes on added poignancy. Usually it’s that the bed is different and the mattress doesn’t cooperate in the way one is used to, or there’s an odd smell coming from somewhere in the room, or someone else’s cat is watching from the foot of the bed. It’s one of the brain’s remarkable defense mechanisms.
Right now the absolute darkness of a rural night without moon or stars greets me, along with the feeling that something is amiss. Much of my professional life has seen me catching short, unsatisfying naps in foreign and uncomfortable places: in a Bedouin tent, or sharing a campfire with Cree tribesmen, or wedged between two large men in a Chevy El Camino while a surprise snowstorm blankets the Chechen Mountains. So it’s possible that my senses are a bit more focused than those of people used to the same bed in a familiar room. I lie still for a while but don’t hear anything beyond the noise of the wind running alongside the house. The clock on the nightstand shows 1:29 a.m. in large red numbers. I take a few deep breaths in an effort to slow my heart rate, which is engaged in a befuddled fight-or-flight response.
I consider trying to fall back to sleep, yet I know myself well enough to realize that, warranted or not, I’ve been startled from a dreamless slumber and will end up tossing and turning for some time. When insomnia strikes me back home, I spend an hour or two with a drink and a book until I feel my bed calling me back. I guess it’s fortunate, then, that Jim has both a well-stocked liquor cabinet and a library.
Jim’s library is larger than mine but small compared to those of many academics. It takes an exceptional book to wind up in his collection. His tastes mirror mine, and as I peruse the book titles, I find myself becoming jealous. My fingers pass over the leather bindings of valuable first editions from renowned poets and essayists, storytellers and historians.
His liquor cabinet is stocked with equal care, holding a mix of imported and domestic spirits. I select an aged bourbon with a Melbourne imprint. Filling a tumbler with the dark liquid, I take a sip and allow the burn to coast down my throat.
Another bookcase stands to the right of the liquor cabinet and I give the nestled tomes a once-over, looking to find something that will both earn my interest and propel me back to drowsiness. As I scan the shelves, I almost miss it. With a smile I pull the book from its shelf and turn it to see the front cover.
Story as a Conveyance of Culture in Mezzo-America
. I almost laugh, because I’m torn between competing thoughts. The first is that I’m honored that my favorite professor has included my work in his collection. The second is to recall that the book isn’t very good, nor does it deserve a place here among such prestigious company.
I flip the book over to see the back cover and the head shot. It’s not a flattering photo. I shake my head and slide it back into its slot on the shelf. Next, I select a book about the Industrial Revolution and then settle into a comfortable chair by the inactive fireplace. I’m three sips and two pages into the book when I hear a sound—a single thud, muffled by distance and the closed library door. I lower the book and listen; the house has settled again into silence. Had I not woken up edgy, I might let the mystery pass by without rising from my chair, but the feeling I had earlier has now returned.
I set the book and the drink down on the carpet, stand up and cross to the door. I’m about to open it when I decide to flip off the light, plunging the library into darkness. I crack the door enough so I can see out, through the living room and into the hall beyond. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but it’s not long before I can make out shapes, indistinct and gray. Beyond that, all I register is silence.
Then, before I can take another step, I hear sounds that seem to come from somewhere near the kitchen—a rapid succession of muffled pops. At some point I hear another thud, then the pops taper off, and then nothing.
I start forward, toward the sounds. I don’t know why except that to head into something—even unprepared as I am—is better than waiting and letting that thing come to me when I’m in my nightclothes. I quickly tiptoe through the living room and peek around a corner, just in time to see a man emerging from the master bedroom—only he’s moving with the stealth and strength of someone much younger than Jim. I fight the impulse to jerk my head back, knowing the darkness is my friend but that I have a better chance of remaining unobserved if I hold still.
A sick feeling washes over me as I watch this person pause and, apparently, get his bearings. I can only imagine what he’s left in the room behind him. I hope that I’m wrong.
The intruder turns and I see his silhouette in profile, the gun in his hand. It’s not until he starts for the stairs, toward Esperanza, that I feel a white-hot anger building inside me.
Then it hits me: I don’t have a weapon. All I have is the element of surprise.
So I launch myself from around the corner, intent on tackling this person and wresting away the gun, but I haven’t counted on the combination of hardwood floor and bare feet. My right foot slides forward on the floor and I feel my knee give, bending in a way for which it was never designed. Sensations of heat and tearing race through my leg, and for a terrifying second I can’t see anything. But the immediacy of the pain recedes and I recover just as the man turns toward me. Mustering the remains of my balance and my anger, I lunge at him, reaching for his gun hand.
He gets off a single shot, muffled by a silencer, before I’m on him. I start beating his face with my closed fist while my other hand fights to keep the gun pointed away. I’m not sure how it happens but I’m suddenly on my back and he has my forearm in a solid grip. He brings the gun around as my free arm flails to grab hold of it. I still can’t see his face—just a dark spot hanging a foot away. It’s like fighting Death, with his obscuring robe and terrible sickle.
I bring my knee up into his midsection, causing him to break his grip. I pull back and aim a punch that connects with a jaw that feels like iron. The gun’s muzzle emits a flash and I smell sulfur, and it takes me a moment to realize that the fact that I’m registering the smell means the bullet missed its mark. I lash out again and twist away, and I hear the sound of something hard striking the floor.
I’m looking for the gun before I’ve stopped rolling, and it can only be providence that has me land on top of it. I push myself to my knees and scoop it up. I have half a second to find the trigger and pull it before his shoulder hits me in the chest. There’s a flash of energy and of unrestrained power, forcing my arm back so that my elbow strikes the floor.
And then I’m beneath two hundred pounds of dead weight.
I don’t fully process that he’s dead until I have the chance to breathe again. As I lie there, drawing large draughts of air, I realize that life has left him and that what’s ended up on top of me is a husk. A very heavy husk. I struggle to push him aside, pressing the handle of the gun into his armpit and placing my other hand on his sternum to shift him enough so I can squirm free. I push myself up to a sitting position. As my eyes cross up and down the length of the body, I feel a numbness come over me. I’ve never killed anyone before, and my mind, while still in an agitated state, is grappling with the finality of what I’ve just done.
I stand and it’s only then that I notice the large wet spot on my shirt, soaked through to my skin. Even without being able to see it, I know it’s his blood on me and not my own. I have to fight the urge to vomit. Forcing myself to stay calm, I start toward the dead man, setting the gun down and rolling him over. In the darkness I can see little of his face, except to determine that he was young. I lean in closer—close enough that when he opens his eyes it’s like a scene from a horror movie. I jerk back, a strangled yelp escaping my throat, and it is this distance I’ve put between us that allows him to reach his hand into his jacket pocket. Before I can stop him, he pulls out something the size and shape of a cell phone, and is pushing a button before I can grab his wrist. It’s over almost before it begins, as his arm goes limp and the phone drops to the floor. My eyes dart to his face, and I see a thin line of blood trickling from his mouth, but I don’t release the hand until I feel his neck for a pulse and find none.
After catching my breath, I scoop up the phone. I’m worried that he was trying to signal someone, because my guess is that this was no random event. It was too professional. The thing in my hand, though, isn’t a phone but looks more like a pager. Yet if it has a display, it’s too dark for me to see it. All that’s evident is a single button on one end, which glows green. With a shrug, I set the thing on the floor and then start running my hands over the dead man’s clothes. There’s nothing on him that yields a clue as to his identity. This tells me he’s neither a petty thief nor someone with a grudge. The professional theory looks stronger.
It’s that last thought that forces me to move. If this is an operative, he might not be alone. I quickly retrieve the gun and stand on two shaky legs.
I almost resist the necessity of turning on the light in the master bedroom, but my eyes still cannot make out anything beyond a few feet. I shift the gun to my other hand and feel along the wall.
There are moments one wishes he could have back, and touching the light switch will forever be one of mine. After the light’s brilliance forces my irises to snap shut and then reopen, I see Meredith caught in a grotesque pose between the bed and floor. Her nightgown is riddled with small, red-rimmed holes, and lines of blood have traced their way to the floor. And I see Jim lying in the bathroom doorway. His body has come to rest facing the opposite direction so that my eyes focus on his thinning white hair. A line of holes has splintered the wood along the wall and punctured the doorjamb.
I think time becomes something else in situations like this. It can either speed up, with everything seeming to occur in rapid-fire, or it can slow down to something approximating the dripping of a faucet. It’s the latter that I find myself trudging through as I cross the room and go to Jim’s side, where I kneel and put my hand on his shoulder. I turn him around and settle his head gently on the floor.
In the single moment I spare myself, I ponder a list of things with which I could regale an audience at his funeral, and yet it’s enough for me that he was a mentor and a friend. I smooth a piece of his hair and then push myself to my feet, and go to move Meredith’s body so it’s fully on the bed. With the gun clenched in my hand, I exit the room as if the hallway can offer some salvation from what I’ve witnessed, except that there’s another body out here. A flash of anger makes me want to kick the dead man for what he’s done, but I resist the impulse.
