Last Chants (20 page)

The man crossed the gravel road, striding into the woods. He passed within ten feet of me. At last I saw his face. It was one of the two supposed backpackers from Watsonville, the ones we'd encountered in the woods yesterday.

Within seconds, Edward was out the cabin door, in hot pursuit. He wasn't being quiet. Apparently, he meant to collar the man, not follow him.

He zipped past me, turning briefly and meeting my eye. Unlike the man, he'd spotted me in the brush.

Since he was racketing along as noisily as a bear, I left my hiding
spot and followed. I caught glimpses of both men running, the colors of their clothes popping in and out of view between trees. Edward was gaining fast.

Until he heard a gunshot.

At that point, Edward did a full-throttle reverse. If I'd been impressed with the speed of his pursuit, now I was amazed. Edward might have been an Olympic retreater.

The other man held his course, crashing out of sight as Edward doubled back.

A moment later, Edward almost collided with me.

“Come on,” he panted. “Back. Back into the cabin.”

He grabbed my arm, yanking it, pulling me along behind him.

The sound of our pounding footsteps and door slamming roused Arthur. He sat up, a shaft of meager light catching him by surprise. He blinked, apparently disoriented to see us up and out of breath.

“It was one of the men we saw yesterday,” I told Edward.

“What were you doing outside?” he demanded.

“Sleeping in the Jeep. You snore.”

“No, I don't.” But he looked sheepish, as if he'd heard tell. “Did he see you?”

“No. I saw him walking around the cabin, looking in. I got out of the Jeep and hid. He copied your registration, I think. And he took something out of the glove compartment.”

“Son of a bitch! My new toy.”

I shook my head uncomprehendingly.

“My spy camera,” he explained. “That's what was in there.”

“He must have seen you when he looked in here. If he recognizes you from yesterday, the camera's going to make him think you took secret pictures of him.”

Edward nodded. “Son of a bitch,” he repeated. “What is he about?”

Arthur looked bewildered. “What? Who?”

“Someone just broke into Edward's Jeep,” I explained. “A man we saw in the woods yesterday. He claimed to be a backpacker.”

“Might he have been looking for money?”

“No.” I was positive about that. “I watched him. He copied down Edward's name and address from the registration—or he
wrote down something, anyway. It was clear yesterday he wasn't a backpacker.”

“You seem certain his motive was sinister,” Arthur noted. “Perhaps—”

“He shot at me.” Edward liked having the last word.

“Ah.” Arthur rose slowly, showing his age.

Edward began pacing, running his hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. He'll know I'm a PI because I put my business address on the reg. But he won't know I saw anything but his back today. He won't know I made him as the backpacker.”

“
You
made him, Sherlock?”

He ignored my correction. “But you're right—he'll think I took pictures of him yesterday. That could be a problem.”

He paced, looking around the cabin, shaking his head.

When he spoke again, he sounded more, not less, agitated. “How's he going to react to that possibility? Who the hell is he? That's the key.”

I left him to consider it. I took dibs on the shower. Before I'd even shampooed, Edward pounded on the door, demanding that I hurry.

A few minutes later, I dabbed myself with a funky towel and put on another “party dress.”

By the time I stepped out, the cabin had been cleared of our belongings. Neither Edward nor Arthur was inside. The Jeep's engine was running.

I joined them out there.

“He took the keys,” Edward informed me when I climbed into the back. “You must have left them on the seat.”

“How'd you get it started? You hot-wired it?” Just like a TV private eye; I was impressed.

“I keep a magnetized spare under the bumper.”

As soon as I closed the door, Edward took off. “Either he took the keys because he doesn't want us leaving here—which is a pretty damn good reason for us to go—or he's heading down to my office.”

“Is that where we're going?”

“Right now, we're going to a phone. I've got a friend who'll keep an eye on my office till I get a locksmith over there. Not that
they'd find anything of interest to them, but I need to protect my client records.”

“What about afterward? I don't want anyone to see me and Arthur together.”

“Afterward?” He caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “I'll pop into a market and get some fixings. We'll have a picnic breakfast.” He looked a little smug. “Then as soon as it opens, we'll go by the drugstore and pick up the film we dropped off yesterday. Stupid bastard wants to go shooting at me . . . well, tough
cojones.
I've got his picture, and I'm turning it over to the cops.”

“Which cops?”

“The ones investigating Seawuit's murder. I won't mention you guys. I'll just say I snapped his picture because he looked suspicious. That he broke into my Jeep today and took a shot at me.” He nodded. “That should get their attention.”

“Do you know the cops investigating the murder?”

“Nope.”

I sat back, watching the morning brighten. It was going to be a sunny day. “We can't stay at your cabin anymore, can we?”

“No,” Edward admitted.

“Any suggestions?”

“Move into that shaved-headed kid's lean-to?”

“Ha ha.” I knew better than to press him; I knew I'd get nothing but jokes. And I'm not at my best before coffee.

“You don't know how long the Nelsons have been married, do you?”

“I think she told me.” I wracked my brain. “Two years?”

“Plus six months for the divorce, and let's guess six months single.”

“What are you doing, Edward?”

“Say their business—”

“Toni and Stu's?”

“Yeah. Say it broke up the year they did. If I can find an old phone book, it might be in the Yellow Pages. Save me a trip to the county building.”

“You don't know their business name.”

“Process of elimination—there's only a handful of software
designers in BC. With any luck, Stu's name will be in the ad.”

“This is the person you believe fought with Billy?” Arthur asked.

“It's worth checking.”

“Billy wasn't a fighter,” Arthur assured him. “He was a healer, a shaman.”

“He might have been backed into a corner.”

“As he was in Bowl Rock?” Arthur stared out the passenger window. “But he didn't die fighting, did he?”

C
offee and rolls improved my mood. We ate beside a creek in a tiny clearing carpeted with oak and alder leaves. Fallen trees crisscrossed the water, creating small cascades and pools. Leaves collected in twirling eddies, breaking free when they reached critical mass. We watched a blue kingfisher dive into the creek.

Edward finally told us the plan.

“I asked the friend who's guarding my office to call and reserve us a cabin at one of the—well, they call them resorts, but they aren't much fancier than my place. The one I have in mind, the cabins are far enough apart you can't really see the other people. I'm having him take it in his name so Surgelato can't track us if he gets to missing you again . . . Alice.”

“That's very nice of you.” Arthur's manners were more polished than mine. “Would it have beds?”

Edward grinned. “Yup.”

“And is it close to Bowl Rock?”

“Not as close as my place. But you could still hike to it.” He looked at me expectantly.

“Thanks,” I said.

“It's a two-bunker,” he continued. “But that's okay—I'll need to go back tonight. I have to testify in a civil trial tomorrow morning; hopefully be done by noon or so.”

“Is it really necessary to continue hiding?” Arthur wondered.

“Yes.” I'd gone over it and over it in my mind. Until the police had a suspect in custody, we wouldn't be safe. “We can't keep it up much longer, but the longer we wait, the more likely . . . ” I rubbed my forehead, trying to rid myself of a headache. “If nothing's changed by Monday, we'll talk about coming forward. We can't do this forever.”

Edward gave me a tap on the arm. “Abby Hoffman held out ten years,” he pointed out. “Had his nose surgically enlarged.”

I didn't bother to respond.

“But he might have drawn the line at a Prince Valiant hairdo.”

I continued practicing forbearance. “Shouldn't we go pick up those pictures?”

Edward rose, gathering our breakfast debris. “Arthur, I'm going to drop you off before we get to town—not a good idea for you to show your face. I thought I'd take you to the resort so you know where it is. Let you hike around, do your thing. It's on a piddley-ass creek about the size of this one—place is billed as a riverside resort. We'll meet you back there around check-in time, around three, show you which cabin's ours, okay?”

Arthur seemed about to suggest an alternative plan. Then he nodded.

By the time we dropped him off, I'd admonished him several times not to miss our rendezvous.

When Edward and I reached the drugstore, it was just opening. I strolled while Edward went inside and picked up the prints.

I could tell by his face, even at half a block's distance, that he'd gotten a good shot of the man in the woods. He pulled the pictures out, grinning, when I joined him. At that moment, someone hailed him.

We turned to find Galen Nelson striding toward us. Edward let the photos slide back into the envelope.

Nelson's brows were pinched to a tight line over his thin nose. He looked like a displeased monarch.

So his words took me by surprise: “I owe you an apology.”

“I doubt that,” Edward smiled.

“I didn't take your warning very seriously last night.” He looked more angry than repentant. “But our place got broken into, our home. Some computer components were damaged downstairs.”

“No shit?” Edward's shock was apparent. “Your wife's okay? Nobody got hurt?”

“No, we're . . . well, very shaken up. You can imagine. We were upstairs, but we didn't hear anything, we didn't hear it happen.”

He seemed to find this startling, maybe galling.

“No alarm system?”

“On the house? Not much of one, not like the one at Cyberdelics. But I'll have top quality by tomorrow, I'll tell you that. I lost a bit of work!” His lip quivered under its trimmed mustache.

“Anything stolen?”

“No. Just sabotage. Except . . . possibly . . . ” Nelson looked troubled, at war with his own reticence. “I'm not sure; Toni misplaces things all the time.”

“What's missing?”

“Probably nothing. Toni doesn't keep track of mere objects; she seems to feel artists shouldn't bother.” He seemed too annoyed to elaborate.

“What object are we talking about?” Edward pressed him.

“If she'd go clear out her ex-husband's garage, she'd know what was downstairs and what wasn't.”

“Tell me Stu's last name again?” Edward asked.

“Winsler.”

“Well, here's something you'll be interested in.” Edward spoke quickly—burying his question under new information? “Someone broke into my Jeep this morning. Stole my camera and”—he paused for effect—“took a shot at me when I chased him.”

Nelson looked more than merely interested. He practically grabbed Edward. “What time?”

“Dawn.”

“Have you been to the police?”

“Nope. I was waiting to pick up these photos.” He held up the packet. “I recognized the burglar. I saw him in the woods yesterday.”

Edward opened the envelope, Nelson and I hovering as anxiously as Oscar nominees.

He pulled out three snapshots—none, I hoped, of me bending over. Topmost was a slightly blurry one of the two “backpackers.”

Nelson squinted at it for a moment. Then he looked at Edward. “Why'd you take this photograph?”

“I'm a private eye, remember? Alice got spooked by this Pan guy Tuesday night. I went out and snapped these yesterday morning.”

“I thought Pan was . . . unclothed.”

“So clothes make a good disguise. I wanted to ask Alice if Pan's one of these guys.”

“Is it?”

“No,” I answered.

“They didn't see you take the picture?”

Edward shrugged. “Actually, I'd guess they did. Considering this one”—he pointed at the stockier of the two—“broke into my Jeep and took my camera. Luckily, I dropped off the film yesterday.”

“Let's go to the police.” Nelson's tone brooked no argument. “This might help—” He'd fanned pictures, looking at the one beneath. “Wait a minute!”

“You recognize that kid?”

Nelson scrutinized the photo of the young man with the shaved head.

“It's Joel Baker. I'm almost sure.” He looked at the third photo but seemed to find it of little interest.

I craned my neck for a better view: It was a picture of the wood shavings we'd found near Bowl Rock.

“Who's Joel Baker?” Edward was staring down at the photo, a shot of the man, his lean-to, and part of his meat-smoking rack.

“Without giving you his whole résumé—he's been a hacker, a designer, you name it—he's basically become an industrial spy.” His lips crimped into a sour line. “At least, that's been our suspicion,
our best explanation for how a few things jumped from one company to another.” He tapped the photo. “I'd say this confirms it.”