The Murder Book (48 page)

“Chronic nightmares?” I said.

“Chronic enough. Sometimes they’d hit Pierce three, four times a week, other times he’d be okay for a stretch. Then, boom, all over again. You couldn’t predict, and that made it worse, because I never knew what to expect when my head hit the pillow. Things got to a point where I was scared to go to bed, started waking up at night, myself.” Her smile was crooked. “Kind of funny, I’d be lying there all wound up, unable to sleep and Pierce’d be snoring away and I’d tell myself it was finally over. Then the next night…”

“Did Pierce say anything during the nightmares?”

“Not a word, he just moved — thrashed. That’s how I’d know a fit was coming on: The bed would start moving — thumping, like an earthquake, Pierce’s feet kicking the mattress. Lying on his back, kicking with his heels — like he was marching somewhere. Then his hands would shoot up.” She stretched her arms toward the ceiling. “Like he was being arrested. Then his hands would slam down fast, start slapping the bed and waving around wild, and soon he’d be grunting and
punching
the mattress
and
kicking — his feet never stopped. Then he’d arch his back and freeze — like he was paralyzed, like he was building up steam to explode and you could see his teeth gnashing and his eyes would pop real wide. But they weren’t looking at anything, he was somewhere else — some hell only he could see. He’d hold that frozen pose for maybe ten seconds, then let go and start punching
himself
— in the chest, on the stomach, on the face. Sometimes, the next morning, he’d be bruised. I tried to stop him from hurting himself, but it was impossible, his arms were like iron rods, it was all I could do to jump out of the bed to avoid getting hit myself. So I’d just stand there and wait for him to finish. Just before he was finished, he’d let out a howl — this loud howl that would wake up the horses.
They’d
start mewling, and sometimes the
coyotes
would chime in.
That
was something to hear — coyotes screaming from miles away. Ever hear that? When a pack of them goes at it? It’s not like a dog barking, it’s a thousand creatures gone crazy. Ululation’s the name for it. They’re supposed to do it only when they’re killing or mating, but Pierce’s howling would get them going.”

She’d squeezed the bandana into a blue ball. Now she studied her fingers as they uncurled. “Those coyotes were scared witless by the sound of Pierce’s fear.”

She offered me a drink that I declined, got up and filled herself a glass of water from the kitchen tap. When she sat back down, I said, “Did Pierce have any memory of the nightmares?”

“Nope. When the fit was over he’d just go back to sleep, and there’d be no mention of it. The first time that happened, I let it pass. The second time, I was shook up but still said nothing. The third time, I went to see Dr. Harrison. He listened and didn’t say much and that evening he came by, paid a visit to Pierce — alone, in Pierce’s darkroom. After that, Pierce started seeing him for regular sessions, again. About a week in, Dr. H. had me over to his house, and that’s when he told me about Pierce struggling to live with failure.”

“So you and Pierce never talked about the case directly?”

“That’s right.”

I said nothing.

She said, “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but that’s what we were like. Close as two people can be, but there were sides to each of us that we didn’t get into. I realize it’s not fashionable to hold on to privacy, anymore. Everyone talks about everything to everyone else. But that’s phony, isn’t it? Everyone’s got secret parts of their mind, Pierce and I were just honest about admitting it. And Dr. Harrison said if that’s the way we really wanted it, that was our choice.”

So Bert had tried to edge husband and wife toward more openness, and they’d resisted.

Marge Schwinn said, “It was the same with Pierce’s drug problem. He was too proud to expose himself to me, so he used Dr. Harrison as a go-between. We were content with that. It kept things pleasant and positive between us.”

“Did you ever ask Dr. Harrison about the unsolved murder?”

Strong headshake. “I didn’t want to know. I figured for it to plague Pierce it had to be really bad.”

“Did the nightmares ever clear up?”

“After Pierce started seeing Dr. Harrison regularly again, they faded to maybe two, three times a month. Also, Pierce’s photography hobby seemed to help, got him out of the house, got him some fresh air.”

“Was that Dr. Harrison’s idea?”

She smiled. “Yes, he bought Pierce the camera, insisted on paying for it. He does that. Gives people things. There was a gal used to live in town, Marian Purveyance, ran the Celestial Café before Aimee Baker took charge of it. Marian came down with a muscle disease that wasted her away, and Dr. Harrison was her main comfort. I used to visit Marian during her final days, and she told me Dr. Harrison decided she needed a dog for companionship. But Marian was in no physical state to take care of a dog, so Dr. Harrison found one for her — an old, half-lame retriever from the shelter that he kept at his house, fed, and bathed. He brought it over to Marian’s for a few hours each day. That sweet old dog used to stretch out on Marian’s bed, and Marian would lie there stroking it. Toward the end, Marian’s fingers wouldn’t work, and the dog must’ve known, because it rolled over right next to Marian and put its paw on Marian’s hand so she’d have something to touch. Marian died with that old dog next to her, and a few weeks later, the dog passed on.”

Her eyes were fierce. “Do you get what I’m saying, young man? Dr. Harrison
gives
people things. He gave Pierce that camera and gave me a bit of peace by letting me know the nightmares had nothing to do with me. Because I was wondering if they did, maybe Pierce’s being cooped up here with an old spinster after all those years on his own was having a bad effect on him. And — Lord forgive me — when I watched Pierce thrash around, I couldn’t help wonder if he’d somehow backslid.”

“Into drug use.”

“I’m ashamed to admit it, but yes, that’s exactly what I wondered. Because it was drug seizures that brought him into the hospital in the first place and to my ignorant eye, these looked like seizures. But Dr. Harrison assured me they weren’t. Said they were just bad nightmares. That it was Pierce’s
old
life rearing its ugly old head. That I was nothing
but
good for Pierce and shouldn’t ever think otherwise. That was a great relief.”

“So the nightmares thinned to two or three times a month.”

“That I could live with. When the thumping started, I’d just roll out of bed, go to the kitchen for a glass of water, walk outside to calm the horses, and when I’d return, Pierce’d be snoozing away. I’d hold his hand and warm it up — the nightmares always turned his hands icy. We’d lie there together and I’d listen to his breathing slow down and he’d let me hold him and warm him up and the night would pass.”

Another hawk’s swoop striated the wall. She said, “Those birds. They must
smell
something.”

“The nightmares thinned,” I said, “but they returned the last few days before Pierce’s death.”

“Yes,” she said, nearly choking on the word. “And this time I started getting worried because Pierce didn’t look so good in the morning. He was worn-out, kind of clumsy, slurring his words. That’s why I blame myself for letting him take Akhbar. He was in no shape to ride, I shouldn’t have allowed him to go off by himself. Maybe that time he did have some kind of seizure.”

“Why’d you test Akhbar for drugs?”

“That was just me being stupid. What I
really
wanted to do was have
Pierce
tested. Because despite what Dr. Harrison had said when the nightmares came back, I let myself lose faith in Pierce, again. But after he died, I couldn’t bring myself to come out and admit my suspicions. Not to Dr. H. or the coroner or anyone else, so instead I laid them on poor Akhbar. Figuring maybe once the subject of drugs came up, someone would catch on and test Pierce, too, and I’d know, once and for all.”

“They did test Pierce,” I said. “It’s standard procedure. The drug screen came back negative.”

“I know that, now. Dr. Harrison told me. It was an accident, plain and simple. Though sometimes I still can’t help thinking Pierce shouldn’t have been riding alone. Because he
wasn’t
looking good.”

“Any idea why that last week was rough for him?”

“No — and I don’t want to know. I need to put all this behind me, and this isn’t helping, so could we please stop?”

I thanked her and stood. “How far from here did the accident occur?”

“Just a ways up the road.”

“I’d like to see the spot.”

“What for?”

“To get a feel for what happened.”

Her gaze was level. “Do you know something you haven’t told me?”

“No,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

“Don’t thank me, it wasn’t a favor.” She leaped up, walked past me to the door.

I said, “The spot—”

“Get back on 33 heading east and take the second turnoff to the left. It’s a dirt path that leads up a hill, then starts swooping down toward the arroyo. That’s where it happened. Pierce and Akhbar tumbled from the rocks that look down into the arroyo and ended up at the bottom. It’s a place Pierce and I rode together from time to time. When we did, I used to lead.”

“About Pierce’s photography.”

“No,” she said. “Please. No more questions. I showed you Pierce’s darkroom and his pictures and everything else the first time you were here.”

“I was going to say he was talented, but one thing struck me. There were no people or animals in his shots.”

“Is that supposed to be some big psychological thing?”

“No, I just found it curious.”

“Did you? Well, I didn’t. Didn’t bother me one bit. Those pictures were beautiful.” She reached around me and shoved the door open. “And when I asked Pierce about it, he had a very good answer. Said, ‘Margie, I’m trying to picture a perfect world.’ ”

S
he stood by the Seville, waiting for me to leave.

I turned the ignition key, and said, “Did Dr. Harrison mention taking a vacation?”

“Him, a vacation? He never leaves. Why?”

“He told me he might be doing some traveling.”

“Well, he’s certainly entitled to travel if he wants. Why don’t you ask him? You’re going there right now, aren’t you? To check up on my story.”

“I’m going to talk to him about the unsolved case.”

“Whatever,” she said. “Doesn’t bother me being checked up on, because I’m not hiding anything. That’s the thing about not letting yourself get involved in hopeless things. Less to worry about. The shame about my Pierce was he never really learned that.”

The turnoff she’d described led to an oak-shielded path barely wide enough for a golf cart. Branches scraped the Seville’s flanks. I backed out, left the car on the side of the road, and hiked.

The spot where Pierce Schwinn had died was half a mile in, a dry gully scooped out of a granite ledge and backed by mountainside. A sere corridor that would fill during rainy seasons and transform to a green, rushing stream. Now, it was bleached the color of old bones and littered with silt, rocks and boulders, leathery leaves, snarls of wind-snapped branches. The largest rocks tended toward ragged and knife-edged and glinted in the sun. Up against them, a man’s head wouldn’t fare well.

I walked to the edge and stared down into the arroyo and listened to the silence, wondering what had caused a well-trained horse to lose its footing.

Contemplation and the warmth of the day lulled me into something just short of torpor. Then something behind me skittered and my heart jumped and the tip of my shoe curled over into open space and I had to jump back to avoid pitching over.

I regained my bearings in time to see a sand-colored lizard scurry into the brush. Stepping back from the ledge, I cleared my head before turning and walking away. By the time I reached the car, my breathing had nearly returned to normal.

I drove back to the center of Ojai, cruised to Signal Street, past the fieldstone-lined drainage ditch, and parked in the same eucalyptus grove, where I peered through blue shaggy leaves at Bert Harrison’s house. Thinking about what I’d say to Bert if I found him. Thinking about Pierce Schwinn’s nightmares, the demons that had come back to haunt him during the days before his death.

Bert knew why. Bert had known all along.

No movement from the old man’s house. The station wagon was parked right where it had been. After a quarter hour I decided it was time to make my way to the front door and deal with whatever I found, or didn’t.

Just as I got out of the Seville, the door squeaked open and Bert stepped out onto his front porch in full purple regalia, cradling a large, brown, paper shopping bag in one arm. I grabbed the Seville’s door before it clicked shut, hurried back behind the trees, and followed the old man’s descent down the wooden staircase.

He loaded the bag on the station wagon’s passenger seat, got behind the wheel, stalled a couple of times, finally fired the engine. Backing away from the house with excruciating slowness, he took a long time to complete a three-way turn. Battling with the wheel — manual steering. A small man, face intent, hands planted at 10 o’clock–2 o’clock, just the way they teach you in Driver’s Ed. Sitting so low his head was barely visible above the door.

Crouching low, I waited until he drove past. The old Chevy’s tired suspension wasn’t up to the semipaved road, and it creaked and whined as it bounced by. Bert stared straight ahead, didn’t notice me or the Seville. I waited till he’d passed from view, then jumped in my own chariot. Power steering gave me an edge, and I caught up in time to spot the wagon lurching east on 33.

I sat at the intersection as the Chevy diminished to a dust mote on the horizon. The empty road made following too risky. I was still wondering what to do when a pickup truck loaded with bags of fertilizer came to a rolling stop behind me. Two Hispanic men in cowboy hats — farmworkers. I motioned them around and they passed me and turned left. Interposing themselves between Bert and me.