Night Film(21)

He smiled, an unreadable look on his face. He then shook his head and lit the cigarette, exhaling.

“The first night she’s back we all wake up at three in the morning because Hawk Feather is screaming like he’s being stabbed. He runs out of his tent in nothing but his underwear, this fat f*ck stammering like a child, crying that there’s a rattlesnake in his sleeping bag. Everyone thought it was a joke, that he’d had a nightmare. But one of the female counselors, Four Crows, she went and got it, unzipped it right in front of us, shaking it out. Sure enough, a rattlesnake, five feet long, fell onto the ground and whipped right across the campsite, disappearing into the dark. Hawk Feather, white as a sheet, about to piss his pants, turned and stared right at Ashley. And she stared back. He didn’t say a f*ckin’ word, but I know he believed she put it in there. We all did.”

He fell silent for a moment, gazing out into the room.

“After that, he left us alone. And Orlando?” He paused, swallowing. “He made it. His sunburn healed. He stopped crying. He became, like, this hero.” He sniffed, wiping his nose. “When we finally made it back to base camp, we were supposed to have one night all together where we held hands and marveled at our accomplishments—which was more like thanking God we hadn’t died. ’cause that was the thing, the whole time, death was a possibility. Like, it was always waiting for us beyond the rocks. And the person that prevented it was Ashley.”

I couldn’t see his expression—he was now staring at the floor, hair in his eyes. “About an hour before dinner,” he went on, “I looked out the cabin window and saw her climbing into a black SUV. She was leaving early. I was disappointed. I’d wanted to try and talk to her. But it was too late. A driver collected her stuff, put it in the back, and they drove off. It was the last time I saw her.”

He lifted his head, staring at me challengingly, yet saying nothing.

“You never heard from her again?”

He shook his head, pointing the cigarette at the envelope in my hand.

“Not until that.”

“How do you know she sent it?”

“It’s her handwriting. And the return address is where …” He shrugged. “I thought she was messing with my head. I broke in a couple of nights ago, wondering if there was some kind of message or sign in there. But I haven’t found anything.”

I held up the monkey. “What’s the significance?”

“I’ve never seen it before. I told you.” He stubbed out his cigarette.

“You have no theory as to why she’d send it?”

He glared at me. “I was kinda hoping you would. You’re the reporter.”

The red mud encrusting the stuffed animal looked like the kind found out west, certainly throughout Utah, which made me wonder if perhaps it had belonged to one of the kids at the camp—maybe Hopper himself. But he looked more apt to carry around a worn-out copy of On the Road as a security blanket.

It was helpful, his insight into Ashley’s character. It had allowed her to come briefly into focus, revealing her to be a kind of ferocious avenging angel, a persona entirely in keeping with the way she played music. I couldn’t fathom why she mailed Hopper the monkey on the day she died—if it had been she.

Hopper appeared to have fallen into an irritated mood, slumped way down on the couch, arms crossed, his faded white T-shirt—gifford’s famous ice cream, it read—twisted around him. He reminded me of a teenage hitchhiker I’d once met in El Paso; we were the only two at a diner counter at the crack of dawn. After we got to talking, swapping stories, he said goodbye, hitching a ride with the driver of a BP oil truck. Later, I got up to pay my bill only to realize he’d stolen my wallet. Never trust a charismatic drifter.

“Maybe there’s something inside,” I said, turning the stuffed animal over. I took out my switchblade, cutting an incision down the back of the monkey. I pulled out the stuffing, yellowed and crusty, feeling around the inside. There was nothing.

I realized my cell was buzzing, the number a 407 area code.

“Hello?”

“May I please speak to Mr. Scott McGrath?”

It was a woman, her voice crisp and musical.

“This is he.”

“It’s Nora Halliday. From the coat check? I’m at Forty-fifth and Eleventh Avenue. The Pom Pom Diner. Can you come? We need to talk.”

“Forty-fifth and Eleventh. Give me fifteen minutes.”

“Okay.” She hung up. Shaking my head, I stood up.

“Who was that?” Hopper asked me.

“A coat-check girl, last person to see Ashley alive. Yesterday she nearly had me arrested. Today? She wants to talk. I have to go. In the meantime, I’ll hold on to the monkey.”

“That’s okay.” He snatched it back, giving me a wary look, before shoving it back into the envelope and disappearing with the package into the bedroom.

“Thanks for your time,” I called over my shoulder. “I’ll be in touch if I hear anything.” But suddenly Hopper was slipping out into the hall right behind me, shrugging on his gray coat.

“Cool,” he said. He locked the door and took off down the stairs.

“Where are you off to?”

“Forty-fifth and Eleventh. Gotta go meet a coat-check girl.”

As his footsteps echoed through the stairwell, I berated myself for mentioning where I was headed. I worked solo, always had.