Hummingbird Salamander(41)

An irrational pity for the drone, the delicate cracked beak, the shimmering brittle brokenness of the wings. The vacant eye that had never truly seen as a bird sees.

“I don’t think I will tell you why.”

“Names—I need names.”

Defiant. Despite the uptick in how my hand on the phone shook, how Shovel Pig felt double heavy on my shoulder. I could smell the cigarette smoke, cloying, on the leaves. Recent?

“If you’re involved with the Vilcapampa family, they’ll be tracking you already. They’ll find you. You’ll know their names soon enough.”

“Silvina’s dead. Why do they care?”

Said as I squatted beside the bottle and drone.

“Well, there you go. Your first clue.” Contemptuous.

“I need to know about a salamander, too. Taxidermy.”

The bottle had a price sticker on it that looked familiar. Maybe if I hadn’t been distracted, if I had said something more into the silence on the phone, Fusk would’ve ended it there. Maybe I’m kidding myself.

After a long moment, Fusk gave me an address two towns over. The address felt familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“It’s in a … The place is a kind of repair shop now.”

“So?”

“R.S. runs it.”

A pure spike of energy. That would explain why I hadn’t found an R.S. who ran a taxidermy business. I’d checked antiques stores, too.

“What’s R.S. stand for?” I tried not to let my elation show in my voice.

“Ronnie Simpson.”

“And how do you know Ronnie Simpson?”

“How does anyone know anyone these days?”

“Suddenly a philosopher.”

“You’re the detective—figure it out.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

Stupid thing to say, but I had picked up the bottle, not thinking about fingerprints or gloves. Nothing unusual about it, and clear enough that I could tell nothing was inside.

“I can’t ask the questions for you, Detective.”

“Call me if you do think of anything.” I gave him a secure number, to a burner phone I hadn’t used for anything else, and tossed the bottle onto the ground.

“Yeah, right. You can be sure I won’t.” Then, with a click, he was gone.

Conclusion, staring at the heavy tread, the cigarette butts: someone was fucking with me. The drone was strangely like an offering. But it also told me whoever stalked me was sophisticated enough to take out the neighborhood surveillance.

Was Fusk fucking with me, too, with his claim about R.S.? The levels kept changing, like in MMA. You’d think it was a boxer’s advantage and then the ground game would kick in.

I stood there in the woods for a long time, thinking. Going round and round. Trapped. Frozen. What did the world want from me? What did Silvina need? What did I need? A pattern of cigarette butts in a rough circle on the ground told me the answer. A bottle with a familiar sticker.

Wanting to break out from the trap.

So I tried. I did my best.





[48]


“There’s no one they won’t kill in time because you don’t matter to them. There is nothing they won’t take from you. Because they simply don’t care.”

A call with Fusk. An intruder in the backyard again. A missing hummingbird.

I had finally placed the address Fusk had given me: it was Unitopia, the environmental center funded by Silvina’s family. I devoted a moment to kicking myself for not investigating it already.

“They’ll use you against you. They’ll isolate you. They’ll marginalize you. They’ll use lies and the truth. Whatever they need. Because they don’t care.”

But R.S. was for later. Because I knew in my gut the man I’d beaten up on the hill wasn’t whoever was watching our house—and I had a hunch about that.

I got back in the car and drove to my local convenience store, just outside of our subdivision, at the edge of a highway. It doubled as a gas station. The usual. Windows plastered with advertisements for all the things we were supposed to want that were killing us. Nothing resembling a black SUV in the parking lot.

Inside, the clang of bells announced me. The place wasn’t a favorite haunt—the kind of store you went to only if you woke up in the morning and realized you’d forgotten to buy eggs or coffee at the supermarket. It appealed more to motorists making a pit stop. It always smelled faintly of pot.

Stopped short a moment realizing there would be surveillance cameras.

But the woman behind the counter had already seen me. A weary, thirty-something Black woman, dressed in a business suit, which made me think a manager was subbing for a sick employee. A surgical mask hung slack around her neck, like the chain had issued them but hadn’t told employees it was mandatory yet. Like most places.

“Hi, there!” she said, a kind of vacant hope in her voice. Up close, the caverns of her eyes made it clear she didn’t get much sleep. There was a tear in the sleeve of her blouse. Her pink nail polish had chipped. Details were escaping her. I sympathized.

“This may seem like a strange question,” I said, braced for resistance.

“I don’t think it will be,” she said, smiling. Practically beaming.

What did that mean? What did the smile mean?