Hummingbird Salamander(78)

“Tell them you had a nosebleed.”

Panic leaked into her features. I imagined I’d looked that way, early on. She scrabbled in her purse for the keys, handed them over. I didn’t think so pale a person could get whiter, but she did.

“I didn’t—”

“Is this the man who hired you?” I held out a photo of Langer.

“We’ve got a mortgage. And two kids.”

The two kids again …

“Are you trying to say being dead would be a blessing?”

“No, I…” Shock. Definitely not professional, but I hadn’t thought she was.

“Do you know this man?”

“No. It was over the phone. Cash in the mailbox. I never saw anyone. He said it was a prank.”

A prank? That sounded more like Hellmouth than Langer. But what did I know.

“If he contacts you again, don’t answer. Leave town for a while. Get a ride from somewhere other than the dealership. Maybe a relative.”

The realization of what I was saying blossomed across her face.

“And my husband?”

“No more poker nights,” I said.

But no reply had been necessary. She could tell as soon as she asked.

I took the hand off her shoulder. She sagged. I let her slide to the curb. To come to rest there.

“Point out your car.”

She began to cry, quietly. Not that tough after all. I didn’t have time to care.

All I cared is that she pointed to the right car.

An old Subaru wagon. Stick shift. Dependable.

An old beat-up blessing.





[82]


By the time I made it back to the houseboat, the weather had turned yet again. Humid. Sticky. Snow and sleet transformed to a driving rain. Not the usual dull drizzle. Less and less of the gentle kind.

I took off my coat. The temperature had risen twenty degrees. I could smell something acrid as I got out, like the place had always been polluted but only recently decided to announce it. The river had gone from turgid and ice-bound to a semi-rapid torrent. The pontoon bridge flailed and buckled. My neighbor peered out a window to take a look at who had pulled up, then curtly drew the curtains.

I would leave in the middle of the night or early morning. Lose myself in the King Range where no one could ever find me. I would be free … of everything and everyone. I wouldn’t pretend to be a detective anymore. I would abandon this deranged idea of picking up Silvina’s trail, of unraveling her mystery. I would keep the salamander only as a reminder of what might have been.

But before I began to pack, I had to at least look at Hillman’s stuff. To protect myself. There was no way that the same person who had shot at me hadn’t also murdered Hillman. Which begged the question: had Hillman been following them or searching for me?

It wasn’t much like going through Shovel Pig. More like going through Shovel Pig after someone had already ransacked Shovel Pig. The most conspicuous things in the backpack were a Bible and a Rand-McNally spiral-bound, grid-by-grid atlas of the West Coast. If he’d been looking for me, Hillman had been both praying for miracles and systematic.

The Bible didn’t have a secret compartment—my first, amateur, thought.

Other than those items, I found more chewing gum, an expired bottle of prescription pain medication, paper clips, an empty water bottle, and lint. What else had been in there?

The rain became more urgent outside. Smashed against the tin roof. Good thing I was already in a boat.

I turned to the wallet. Hard to tell what was missing because of what remained. Hillman’s killer had decided two hundred dollars of spending money wasn’t worth taking. No credit cards. A car insurance card, with what looked like a number code written on it, like the way someone stupidly remembers their PIN: 381 552.

Plus a driver’s license. As ever, his photo made him look like an incompetent mass murderer. But much younger. I’d almost forgotten his name wasn’t “Hillman.”

But I didn’t expect it to be Roger Simpson, either. Alarm bells all over.

Ronnie Simpson.

Roger and Ronnie.

Imagine that. One employed by Silvina, the other by Vilcapampa Senior. Too much of a coincidence.

I took a closer look at everything.

Why a Bible? I wouldn’t have thought of Hillman—Roger—as a religious man. At least, he’d exhibited few religious tendencies while I was in his care.

I looked at the numbers on the car insurance card again. It couldn’t be that easy, could it?

It wasn’t. I turned to page 381 of the Bible. Nothing. Examined the page with my flashlight. Still nothing. But holding that thin sheet to the light revealed a mark of some kind on the other side. Even a light pencil stroke left an impression.

I turned the page. And there it was. A number of verse underlined. The numbers 1 and 7.

I felt a sudden lurching dislocation. Quickly, I turned not to page 552 but page 553. Two more numbers underlined: 5 and 2.

1752.

Could it be a historical date? Safe combination? No.

5712.

I don’t remember dropping the Bible, just the slap-thud as it hit the wooden floor.

5712 Orchard Road.

Like a bomb had gone off.

The place I’d lived for so long. The family farm.

I looked over at the eyeless salamander on the kitchen counter, as if it could help me.