Burn Out (2 page)
And now if I can only learn to accept certain things in my past . . .
No philosophizing, I told myself. I was hungry.
I went to the fridge and peered inside. Bag of salad greens—wilted. Tomato—wrinkling. No eggs—I’d fried the last one for my lunchtime sandwich. Milk, but when I picked up the carton and sniffed it, it smelled bad. Ditto the sandwich meat. I’d used the last edible pieces of bread for lunch; the rest of it had turned hard as stone. And in the ice-clogged freezer—they didn’t self-defrost when this one was made, and I hadn’t bothered to do anything about it—I spotted a submerged package of lima beans that had perhaps been there since 2002.
This
was what else could go wrong today.
Good God, what was wrong with me? Why hadn’t I noticed this lack of food earlier? I hadn’t come here to starve myself!
I investigated the pantry. Badly stocked, unless I wanted anchovies and garbanzo beans for dinner. No more wine, either.
That did it. In a minute I was back in the shearling jacket and out the door to Hy’s Land Rover.
The town of Vernon, on the shore of Tufa Lake, had changed little over the years since I’d first come there. The red-and-gold neon sign atop Zelda’s—a rustic tavern and restaurant where you could dance on the weekends to country-and-western bands—flashed far out at the end of the long point extending into the lake. The liquor store had a new name, and one of the off-brand gas stations was now a Union 76, but otherwise the small businesses in the strip malls along the main street remained: an insurance broker, real-estate agents, a pizza parlor, a bank, the post office, a haircutting salon, a florist, two bars, and various other establishments that provided the necessities of everyday life. The shabby motel on the lakeshore showed a
NO VACANCY
sign, which never would have been the case in the old days; but the marginally better and more scenic Willow Grove Lodge was closed and up for sale, following the death of its owner, Rose Whittington. I’d stayed there on my first visits to Vernon, and remembered Mrs. Whittington as a pleasant innkeeper with a passion for gardening and trucker movies.
As always, the Food Mart was doing a turn-away business.
I pulled into the lot, parked the Land Rover, and started for the supermarket. Its windows were brightly lighted, and through them I saw busy checkers, stacks of specials, and shoppers pushing carts along the aisles. The lot and the building’s plain white facade were well lighted too, but there was a pocket of darkness beyond where a soft-drink machine and some newspaper vending racks stood. With a city dweller’s conditioning, I glanced over there.
A young woman—a girl, really, she couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen—stood alone; from the way her gaze darted around the parking lot, I assumed she was waiting for a ride. She wore a thin cotton blouse and jeans and hugged herself against the cold. Her hunched posture reminded me of the victims of sexual and domestic violence to whom I’d taught a self-defense course at San Francisco City College last year. When she swung her head around, her long black hair flared out in the chill breeze; her features, I saw, were Indian. Probably Paiute.
The girl projected such an air of loneliness that I paused. The lights of a car pulling into the lot and waiting for a space focused on her, and she blinked at the glare, then looked away in my direction. Her eyes locked on mine, and I was close enough, the lights bright enough that I saw something besides loneliness: fear.
I wondered if I should go over to her, ask if she was all right. But then she began scanning the other side of the lot. I watched her for a few more seconds before I went inside. As I passed along the aisles, buying enough food to last a week, the Indian girl’s image stayed with me. When I left the store I looked for her, but she was gone.
Wednesday
OCTOBER 24
to
Monday
OCTOBER 29
For the greater part of the week after my outing to the Food Mart, I stayed on the ranch—reading, watching old movies on TV, sleeping, and steadfastly avoiding any thought of the future. And every evening, in spite of my vow, I returned to the same place on the bluff to watch the moon rise.
I didn’t ride Lear Jet again, but after a day I did go to the stables at the time that Ramon returned from exercising him. I’d watch while he groomed and fed the horse, sitting on a bale of hay in amicable silence.
Ramon, I knew, had made overtures to Hy about buying the ranch, but out of sentiment Hy didn’t want to sell. He’d grown up there, and it had been willed to him by his mother and stepfather. He’d returned there after a tumultuous stint as a charter pilot in southeast Asia. He’d lived there with Julie and eventually watched her waste away. He’d grieved there, and recovered there. And we’d first slept together there. While we didn’t visit often now, the moments we shared in the high desert were precious. Ramon had understood: sentiment ran thick in his veins too.
Sometimes when he was done with the horse, he’d join me and talk about our heritages. “You know, our tribes generally had good relationships,” he said one afternoon. “Maybe that’s why we get along so well, huh?”
“Maybe it’s got more to do with the fact we’re both quiet.”
“Well, that
is
a virtue.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and doused the match thoroughly. With Ramon, I never worried about accidental fires; he was too mindful a man.
“Sara, God love her, she chatters,” he added. Sara was his wife of thirty-some years. “Of course, when I married a Mexican, I knew she would. And chattering’s not such a bad thing; how else would I know what’s going on in the world? Now, that man of yours doesn’t talk much.”
“He’s getting better at conversation.”
“Since he met you. When I first came to work here for him, about a year after his first wife died, he barely spoke at all. A more depressed man I’d never met.”
We sat in silence for a while, Ramon smoking his cigarette, then grinding it out on the floor and putting the butt in his shirt pocket.
“You’re damn depressed yourself,” he said.
I shrugged.
“You want to talk about it?”
“. . . I don’t think so. Not now, anyway.”
“You change your mind, I’m here.”
The next day I brought Ramon a book on Shoshone tribal customs that my birth father, Elwood Farmer, had given me. Lear Jet glowered at me from his stall. Did he think I should’ve brought
him
something? No way, not after he’d thrown me.
Throughout the week I had contact with the outside world, of course. Daily calls came from my operative Patrick Neilan, to whom I’d turned over administrative matters at the agency, as well as my office manager, Ted Smalley. Just general reports: everything’s okay here, we wrapped up the so-and-so case, three new jobs came in today. It was all I cared to know about a business I’d nurtured lovingly for years. And that unnerved me.
Mick had relented and located the person who’d been using my credit card: a deliveryman employed by a Chinese restaurant in our neighborhood who frequently delivered takeout to us. Citibank and the police were dealing with him.
There was also a daily call from Hy, who was restructuring the corporate security firm—formerly RKI, now Ripinsky International—of which he’d become sole owner after the death of one partner and the decampment of another. He’d moved their world headquarters to San Francisco, turned over marginal accounts to other firms, and closed unnecessary branch offices, and was busy creating a corporate culture that—unlike the old RKI’s—was free of corruption. His calls further depressed me, although I did my best to hide it. I’d never heard Hy so vibrant and optimistic, but could only briefly get caught up in his enthusiasm. His feelings about his work were so opposite to how I felt about mine that once the calls were over, I wanted to crawl into bed and bury my head under the pillows.
Which I did most nights, falling into a restless sleep that was repeatedly visited by the dream of the pit, as well as an odd new one: an Indian girl standing in the cold shadows outside a large white building. She looked at me in the glare of passing headlights, eyes afraid, and then the earth at her feet cracked open and swallowed her up.
I awoke with the dreams heavy upon me, like a hangover. My hands shook as I fixed coffee and my head throbbed dully, even though I’d had nothing alcoholic to drink the night before.
I took my coffee to the living room and curled up under a woven throw in one of the deeply cushioned chairs by the stone fireplace. Unlike the kitchen, this room was pure Hy: Indian rugs on the pegged-pine floor, antique rifles over the fireplace, and in the bookcases flanking it to either side, his collection of Western novels from the thirties and forties and nonfiction accounts of the Old West. Over the time I’d been staying here, I’d read some of the novels, paged through a few of the nonfiction volumes. But this morning my mind was not on history—at least not anything going back more than five months.
This stay in the high desert wasn’t working out as I’d thought it would. I’d managed to fill up empty hours with useless activity, while avoiding the larger issues: Did I really want to go on sitting behind a desk hour after hour, reviewing client reports, okaying invoices and expense logs, interviewing new clients, assigning jobs, and mediating employee disputes? Did I really want to continue taking on the larger, more complex cases that required me to be on the move a lot and that—too often in the past year—had ended in danger and near death?
Over the course of my career I’d been stabbed, nearly drowned, beaten up, falsely imprisoned, held at gunpoint, and once, ignominiously, shot in the ass. I’d killed two people and nearly succumbed to violent urges against others. Last winter I’d come close to being killed in the explosion. Enough, already.
But taking on a strictly administrative role wasn’t an option for me; I’d go crazy confined to my desk. How could I continue activities that had lost their appeal, where I was just going through the motions?
The agency was profitable and well respected. I could sell it for big bucks to another firm looking to grow, negotiate a deal where my present employees would remain on staff. Take the money and . . . then what?
I wasn’t cut out for everyday leisure. I didn’t play golf or tennis or bridge, take classes, have hobbies, or enjoy most of the activities retired people do.
Retired people.
My God, I was in my early forties! Given the life expectancy of my birth family—relatives on both sides had lived into their nineties—that was a lot of time to fill up. And that’s all I’d be doing—just filling it up.
Okay, begin a second career. Lots of people did that. But what? My college degree was in sociology, and that hadn’t gotten me anywhere even when my diploma was freshly minted. Consult? That would only put me back in the thick of things. Write a book on investigative techniques, as I’d recently been asked to? No. I’d rather become a neurosurgeon, train as a master chef, or apply to NASA and fly to Mars. None of which was going to happen either.
Investigation was what I knew how to do—and do well—but I didn’t want to work at it any more. At least not now. Maybe not ever.
Hy had suggested I come in as a partner with him, but that wouldn’t work. We’d take our business home with us, and ultimately it would consume our marriage. Besides, an executive position in corporate security wasn’t to my liking; it didn’t provide much involvement with the clients, one aspect that I used to enjoy.
I went to get some more coffee. My headache had faded, and my hands were steady. Back in my chair by the fireplace, I told myself that at least I’d seriously considered the issues I was facing, even if it hadn’t solved anything.
Didn’t have to be done quickly anyway. The business was in good hands, and I had all the time in the world. A solution would come to me eventually. In the meantime, why not fill up the rest of today with pleasurable activity?
I would have liked to go flying, but Hy had needed our Cessna 270B, so he’d dropped me off at Tufa Tower Airport and flown back to the Bay Area. The airport had a couple of clunker planes I could rent for a nominal fee, but Hy had told me they were untrustworthy, and from a cursory inspection I’d concluded he was correct.
Maybe a picnic. Pack a good book, pick up a sandwich from the Food Mart deli, and go—where? Well, the old Willow Grove Lodge had nice grounds and a dock overlooking the lake. It was closed and isolated. The only people likely to show up there would be real-estate agents with prospective buyers, and I doubted that would happen. If it did, I’d concoct some story to explain my presence and leave.
The main lodge and six cabins that were scattered over several cottonwood- and willow-shaded acres looked shabby. True, the cabins had never been in great condition, but their nineteen-fifties-vintage furnishings, smoke-stained woodstoves, primitive kitchens, and underlying odor of dry rot reminded me of the resorts where my financially strapped family had stayed on summer vacations during my childhood. And even after the death of her husband, Rose Whittington had worked hard to keep the place up. Now the cabins’ green trim was blistered and faded, dark brown wood splintered and cracked, composition roofs sagging. Graffiti decorated their walls. Rose’s garden had long gone to the weeds. A developer’s dream: bulldoze it and put up condos or a luxury hotel. The hell with the love and care that the Whittingtons had put into this place over their fifty-year marriage, let alone the happy memories of all the people who’d stayed here.
Of course, it was hard to argue with a would-be buyer’s logic; these buildings were not salvageable. I only hoped that whoever bought the acreage would leave the trees.
I parked behind the lodge where the Land Rover couldn’t be seen from the highway, carried my deli lunch down the rocky slope to the rickety dock, and spread an old blanket on its planks. Sat down, feeling the pale autumn sunshine on my face. The lake rippled on the stones below, and in the distance I could see plovers doing touch-and-goes on the massive central island. The lake is a major stop on the Pacific Flyway, along which approximately a hundred thousand migratory birds travel, and over the years I’ve seen most every kind there. If the lake had not been saved through the efforts of dedicated environmentalists like Hy, the birds would have had a long journey to their next stop.
