Last Chants (27 page)

“Why didn't the sheriff find it? Wasn't he supposed to be searching?” My pique sounded childish; exactly how I felt. “Why didn't the sheriff find this body?”

“Nelson said his stuff got sabotaged, not taken—no stolen goods to recover. Sheriff probably just shined it on.”

“But he should be searching for Toni.”

“They just started this morning.”

I tried to master the pouts and sneers that threatened, like loud Trotskyites, to take over my personality. I summed it up: “I don't trust Galen Nelson.”

“Now you sound like his wife.”

Toni had been right about me lying to her; maybe she'd been right about Nelson lying, too.

“But I hear you—I don't trust him, either,” Edward agreed. “I'd like to try to sneak a look at that basement of his. See for myself if things got trashed.”

“Edward?”

“Yeah?”

“She'd have fought Pan. Toni Nelson would have fought back. There should be scratches and bruises on him.”

“Well, who knows . . . maybe you were right at the time.” Edward sounded almost apologetic. “We don't know Pan confused Toni with Syrinx. He might have just been protecting you when he grabbed her. He might have let her go after you ran away.”

I felt tears spring to my eyes. If so, I owed him.

No matter what, Arthur was right. The world had lost someone unique.

I
screamed when Edward's borrowed cellular telephone rang.

We'd left the chaparral and were back in the ravine. It was a wild and tangled place, nowhere you'd expect a modern intrusion.

Edward grinned as he flipped the phone open. Then he said, “The connection's lousy. Can you speak up?” He moved toward the creek bed. “No. Let's just do the best we can. I appreciate your call.”

For a few minutes, Edward stood there, hand clapped over his other ear, shoulders hunched in concentration.

He said, “Give me those dates again?” Then, “Okay, now the stock?”

I was putting all my energy into eavesdropping, so I wasn't pleased when Arthur spoke to me.

“Willa, something happened to you night before last, didn't it?”

I gawked at him. Unfortunately, something had happened to me every day this week.

“You began a journey, didn't you?” Arthur persisted.

I shrugged. “I kind of bopped around in, well, just in my imagination.”

“‘Just' your imagination? Is your imagination a poor relation, then?” A wan smile crinkled his face. “Your body has a kind of magnetic pull for your spirit, you know. You won't stop being aware of your body until it's comfortable being ignored. But that doesn't change the nature of your experience. You did have one, didn't you?”

“I'm not sure.” I stared at Edward. He was frowning as he listened to the person on the phone.

“Come with me to Bowl Rock,” Arthur urged. “I can't journey in that canoe alone. You can help me.”

“I wouldn't be able to do anything like that.” Daydreaming to the pounding of a drum was one thing. But a voyage in a stone canoe? If it did happen, it would freak me out. “And I wouldn't want to.”

“Ah, you see? You see, Willa?” Arthur was getting more, not less, excited about the idea. “You know in your heart it will work. Your future self is speaking to you in your present reaction.”

“My future self?” My tone was dismissive.

He didn't seem to take offense. “How many times have you continued with something because you knew, simply knew, it would happen for you? Or conversely, how many times have you worked against an inner conviction that nothing would come of your endeavor?”

Edward was speaking, and I was being kept from eavesdropping. I was brusque. “So?”

“We're in the habit of accessing time in a linear manner,” Arthur explained. “We know the past shapes the present. And we know our plans and expectations do, too. But there are other ways the future affects the present. Where do our gut feelings come from?”

Edward was profusely thanking the person on the other end of the line.

“Where?” I asked absently.

“Your future self has conversations with you, my dear. Think how often you mull over your past, deciding such and such was a mistake or that you were right to persevere in something. Your mind is a vast structure, only partially bound by linear time. Sometimes your past self is able to hear those whispers of perspective. It interprets them as hunches or fears or, as we often put it, ‘feelings.'” He must have noticed my impatience. He concluded, “What you feel now is a dread of the mystery accessible to you. It's your future self telling you you will be able to journey with me.”

“If my future self is saying anything, it's saying, avoid scary situations.” Maybe I could send my past self a message to call in sick last Monday.

Arthur grinned. “No, that's a misinterpretation. You aren't being warned not to do this. You're being warned of its success. And of the changes it will make in you and your life.”

Edward walked up. “I've got very interesting news, children.”

He stuffed the phone into his pocket. Saved by Ma Bell.

“Without getting into the details:” Edward looked happy as a boy. He'd certainly gone into the right line of work. “The last two times Nelson deposited a big chunk of cash, his stock went down within the month.”

“How much money? From where?” It was a relief to discuss something concrete, something usual people might talk about in the course of ordinary reality.

“Fifty thousand. Deposited twice. And about a month after each deposit, a competitor beat him to a patent.”

“What would the products have been worth?” Fifty thousand wasn't much for a moderately successful product.

“I couldn't even guess,” Edward admitted.

“Because a product would have to earn way more than that to justify development costs. God, Nelson pays his attorneys—” I shut up. Curtis & Huston deserved my reticence, at least. “Even a patent search gobbles up money. A product's got to generate a lot of profit to be worth the work.”

“So fifty grand's chicken feed?” He looked a little crestfallen. “But he's got partners, right—Louis Drake, even that surfer-nerd
kid gets a percentage. Maybe by the time he pays his lawyers, his partners, the manufacturers . . . maybe fifty thousand in the bank puts him ahead.”

“You've ruled out other sources of cash?”

“Some of the obvious ones: court settlements, accounts receivable, inheritances.” Edward rubbed his forehead. “Maybe Nelson wasn't selling information about the products per se. Maybe he was selling tips about the direction his company was taking. Thinking other companies would back off if they saw how far ahead he was?”

“But he lost two patents. That's money right out of his pocket.” It was hard to believe Nelson would sabotage his own company, undercut his own stock. “Besides, Cyberdelics walks on the wild side. Most computer firms are making better trackballs and motherboards. Cyberdelics is making computers that can smell.”

“Still, a bird in the hand, and all that.” Edward seemed determined to bolster his theory.

“Was it the same company both times?”

“That beat them to patents? No. But Nelson might have worked with the same middleman. The guy who broke into my Jeep, for instance. Or even Joel Baker.” Edward shot me a look. “Given that Arthur saw him in San Francisco. We think.”

We think: Meaning we couldn't be sure it was the same man with a shaved head? Or that we couldn't be sure Arthur had really been hypnotized, had really been telling the truth?

After we'd hiked a while longer, Arthur excused himself for a moment, going behind some bushes.

Edward grabbed my arm. “I need Arthur to talk me into leaving him at Bowl Rock. Only I'm not going to leave.”

“He won't do anything sinister there, Edward. You don't have to spy on him.”

“Just go along with it if it happens.”

Later, when Arthur asked if we were on our way to Bowl Rock, I felt uncomfortable hearing Edward lie.

“I'm going to the Nelsons. With any luck, Galen's at work, and I can get a peek at this famous basement.”

Predictably, Arthur insisted. “If we could take the time to go to Bowl Rock first?”

“To do what?” Edward asked innocently.

Arthur glanced at me. “Willa?”

Edward looked at me, brows raised.

“He wants me to . . . ” I didn't have the vocabulary, much less the inclination. “He wants me there with him.”

Edward couldn't leave it at that. “To do what?” he repeated.

“I can't handle the boat alone,” Arthur explained.

“The—? Oh.” Edward got it. “The rock canoe. You need help rowing it.” He couldn't disguise a smile. “Okay. I'll drop you guys off and go to—”

“Edward.” Arthur put his hand on Edward's arm. “Billy and I were able to chant. But Willa can't. So I need someone to provide the rhythm. I can improvise something for you to use, and I can teach you the beat. But please, this may be my last chance.”

Edward glanced at the wrinkled hand on his sleeve. “Sure. No need to break my arm.” He conceded, “It's probably better. I don't want you trancing out, letting the cops creep up on you.”

Maybe that was Edward's future self talking.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Arthur and I faced each other inside Bowl Rock as if we were bathing together. The rock interior was cold and slimy with moss. Behind Arthur, traces of Billy Seawuit's blood remained.

My present self felt damp and cramped and downright silly. Edward's smile told me he'd remind me of this moment some day.

“I thought drum vibrations did something to brain waves,” I said nervously.

Edward was holding two pieces of tree branch. Arthur had rehearsed him so he clapped them at a precise pace, a few beats per second.

“Your mind knows how to do it now,” Arthur explained. “You can trust it to hear the rhythm and find the place again. Just look for me, Willa. Instead of looking for your animal, look for me.”

I tilted my head up. Part of the rock “eggshell” curved up around us. It didn't look much grayer than the sky. I hoped we didn't get rained on. It was chilly enough in here.

Edward, with a skeptical shake of the head, began banging the sticks. I closed my eyes and tried to get comfortable—not an easy project with rock torturing my back and a half inch of water and slime soaking through my pants.

I tried to relax, which only invited the rock to grow harder and itches to take hold. The stone seemed to suck warmth from my body.

I was humoring Arthur, I reminded myself. I didn't have to do anything but sit here. Edward had some kind of agenda, and so did Arthur. But I was just being Miss Congeniality. I was just along for the canoe ride.

I allowed my mind to wander for a while. I listened to innumerable stick beats, time passing slowly. The sound was lulling, like the ticking of a clock.

I felt myself begin to drift into a nap. I'd slept poorly, despite last night's real bed; I'd been too worried about Toni Nelson, about Arthur, about myself. I could still hear the sticks, but faintly. I dozily recalled my previous attempts to visualize a tunnel. The memory carried me into sleep.

Suddenly, Arthur was there waiting, standing at the tunnel exit, beckoning desperately.

“Willa,” he called, “we have very little time. Edward will grow impatient. Come. Hurry.”

It was a funny kind of sleep, I decided. I could still feel the rock against my back and hear Edward bang the sticks. Or maybe that was part of the dream.

“Call it what you will, my dear.” Arthur continued beckoning. “But please hurry.”

I stepped out of the tunnel.

He took my arm. “It will be less confusing for you if you close your eyes.”

“Okay,” my dream self told him.

Suddenly, something grabbed me from behind, bunching up my clothing. I forgot to close my eyes. I could see the feathered belly of a huge bird, feel its claw pull my sweatshirt tight. Wind rushed past my ears as the landscape shrank beneath me: I was being carried high into the air, Arthur beside me. Vast wings made a sound I'd heard in aviaries, but never so loud.

“Close your eyes,” Arthur shouted over it.

Below me, the scene was so surreal I thought my heart would fail. I closed my eyes.

I could feel the lift of wind and the powerful beating of wings.

Dreams can be very strange; I reminded myself several times.

I felt myself being deposited into something unstable, something bobbing. I opened my eyes to find Arthur opposite me in a boat. Around us, rain hit the sea in loud sheets, drubbing our wooden craft.

Arthur had prepared me to expect a canoe, but this one was thirty feet long, with sides as thick as walls. It bore the marks of the tool that had hollowed it.

Arthur handed me an ornately carved oar. “Do your best, Willa,” he shouted over the storm.

We skirted swells as green as jade. In every direction, there were islands covered to the shore with pines and cedars. Their evergreen faded behind the rain.

“Where are we going, Arthur?” I shouted back.

He pointed over his shoulder. “Watch for whirlpools. Watch for rocks. Don't be frightened by anything that rises out of the water.” His hair was plastered to his face. Rain dripped off the tendrils.

I tried to row, but the water seemed too thick. “We're not getting anywhere. Where are we?”

“We are inside the myth. We are in the place it came from. The Greeks transplanted it and added their own scenery, but the story is inside us. It's right here. You know it already. You know what to expect.”

The rain battered him, but he looked younger and desperately determined. Over his shoulder, the island seemed no different from the others.