The Hanged Man (28 page)

Then, abruptly, her head fell forward, dangling at the stem of neck, and her mouth opened and a man's voice came out, rough and raspy: “
You seek answers, my son?
”

I didn't believe that the voice belonged to a being from Alpha Centauri. But hearing it issue, so rough, so masculine, from the small fragile body of Carol Masters startled and unsettled me. Whether because of some racial memory of ancient terrors, witches and warlocks and vampires and shape-shifters, or simply because of the bogeyman tales of childhood, most of us carry around little pockets of atavistic fears. And when reality seems to shift slightly on its moorings and we grope for the reasons, sometimes we're tempted to admit into our conscious world precisely those things which are feared. Once, many years ago, I'd seen a friend suffer an epileptic fit, and I'd felt the same thing then that I did now: a cold uncanny shiver prickling down the back of my neck.

“
My son?
”

Bowing her head like that, I realized, would allow Carol Masters to deepen and roughen her voice. And she'd been an actress. “Yeah,” I said. By answering, which was a kind of collaboration, I felt suddenly as embarrassed as if I'd been the one who was making strange noises.

“
There is no need to fear, my son
.”

“Right.”

“
What is it you wish you know?
”

“Who killed Quentin Bouvier?” A consultation with a phantom from Alpha Centauri. That would look great on the résumé.

“
Death is an illusion, my son. And therefore, in the strictest sense, there can be no killing. Bear in mind that the bodily manifestations of you human beings are merely a transitory concretization of eternal vibratory phenomena. All your so-called physical characteristics—your size, your shape, your palpable existence—are in essence unreal, as fleeting as a ripple on a pond, or the path traced by a falling leaf through the autumn air. Even the sexuality of which you make so much, your maleness and your femaleness, is an illusion, as is, of course, your so-called ego, that falsehood which so often troubles you. Bear in mind that the underlying reality is nothing less than Love, Love dancing with itself Love in love with Love
.”

I nodded, and then realized that neither Araxys nor Carol Masters could see me. “Right,” I said. “Do you think you could be a little more specific?”

A low, raspy chuckle came from Carol Master's mouth. “
You are a Quester, my son, a seeker after Truth. Hearken to my words and you shall discover the thing you ultimately seek. I bid you farewell now, and wish you a most fruitful journey
.”

Carol Masters's tiny frame gave a sudden start, her right foot kicking out, and then she jerked her head upright. She opened her eyes, blinking, and gasped in a breath. Leaning forward, thick eyebrows raised, she looked over to me. “What did he say?”

Gibberish, I almost answered. But actually, I'd kind of liked the notion of Love dancing with itself. “Not much,” I told her.

Still excited, the words rushing out: “Did he tell you who did it?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did he
say?
”

“Something about vibratory phenomena. Love in love with Love.”

She nodded quickly, waved a dismissive hand. “He always says that. But nothing about who killed Quentin and Leonard?”

“No.”

She pounded her small fist against the sofa cushion. “Damn.” Then, abruptly, she sat back. She frowned again, thoughtfully. “Well,” she said. “Sometimes, you know, what he says only
sounds
mystical, but it has a simple, everyday meaning. Sometimes he tries to be deliberately cryptic.” She bit thoughtfully at her lower lip.

“I'd say he succeeded.”

“So what he said didn't mean anything to you.” Some lipstick had come off onto her teeth.

“I'm afraid not,” I said. I still felt a kind of residual unease. I had no idea whether I had just witnessed a nicely performed piece of theater, or a peek, provided without her conscious knowledge, into the subterranean mind of Carol Masters.

She nodded, and then leaned toward me. Lowering her voice, she said, “He's wonderful, but sometimes, honestly, he drives me absolutely crazy.”

Spotless.

Just inside the doorjamb, the bleached oak floor of the office was spotless. Not a single bloodstain, not even a darkening in the cracks between the waxed planks.

It was as though the cleaning service had provided me with magic as well as reliability, had wiped away not only the stains, but the past. For a moment, I found myself almost believing that nothing had happened yesterday. That Paul Chang had never come here, that I'd never fired two slugs into his body. That he wasn't lying in the hospital at the moment, attached to tubes and wires.

Life, unfortunately, doesn't clean up as easily as hardwood floors.

Forget the guilt, I told myself. You did what you had to. At least he's alive. Get to work.

I got to work. As I'd thought, there were messages waiting for me on the machine, including one from Rita. She was still in Albuquerque, and said that she'd call back. The rest, in the order in which they were recorded, were from a coy Justine Bouvier, Veronica Chang, a writer who worked for the Santa Fe
Reporter
, a patient Justine Bouvier, Eliza Remington, the writer again, a bored Justine Bouvier, and finally an irritated Justine Bouvier.

I took a deep breath and called Veronica Chang.

“This is Joshua Croft.”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “I' glad you called. I wanted to tell you that I think you're despicable.”

“Miss Chang—”

“Do you know that my brother almost
died?
” No flatness now in her voice. “If he hadn't gotten prompt medical attention, he'd be dead right now.”

“He got prompt medical attention because I called for it.”

Her brief laugh was shrill and humorless. “How
kind
of you. How very
thoughtful
. Do you always call for an ambulance when you shoot someone?”

“Miss Chang, your brother ran me off the road two nights ago. He—”

“
Liar!
You liar! That is
totally
untrue. He was here with me that night. He was
here
when you had your accident. With
me
. And then you sent that big idiot of a cop after him, asking questions, pestering us with his clumsy suspicions—can you blame Paul for getting upset?”

“I can blame him for coming into my office with a loaded pistol.”

“All he wanted to do was
talk
.”

“I don't talk to people who point guns at me.”

“No, you shoot them. You
bastard
.”

“Look, Miss Chang—”

“I just want you to know that you're going to be very, very sorry for what you did. You're going to regret it for the rest of your life.”

“Telephone conversations can be recorded,” I said. And so they can be; this one wasn't. She was beginning to annoy me. “You might want to be careful what sort of threats you make.”

“I don't need to make threats. I'm telling you. You're going to be very sorry.” And then she hung up.

I sat back. Almost immediately, the phone rang. I leaned forward, picked it up. “Hello.”

Justine Bouvier's expansive voice came trilling down the line. “
Joshua!
What
is
this I hear about you shooting Paul Chang?” A small quick bark of delighted laughter. “You certainly know how to bring a little excitement into a dull old town, darling. A shootout at the O.K. Corral! I want to hear every single delicious detail.”

“Sorry, Justine, I can't talk right now. I'm hemorrhaging.” I hung up.

To prevent her getting through again, I lifted the phone once more and dialed Eliza Remington's number. No answer.

So far, I still hadn't been able to reach Peter Jones. I dialed his number.

This time, he answered.

“Peter, this is Joshua Croft.”

“Good. I just called you, about five minutes ago.”

“I've been trying to reach you for the past few days.”

“Yeah, I haven't been answering my phone. Listen. Could you get out here? Out to my place?”

“Why?”

“I don't want to say over the telephone. But it's important. And I think it'll be helpful to you.”

“I'll leave now.”

The weather was still unseasonably warm as I drove north, out of Santa Fe, through the badlands. The snow had melted everywhere but in the mountains, where it lay bright blinding white against the powder blue backdrop of sky. A few big fluffy clouds hung up there, motionless, looking as though they'd always been hanging exactly there, would always be hanging there.

Despite the stiffness in my muscles and joints, my mood was better than it had been earlier. Partly, I suppose, because at some level, before I'd talked to her, I'd been concerned about dealing with Paul Chang's sister. I had known that I would have to, and hadn't known what I was going to say. As it turned out, she hadn't given me a chance to say much of anything. In a way, her anger and her refusal to listen had let me off the hook. I felt, if not absolved, then at least relieved.

If she wanted to lay some Saku double whammy on me, that was her business. I'd just have to potter along, regardless.

I was feeling expectant, as well. Maybe Peter Jones did have information that would be helpful, that would let me crack this case.

And it was a beautiful day, and this was the first fairly long trip I'd taken in the Jeep. The beast rode well, its big engine purring comfortably beneath the expanse of hood. I was perched higher than I'd been in the station wagon, which permitted me to look down, disdainfully, at the drivers of lower, less aggressive vehicles. The car and I spent some time developing an intangible bond between man and machine.

It was about two o'clock when I pulled into the long, straight driveway worn in the flat caliche. The narrow tower in which Peter Jones lived was still huddling at the base of the immense red column of rock that loomed behind it. But today, with the sun nearly overhead and its light rolling out across the high desert, the building seemed less bizarre, less forbidding. It looked merely quirky, like a playhouse erected out here in the emptiness by some goofy kid.

A second car was parked beside Peter Jones's ancient Karman Ghia. It was a Cadillac Seville, an old one, and I knew that I'd seen it before. After a moment, I remembered where. It had been parked outside Eliza Remington's mock Tudor home, on the hill overlooking Santa Fe.

I knocked on the door. Peter Jones opened it. He was wearing black again: denim shirt, denim slacks. Maybe, I told myself, he always wore black. Maybe he was an existentialist. Maybe he was Zorro.

I'd been spending too much time with these people. My thought processes were becoming addled.

His handsome Gothic face suddenly looked puzzled. “What happened to you?”

“Automobile accident.”

He nodded. The puzzlement went away, but the face was still strained, the skin still tight, as though he were worried. “Come on in,” he told me.

Eliza Remington sat at one end of the futon sofa. She wore black shoes, black stockings, a gray silk dress buttoned all the way up to the Peter Pan collar, and a matching jacket. At her neck was a black silk scarf. In her hand was a glass of something that looked like it might have been poured from the bottle of Jameson's Irish Whiskey that sat on the coffee table. She had told me, I remembered, that she never drank.

“You want a drink?” Peter Jones asked me. He seemed awkward, tentative. “Or some tea? Some coffee?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

Peter looked at Eliza Remington, who said nothing, merely sat and stared bleakly at me. Peter turned to me. “Sorry,” he said. “Have a seat.” He sat down himself on the other end of the couch, glanced again at Eliza.

I sat in the black canvas director's chair.

Eliza suddenly spoke. “Did Paul Chang do that to you?” She nodded toward the foam collar at my neck.

“Probably.”

“And you shot him?”

“It's a bit more complicated than that.”

“But you shot him. I heard about it this morning.”

“I shot him.”

She frowned, looked down, shook her head. She turned to Peter. She shrugged, quickly, almost bitterly. “You wanted to tell him. Tell him.” She drank some whiskey and sat back, holding the glass on her lap. She stared at me.

Peter glanced at her, turned back to me. “I haven't been answering my phone,” he said. “This whole thing, Quentin getting killed, then Leonard, I guess it's thrown me for a loop. So I've been hiding out. Meditating. Trying to make sense of it, I suppose. Anyway, Eliza's been trying to reach me since this morning. She knows that I can go for weeks at a time without paying any attention to the phone. And so finally, a couple hours ago, she drove out to see me.”