A Grave Talent

Kate began to shiver. 'But why? Why would someone hate her so much? Why not just bang her over the head on one of her walks and make it look like an accident?'

'You find who, I'll tell you why. Or vice versa. I agree it's a crazy idea, but it does fit better than the theory of Vaun Adams as a psychopath wanting to be caught.'

They had come up to the Dodson cabin now, the helicopter just beyond. Eight or nine residents stood in an uncertain group near a pile of brush and wood.

'Good evening, Angie,' Hawkin greeted her, 'and Miss Amy. Thank you for your help this evening.'

'Is Vaun going to be all right?'

'I don't know. If anything comes through I'll send word by Trujillo. I'm glad your husband made it back before the road went out. Is he here?'

'He and Tommy went up the Road to let people know what's happening. Everyone will have heard the helicopters.'

'Right. Look, Angie, tell him to go down to the washout tomorrow and give someone his statement. If the wind stays down we'll be around here, but he and old Peterson and a couple of others are missing from the records.'

'I'll tell him.'

'Thanks. 'Night, everyone, you can let the fires go out. Maybe you should leave Matilda in her stall tonight, though. We'd hate to land on her head in the morning.'

The cold and the pain and the loss of blood had Kate trembling by the time they reached the copter, and Hawkin and one of the paramedics had to help her climb in. The man wrapped her in more blankets, strapped her in with Hawkin at her side, closed the door, took his own seat. She had seen his face before. Why was thinking becoming so laborious? His face, bent over Vaun's still body with the mask. What was wrong there, what was so terribly stupid? The copter lifted off, Hawkin leaned into her, and she knew what it was.

'Al, these two paramedics? They know. Who she is, I mean. I said something to them—'

'It's all right. They told me what happened, and I had a talk with them. They understand, and they won't blab. You done good, kid. Have a rest now.'

Her body hurt all over, but in her mind the words brought relief, sweet relief. She leaned against Hawkin's broad shoulder and surrendered to the darkness.

TWO

THE PAST

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The past is but the beginning of a beginning.

—H. G. Wells, The Discovery of the Future

It was all so long ago, so closely encompassed and complete;

so cut off as by swords from the bitter years that lay between…

And afterwards, the stark shadow of the gallows

had fallen between her and that sun-drenched quadrangle of grey and green.

But now—?

—Dorothy L. Sayers, Gaudy Night

14

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California spent the weekend at the task, familiar to her assorted generations, of digging herself out from under mounds of debris and rubble. The whine of chain saws filled the air; the scrape and slop of shovels moving mud, the taps and bangs of hammers replacing shingles and panes of glass were heard in every corner. There was a belated run on candles and purified water, 'for next time.' The repair trucks from the gas and electric company and the telephone companies and the cable television companies pushed gradually farther out from the centers into the hills, and deep-freezes hummed back to life, telephones rang, televisions brought pictures of the other storm victims. Power at Tyler's Barn was reestablished on Monday, and the first thing Tyler's lady Anna did was to put Vivaldi's Gloria on the stereo and blast the joyous chorus up into the hills, startling the pale horses. She found the house exceedingly dreary without lights and refrigeration, and had it not been for all the extra residents who needed feeding she would have escaped the close surveillance and the noise and tension with all the others who were now visiting friends and family.

The Sunday papers all ran full-page photographic spreads of the storm, freak incidents and bizarre incongruities next to close-ups of mud-smeared faces caught in attitudes of fear or exhaustion or agonized relief. The events on Tyler's Road rated a small paragraph, and Kate wondered how long it would be before some enterprising reporter discovered that the unconscious woman being treated for a drug overdose was also an artist whose last show had brought well over a million dollars in sales.

Tyler's Road reemerged in its entirety over the next few days, as Tyler, with Hawkin glaring over his shoulder, arranged for an unprecedented amount of huge machinery to invade the bucolic hills and lay two larger culvert pipes and scrape the mudslide from the Road's upper end. Kate spent two days lying uncomfortably on her side, reading a ridiculously thick stack of files and trying to urge her back and leg to heal. Al Hawkin spent sixteen hours a day on the case—up at Vaun's house, meeting with the representatives of three counties, the FBI, and the press, talking to three sets of parents, staring out of various windows—and began to show it.

And in her hospital bed, Vaun Adams slept on.

On the Monday following Thursday night's storm, Kate's little white car turned off the street and stopped in front of a garage door that was sternly marked No Parking. Kate got laboriously out of her car, left it blocking the driveway, and climbed the steps to Hawkin's bell. The door opened an instant after she took her finger from the little lighted circle, and Hawkin stood there with his venerable briefcase, shaven, in a clean, open-necked shirt, with dark circles under his eyes.

'Morning, Casey, you look nice. I'd forgotten you had legs.'

'Come on, Al, it's not even a week since you saw me in a skirt.'

'Ah, yes, shiny-clean Miss Martinelli wondering if Alonzo Hawkin would bite. God, only a week?'

'Seven days.'

'How're you feeling?'

'Fine. A bit stiff, but that's because I haven't been able to run or swim since Friday.'

'Sure.'

'Really. The leg cut is healing cleanly, and one of the ones on my back has reached the itching stage already.'

'And the other one?'

'It's deeper,' she admitted, 'and the middle of it bleeds if I jump around much, but it's coming along.'

'You okay for driving? What does the doctor say?'

'The doctor says I'm not to do racing sprints in the pool or lift weights. A nice quiet drive and some nice calm interviews are no problem.'

'All right, but if you want me to drive, just say the word.'

'I will.'

Hawkin removed his jacket, opened the back door of the car, tossed the objects already on the seat to one side, and threw the jacket in.

'That's for you,' commented Kate, cautiously folding herself into the front.

'Thank you very much, but I don't think your coat will fit me.'

'The pillow, the pillow. I get tired of hearing your head thump on the door every time the car moves.'

'All the comforts.'

To Kate's surprise, though, he didn't immediately curl up to sleep. As she dodged her way across town to the