The Tree of Death

shoulder ahead of me. It was a shiny aluminum semi. I forgot my aches and pains and ran toward it.

The door of the cab swung open on my side, and a voice spoke in flat, southwestern twang. “Hey, little lady, the road’s no place to be this late at night. Hop on up.”

Por Dios, I thought, don’t let him be the type who expects exotic payment for a ride. Because, whether he is or not, I badly need the ride.

In the light of the cab I could see a sallow face with a ruff of beard. The trucker was smiling as I reached for the door. Suddenly his expression changed. His mouth hardened, and his eyes narrowed.

“Rough night, lady?” He pulled the door away from my outstretched hand.

“Please, you’ve got to help me…”

“I don’t got to help nobody.” He slammed the door. “You’re walking trouble, lady, and trouble’s what I don’t need.” He threw the rig in gear and began pulling away. I jumped back to avoid being hit. Gravel sprayed up at me, and I twisted my ankle and fell. I hit the shoulder hard as the truck pulled out onto the road.

I lay there, listening to the truck’s gears whine as it vanished down the highway. My headache intensified into waves of pain, and the nausea returned. When I could move, I pulled myself to my knees and retched. After a while the nausea faded and I sat back, breathing heavily.

My purse lay a few feet away. I dragged it over to me and fumbled for a tissue. I scrubbed at my hands, then gingerly touched my face. There were cuts on my forehead, probably from rolling down the embankment to the onion patch. I felt through the bag for some hand cream or Chapstick and had a sudden, horrible thought. Frantically I searched the front compartment, where I kept my keys.

The extra set of keys to the museum, the ones I’d removed from the hook in Frank’s office, were gone. The killer had taken them. He wouldn’t have to rely on his mysterious method of coming and going anymore. Probably he’d gone back to finish moving the artifacts. Right now he could be…

A second engine noise came from the north-the unhealthy tick-and-purr that characterizes an old Volkswagen. I pulled myself to my feet, half afraid to stick out my thumb. Lights washed over me, and a decrepit black VW pulled onto the shoulder and rattled to a stop. I took a couple of steps toward it and clung to the door handle. It was all I could do to keep from falling.

A round-faced, curly-haired woman stared out at me. “That’s a terrible place to hitchhike in the dark! I almost hit you.” She pushed the door open.

I sank into the passenger seat. When I turned to her, the woman was looking at me with alarm. “My God, you’re hurt! And here I am bawling you out for hitchhiking in the wrong place! Are you okay?”

The sound of a friendly voice nearly reduced me to tears. I had to wait a minute before I could speak. “I feel horrible, but I don’t think I’m badly hurt.”

“You sure look a fright.”‘ She pulled down the visor in front of me, and I stared into a mirror. My face was cut around the forehead, and my blouse was torn.

“No wonder I scared that truck driver,” I said.

“Who?”

“A truck driver. He stopped for me, but took off after he got a good look.”

“Probably afraid he’d be blamed for it. I should get you to a hospital.”

“No!”

She merely looked at me.

“Really, I’m okay.” If I went to a hospital, I’d have to explain. They would call the police. At any rate, I would be delayed and…

The woman frowned in concern. “You don’t look okay.”

“But I am.” Quickly, I thought. “Listen, my mother lives in Goleta, in the big trailer park near the beach. Can you take me there?”

The woman looked relieved. Obviously my own mother would know what to do with me. “Sure. Just direct me.” She didn’t ask any more questions as we drove south on the highway and then through the dark streets of Goleta. At the gate of the mobile home park, she wished me luck. I wondered if she’d check the papers later to see if anything about me ever turned up.

I went through the gates and cut across the lawn by the recreation center toward my mother’s trailer. AD its windows were dark. What else would they be at two-thirty in the % morning? I knocked softly; my mother was a light sleeper.

In moments she opened the door, clad in a long nightgown, her hair in a braid that fell over one shoulder. Right behind her was Nick, wrapped in a horrible paisley bathrobe. I was so glad to see them, I didn’t even bother to give them a sly look.

“Por Dios, child!” my mother exclaimed. “What has happened to you?”

There’s something about coming home to mother that opens the floodgates. I started to cry. She put her arms around me and helped me into the living room. Nick calmly went about turning on the lights. Mama sat me on the couch.

“Look at you!” She touched the cuts on my forehead.

“First that awful murder, and now this. I knew I could trust my feelings. Nick, get the first aid kit.”

“Mama, I’m okay.”‘ I pulled a tissue from my bag and blew my nose. “I have to get to the museum…”

“The museum? At this hour?” She looked amazed. “You are going nowhere with that cut on your head.”

“Mama…”

Nick returned with the first aid kit. My mother began rummaging through it.

“What, did Frank’s murderer try to kill you, too?” Nick asked.

“I think so.”

“You think?”

“I didn’t see whoever it was. It was dark.”

My mother got a wet washcloth and started bathing the cuts. While she applied antiseptic and Band-Aids, I told them what had happened-all of it, even the embezzlements.

“You ought to go to the police right away,” Nick said.

“But I can’t tell them about the embezzlements, not yet.”

“Can’t you just say you were in the cellar looking for the arbol de la muerte? If you tell them today, they might be able to find out who hit you. Someone must have noticed him trying to get back to town.”

“You’re right. I’ll talk to Lieutenant Kirk. And then, after the opening, I’ll tell Carlos and him about the embezzlements.” I looked at my watch. “That’s only fifteen hours away. But right now I should get to the museum before the murderer takes away all the evidence.”

“When did this happen, when he hit you?” Nick asked.

“Around ten.”

“It is now a quarter to three. He won’t still be at the museum.”

He had a point. Time had more or less compressed for me, but I realized it wouldn’t have taken the killer that long to remove the artifacts. He’d already taken them out of the cellar by the time I got there. All that remained after he returned from dumping me off was to load them and leave.

“But what if he’s left the museum unlocked?” I asked. “And then someone else comes in and steals our collections?”

“Didn’t you say he took your keys?”

“Yes.”

“And that he somehow managed to lock up after he killed Frank?”

“Right.”

“This is a very careful killer. I don’t think you have to worry.”

“Besides,” my mother added, “you ought to see a doctor about that bump on your head.”

“I’m okay, Mama. No doctors.” I hated doctors.

“Just like when you were a little girl.” She smoothed my hair back and looked closer at my head. “You could have a concussion.”

“ But no brain damage.”

“Oh, Elena.”

“Please, Mama, I just want to go home to my own bed.”