Trophies And Dead Things

she existed.'

'And you know nothing about Andy Wrightman?'

'I told you, he was a nobody, a nothing.'

'It's funny: when I went to see D.A. the other day, I described Tom Grant to him, same as I did to you. You know what he said?'

'Where D.A. is concerned, I have no idea.'

'He got very excited, said, 'Wrightman!''

Again Ross bit her lip, then gave me a long, measured look. 'I have to ride over to see the neighbor who runs cattle on my land. I want you gone by the time I get back. And don't come again.'

'I need to ask-'

'No more questions. I told you before: it's an old, sad story, and I don't want to talk about it. I've said far too much already.'

'D.A. came to see you yesterday afternoon. What was that about?'

Her eyes narrowed as she mounted the pinto. 'I suppose Mia told you that?'

'Yes.'

'She would. Mia's young and insecure. She can't understand what D.A. and I have… had. So she puts the easiest interpretation on it and is jealous. Every time he takes off, she thinks he's coming here. But he doesn't. I haven't seen him in a good long time, and I don't expect him in the foreseeable future.'

Abruptly she turned her horse and urged him into a trot. I watched as she took the trail under the trees-not toward the ranch of the neighbor who contracted to run the cattle, but toward Abbotts Lagoon and the seacoast.

When she was a fair distance away, I went over to the barn. Inside I could hear sounds of activity-the kid she'd mentioned who cleaned the stalls. Ross had neglected to lock the tack room; I went in there and retrieved the medallions from where she'd tossed them on the desk. Then I began looking around.

There was a calendar blotter on the desk, with notations in its squares of upcoming pack trips and rentals. Next to it was a phone and a neat stack of periodicals such asHorse & Rider. The center desk drawer held the usual assortment of pens, pencils, and paper clips; the deep bottom drawer contained files. In the one above it were blank checks, envelopes, a ledger, and a box of business cards. But toward its back, in a separate compartment, a framed photograph lay face down.

I took the photo out and found it was a color shot of Ross, Hilderly, Taylor, and a woman whom I first mistook for Jess Goodhue. They were grouped on the wide stone steps of some building-I thought it might be Sproul Hall at Berkeley. While Ross, Hilderly, and the other woman were seated, D.A. stood behind them, one arm raised in a clenched-fist salute. Ross didn't look much different than she did today; Hilderly I recognized easily from the old photos I'd seen in his albums. But Taylor was another man entirely: his stance was aggressive and proud, his eyes burned fiercely. Seeing all that intensity, however poorly preserved on film, made me understand how D.A.'s internal fires could have flared out of control and burned themselves out in the bitter aftermath of failure and imprisonment.

The other woman was such a mirror image of Jess Goodhue that I knew she had to be Jenny Ruhl. She'd passed on her elfin facial features to her daughter, and her hair-while long and straight-had the same dark sheen. Next to Hilderly's and Ross's lankiness, she was tiny and compact, also like Goodhue. But while she smiled brashly at the camera, her eyes held none of the uncompromising quality of Jess's. While her daughter's photos impressed the viewer as direct, Ruhl merely looked tough and defiant. I suspected the difference was in their upbringings: Ruhl was from a wealthy family and probably had had everything handed to her; Goodhue had had to rely on her natural strength to survive.

I stared at the photograph a while longer, wondering whose eye had been behind the camera's lens. Wondering why Ross had framed it and kept it all these years. And wondering about the disparate reactions of these four people to the cataclysmic events of the late sixties.

According to Luke Widdows, Hilderly had become so deeply disillusioned with the cause the others were fighting for that he set off on a trip halfway around the world in search of the truth-and then retreated into an emotional void for the rest of his life. Ross's silence about Port Chicago led me to suspect she'd been in on the bombing attempt and served time in prison herself. But after that she'd made a life for herself-albeit one that she'd hinted was at best only a life 'of sorts.' Taylor had been broken by prison-turned into something far less than a functional human being. And Ruhl? She'd shot herself.

What fundamental flaw had caused the crack-ups of Ruhl and Taylor? What made Ross and Hilderly survivors- however wounded? Taylor claimed he'd never been a strong man, but I suspected the crucial difference had less to do with strength than with flexibility. The eucalyptus trees that formed the windbreaks on this headland looked strong, but in a bad storm they were easily torn apart or uprooted. Conversely, the relatively delicate-looking cypresses could bend to the ground and live on, bowed and warped as they might become.

Finally I replaced the photo in the drawer and left the tack room. The air had grown chill; high wisps of fog drifted in from the coastline. I looked toward the sea, along the path that Ross had taken. And saw them, on the edge of the lagoon.

Ross sat on the pinto, and a denim-clad man with long black hair who surely was D.A. Taylor stood beside it. Ross leaned down toward him; Taylor had one hand on her shoulder. For a moment they spoke, their faces close, and then Taylor raised his other hand and pulled her head even closer. In spite of the distance, I could tell there was no resistance on Ross's part when their lips met.

Seventeen

I bought a sandwich and a bottle of Calistoga water at a deli in Inverness, then drove down the road and parked by the salt-marsh wildlife refuge to eat a late lunch and think. The white cranes were there again-half a dozen this time-and the sight of them standing placid among the reeds soothed my anger at Ross's deception and put me in a cooler frame of mind.

Actually I wasn't so much angry at Ross as I was at myself. In the course of my work people frequently lie to me-sometimes for no better reason than that they think they shouldlie to a detective. I should have been more on my guard with Ross, pressed harder about what now appeared to be her ongoing relationship with D.A. Taylor. But the interview had been valuable nonetheless: I now knew about the Port Chicago bombing attempt-a crime that would doubtless be well reported in back issues of area newspapers. And I also had a few ideas about the man called Andy Wrightman.

When I arrived at KSTS-TV at about four-thirty, I spotted Goodhue driving into the parking lot in a little yellow Datsun. I beeped the MG's horn and followed her, pulling up behind her rear bumper. She got out of the car and waved at me.

'I know what you want,' she called, 'but I don't have it for you. I had a late night, then an early breakfast with some people from a charity benefit we're cosponsoring, and then a luncheon speech for Women in Communications. I'm an hour late and running ragged and hoping I can make it through until it's time to rest between broadcasts.'

She did look tired-not totally exhausted, but red around the eyes and hollow in the face. Her staccato chatter made me wonder if she'd been taking uppers to keep going. I said, 'Jess, I wouldn't bother you if this wasn't important.'

Her mouth tightened, and I caught a hint of the testiness that she'd displayed with her co-workers Monday afternoon. 'We all have our priorities,' she said, 'and mine is to make it through the day without screwing up our newscasts.'

'I thought you wanted to find out about your father, about Perry Hilderly's reason for naming you in his will.'

She shrugged and began walking toward the rear entrance to the studio. 'Frankly, I've decided it's not all that important. I was right when I burned that detective's report; the past is dead, and I ought to be getting on with my future.'