Trophies And Dead Things

'Yes. I'm still working on it.'

That seemed to satisfy her. She went away, and half a minute later Kurt came on the line,

I said, 'I need to double-check a few things about your discussion with Perry the last time you saw him.'

'Sure. Go ahead.'

'When he talked about making decisions, what did he say about them coming back to haunt you?'

Pause. 'That even if the decision was the right one, it could do that.'

'And he said you shouldn't take it out on yourself because you can't control the consequences of your actions?'

'Right.'

'Will you go over what he said about ideals again?'

'Well, that was after his third margarita, so… All that really made sense to me is that sometimes you have to dump some of your ideals in favor of upholding the most important one. After that he rambled on about guilt and atonement and symbolic acts. I wasn't raised religious, so it didn't really mean much to me.'

I had been raised religious, but in view of Perry's atheism, it didn't mean much to me, either. Unless I could find a context in which to place it… 'Thanks, Kurt.'

'Uh, sure. Anytime.' His tone was somewhat bewildered, as if he'd been expecting some sort of explanation for my questions.

Next I called Rae at All Souls. 'Any word on Hank?' I asked.

'Nothing.'

'If you hear, will you call my house, leave a message on the machine?'

'Okay. Where are you?'

'Out in the field,' I said vaguely. 'I need your help for a couple of minutes. You know that stack of back issues of the papers in Hank's office? Would you go in there and get yesterday's Chron-the one with the story on Tom Grant's murder?'

'Hang on.'

As I waited for her to come back, I glanced across the newsroom at Goodhue's cubicle. The anchorwoman was already there-freshly made up and dressed in dry clothes. She picked up the phone receiver, consulted the yellow sheet on the desk in front of her, and began to dial. Rae's voice said, 'Shar? I've got it. What do you need?'

'First, Grant's date of graduation from the University of Colorado. I presume it will be in the obituary.'

'The obit… here it is-they ran it as a sidebar to the story. Class of fifty-nine.'

'Okay. Now University of Illinois Law School.'

'Sixty-two.'

'Bastard lied all over the place. Any mention of what he did immediately after law school?'

'Uh… no, it just talks about his 'rather unique law practice.' But it doesn't say when he first hung out his shingle.'

I'd suspected as much. 'Shar, what's this-'

'I'll tell you later. Thanks.' I cut off her protesting 'Hey!' by replacing the receiver.

As I crossed the newsroom, Goodhue motioned to me. I went into the cubicle.

'I reached Harry Sullivan's service and convinced them it was an emergency,' she said. 'He's supposed to call me.'

'Good. When you talk with him, ask him to check with me before speaking with the police. There may be a way I can keep you out of this entirely. And give me your home number in case I need to get in touch.'

She wrote it on a card. 'Why are you doing this for me?'

'I like people with guts. You've overcome a great deal in your life and shouldn't have to suffer for one mistake. Besides, I'm doing it for myself, as well-my need to get at the truth.'

'Well, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. But I sure didn't act as if I had guts tonight. Hurling myself into the bay, like Anna Karenina under the train. Whimpering and sniveling and probably causing us both to get bad colds.'

'We all do some whimpering and sniveling,' I said. 'Just be glad you got yours over with early in life.'

'You know, I think I'm going to put my past behind me now and get on with that life. My mother killed herself, and my father wouldn't acknowledge me. Their problems had nothing to do with me as a person. My mother's family didn't want me, either. Fuck 'em-it's their loss.'

I gave her a thumbs-up sign and left the studio.

On the drive to West Marin I thought about various scraps of seemingly unrelated information that I'd collected over the past five days. Some pertained to Tom Grant: the things Cal Hurley had told me; Grant's fabrications about his past; Luke Widdows's insights into certain aspects of the sixties. Others had to do with Perry Hilderly: the things he'd told Kurt; what I thought his 'most important' ideal was; a police inspector who normally went by the book but now seemed to be covering up something.

And I thought about dreams, and how they sometimes can take the form of clever visual puns, prompting the dreamer to become aware of things she already knows…

By the time I reached Inverness it was after ten. The hamlet was shut down, except for the Czech restaurant. I continued along the shoreline, past dark cottages, then wound up through the conifer forest. Fog drifted from pockets between the hills; the night was moonless. On the barren headland the mist thickened, coated my windshield. When I put on the wipers, the glass smeared. Beyond it the headlight beams looked to be reflected off a solid white wall. All I could make out were the fence posts along the road.

The wind blew strong, pushing at the little car until its tires strained to hold the pavement. I slowed to twenty, opened my window to help the feeble defroster. As I rounded the sharp curve above Moon Ridge Stables, I saw that the fog was lighter on that side of the headland- blowing back out to sea. Abbotts Lagoon was a black stain on the landscape; beyond the beach, a white line of surf moved restlessly.

I couldn't make out any of the ranch buildings down in the cypress-ringed hollow, but there was a pair of lights moving across the cattle graze. I turned into the rutted access road, rumbled down the hillside. The lights came my way, moving fast. I crossed a cattle guard beyond which the land dropped off on either side, and suddenly the other vehicle rounded the curve some twenty yards ahead.

I slammed on my brakes, stalling the MG; yanked on the wheel, fighting a skid. The other vehicle-a Jeep- slewed sideways. For an instant it hung on the edge of the road, then lurched nose-downward into the ditch. Its motor stalled, and the night became very quiet.

I jumped out of my car and ran toward the Jeep. Its driver's door opened and a tall, rangy figure got out. Libby Ross.

'Goddamn it!' her husky voice shouted. 'What the hell're you doing running me off the road like that?'

'Are you all right?' I called.

Ross stopped halfway up the incline, recognizing me. 'I thought I told you to stay the hell away from here. Now you've gone and made me wreck my Jeep.'

'Doesn't look wrecked,' I said. 'You've got four-wheel drive, should be able to get it out of there easily.'

'No way. I hit a rock-one of the tires is going flat.' Ross kicked the Jeep's bumper. 'Shit! Not my day. Or week. Or year.' She kicked the Jeep again, then looked back at me. 'What're you doing here?'

'I need to talk with you.'

'Can't. I've got to get over to Taylor's. Some trouble with D.A.'

She glanced speculatively at my car. I said, 'Climb in, I'll take you.'

Ross came the rest of the way up the incline and strode to the car, folding her rangy body into the cramped passenger seat.

I backed up and turned around on the other side of the cattle guard. 'What kind of trouble?' I asked.

'Don't know. Mia was practically incoherent when she called. Panicky. She'd walked down the highway to the phone booth outside of Nick's Cove.'

'How long ago?'

'Maybe fifteen minutes. Something about D.A. and that island. Nobody's there at the restaurant but her, so she called me.'

I didn't like the sound of that at all. When I turned onto the main road, I put on speed in spite of the limited visibility.