Cloudman took his hat off and dug at his own scalp with a fingernail, brought the finger down and squinted at it in the darkness, then wiped it on his trousers. “Victim's name is Vahram Terzian, resident of San Jose,” he said. “Armenian, I guess. Either of you know him or ever see him before?”
Harry said, “No.”
I said, “His van was parked in front of the General Store in The Pines this afternoon.”
“What time was that?”
“Around three.”
“You see any sign of Terzian?”
“I'm afraid not.”
Cloudman said to Harry, “You know anybody in the area has an interest in Oriental rugs, Mr. Burroughs?”
“No, nobody.”
“Same goes for the people staying at your fishing camp, I take it.”
Harry nodded.
“Uh-huh. Well, let's see now,” Cloudman said. “You didn't notice anyone on the bluff either before or after the van went off, that right?”
“That's right, yes.”
“Nor hear the sound of another car?”
“No.”
“You touch anything when you came up to have a look?”
I said, “Nothing. But we found a peacock feather on the trail over there; it seemed out of place in these surroundings.”
“I thought so myself. No wild peacocks around here that I ever heard of.”
“You find anything else that might help?” Harry asked.
“Too early to tell.” Which meant they hadn't.
I said, “Was there anything in the back of the van?”
“Nope. Empty.”
“Then it might be a hijacking.”
“Rugs and carpets?”
“Some Orientals can be pretty valuable.”
“I suppose so,” Cloudman said noncommittally. He studied me for a moment. “Hope you don't mind, but I'll have to see some identification. For my report, you know.”
“Sure.”
I got my wallet out and thought about letting him see just my driver's license; but he would probably still ask me what I did for a living, if Harry hadn't already told him. So I gave him the photostat of my investigator's license and watched while he clicked on his flashlight and read it in the beam. Behind the whitish glow, his thin face told me nothing at all of what he was thinking.
When he finished reading the license, he copied information from it into a notebook that he dug out of his jacket pocket. Then he put the notebook and his pen away and gave the photostat back to me. “So you're a private eye,” he said, and there was nothing in his tone, either, that gave me any idea of his reaction to the fact.
“Private detective, yes.”
“Like one of those TV boys, huh?”
“Not hardly. I've never been in a car chase in my life.”
He liked that: it got me a faint smile. “We don't get many private eyes up here. But then, we don't get many Armenian rug peddlers or many homicides either. Mr. Burroughs tells me you're a guest at his camp.”
“Right. I just got in today.”
“Business or pleasure bring you up from Frisco?”
“Pleasure. Harry and I are old friends.”
“We were in the South Pacific together during World War II,” Harry said.
“That so? I tried to enlist for Korea in '49, but they wouldn't take me. Asthma. Hell of a thing, asthma. Still bothers me when the weather turns cool.” He sighed. “Well, I guess that's about all for now. Getting pretty late. I'll have one of the deputies run you back to The Pines.”
“Thanks.”
“Couple of other things tomorrow, though,” Cloudman said. “One is that I'll have to send a deputy around early in the morning-talk to your guests, see if any of them might have seen something.”
Harry looked pained.
“Can't be helped,” Cloudman said. “You're the only people around here for five miles.”
“He understands,” I said. “No problem.”
“Good. Second thing, I'd appreciate it if you fellas would drop over to the courthouse in Sonora sometime after lunch. I'll have statements by then that'll need your signatures.”
“Well be there.”
He nodded and started to turn away; paused, looked at me again, and said as though in afterthought, “You don't happen to pack a gun, do you?”
“No. It's against the law in California for a private citizen to carry a concealed weapon.”
He nodded again, this time in a satisfied way, and let me see another faint smile. “Never been in a car chase, that's pretty good,” he said. “I got to remember that.” He lifted his hand and then went off toward the trail and disappeared into the woods.
Harry said, “You handled that like a politician, buddy.”
“I've had practice. Cloudman seems to be a decent sort, and plenty sharp; you don't buy anything but problems playing games with a man like that.”
“Well, thanks for not saying anything about the trouble at the camp. It would only have complicated things even more.”
“I'd have told him if it was a police matter,” I said. “Or if I thought it had any connection with what happened to Terzian.”
“My God, there's no chance of that.”
“No, I don't see how there could be.”
“Just no chance of it,” he said again, as if to reassure himself. Then, plaintively, “Haven't I got enough on my head without the police coming around?”
I knew that he was worrying about the deputy Cloudman would send out in the morning, having the people at the camp stirred up by questions about a murder, maybe losing a couple of them-and the rental revenue he needed-because they didn't like the idea of continuing their vacations in a place where a homicide had occurred and was being investigated. I said, “There's nothing to be done about it, Harry. It's police routine and out of our hands.”
“Yeah,” he said. He rubbed a hand across his face. “Christ, what next?”
“Nothing next,” I said. “Nothing else is going to happen.”
He looked at me as if he did not quite believe that.
And I wondered if I quite believed it myself…
Six
It was after one when we got back to the camp. The brown Caddy was there, and so were the rest of the cars, and there was nobody out and around. The only visible light came from pole lanterns Harry kept burning near the pier and in back by the shed and at the paths to the cabins.
We took a turn around the camp, just to make sure everything was as peaceful as it seemed. All of the cabins were dark-everybody was presumably in bed, asleep. So we called it a night in front of Number Three, and I went inside and had a shower and did not bother to brush my teeth.
I lay in the darkness and tried to sleep, but it was stifling in there. I had brought a couple of pulp magazines with me, and after a while I turned on the lamp and dug one out, a 1944 Dime Detective that I had just gotten in trade with another collector in Alabama, and started to read a story by Robert Martin. No good, I went over two pages without retaining a word of it. I shut off the light again and stared up at the ceiling and marinated in my own sweat, wide awake.
The image of Vahram Terzian-the image of death-lay vivid in my mind.
You better come to terms with it pretty soon, guy, I thought. Otherwise you're going to wind up no damned good to anybody, least of all yourself.
But how? How do you come to terms with your own mortality?
Time passed emptily. At length my thoughts turned muzzy and the image faded and I slept a little. And dreamed things that had no sense and no continuity. And woke up streaming perspiration, nerves bunched and jangling. And slept again, and dreamed again, and woke up again, and slept and woke up…
At five-thirty I gave it up and got out of bed and went into the bath alcove. I had not slept much since Friday and it was beginning to show; the face that stared back at me in the mirror had pockets under the eyes and deep clefts like a pair of parentheses at the corners of the mouth and a lot of furry gray beard stubble that gave the cheeks a look of cracked leather spotted with mold. Nice metaphor. I did not like looking at the face, and I shaved quickly and turned out of there.