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Authors: James P. Blaylock
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fire department garage, turning on its siren and swinging around onto Chapman Avenue, followed by a paramedics
truck.
Detective Slater walked back in and sat down. “Changeyour mind on that coffee?” he asked.
“No,” Peter said. “Thanks.”
After shuffling through the few papers on the clipboard, the detective scanned a sentence or two. “Trabuco Canyon is out in
county territory,” he said, looking up, straight into Peter’s eyes. He spoke slowly, seeming to choose his words carefully.
“So we don’t have any jurisdiction out there. A lot of it lies inside the Cleveland National Forest, where your house evidently
is. Still, it’s the county sheriff that covers that area. If they find anything back there that might concern us, the sheriff’s
department sends out a notice.” He paused, as if to establish that Peter was taking all of this in.
“What did they find?”
“Nothing, really. Keep that in mind. What we’ve got is this. A hiker claimed to have seen two bodies out there.” He looked
at his clipboard, either reading or else pretending to read in order to give Peter time to wrestle with what he was saying.
“This was back in a place called Falls Canyon.”
“Right near my house,” Peter said, nearly unable to breathe.
The detective nodded. “It was night. This hiker was back in there with the idea of sleeping somewhere. I gather he was some
kind of transient. He claims to have heard a scream right as he came around in sight of the falls, and there were the bodies,
maybe thirty feet away. He was alone, and apparently it scared the hell out of him, and he hiked back out to the road and
all the way down to the ranger station at O’Neill Park to report it. One of the rangers called the sheriff and then beat it
back out there. When they got back into Falls Canyon, the bodies were gone. They just weren’t there anymore.”
Peter looked at him for a moment before asking, “A woman and boy?”
“I’m afraid so.”
12
P OMEROY PICKED UP A FOIL-WRAPPED TOWELETTE FROM the dashboard and tore it open, carefully wiping his face with skin freshener. Dust and leaves swept through the deserted
schoolyard across the street, and he felt suddenly lonely and disconnected as he listened to the wind. It reminded him of
playing alone on autumn afternoons in the empty field of his neighborhood school. What he remembered most keenly was the drone
of distant, unseen airplanes. Somehow there was a world of loneliness in the sound of an airplane. It was sentimental weakness,
though, thinking like that now. The past was simply past, and unless you could use it, it was nothing but a liability to recall
it.
He tossed a bag full of videotapes into the backseat. He had spent longer in the video store than he’d meant to, looking at
titles. Once, five years ago, he’d been at a party for a salesman friend of his that was getting married—not exactly a friend,
really, just a man he worked with. They’d drunk beer, the rest of the men had, shown porno movies of the worst kind—women
together, men and women committing perversions … He had walked out. There was no way he was going to sit around with a bunch
of beer-swilling perverts and watch filth.
The video store had a whole section in the back full of movies like that. In the privacy of his own home a man might look
into them. Some of them might be quite artistic, really, which was something you could appreciate if there weren’t a lot of
drunks shouting obscenities at the screen.There was no way he could check one out, though, not face-to-face with the clerk behind the counter….
Even though there were a couple of hours to kill, he had no desire to drive back out into the canyon today. There was the chance that he
could shoehorn another cabin owner into thinking about selling, but the cat bite in his hand throbbed, and the wind was just too
damned wild, blowing straight down off the hills like that. And besides, there were other
truck.
Detective Slater walked back in and sat down. “Changeyour mind on that coffee?” he asked.
“No,” Peter said. “Thanks.”
After shuffling through the few papers on the clipboard, the detective scanned a sentence or two. “Trabuco Canyon is out in
county territory,” he said, looking up, straight into Peter’s eyes. He spoke slowly, seeming to choose his words carefully.
“So we don’t have any jurisdiction out there. A lot of it lies inside the Cleveland National Forest, where your house evidently
is. Still, it’s the county sheriff that covers that area. If they find anything back there that might concern us, the sheriff’s
department sends out a notice.” He paused, as if to establish that Peter was taking all of this in.
“What did they find?”
“Nothing, really. Keep that in mind. What we’ve got is this. A hiker claimed to have seen two bodies out there.” He looked
at his clipboard, either reading or else pretending to read in order to give Peter time to wrestle with what he was saying.
“This was back in a place called Falls Canyon.”
“Right near my house,” Peter said, nearly unable to breathe.
The detective nodded. “It was night. This hiker was back in there with the idea of sleeping somewhere. I gather he was some
kind of transient. He claims to have heard a scream right as he came around in sight of the falls, and there were the bodies,
maybe thirty feet away. He was alone, and apparently it scared the hell out of him, and he hiked back out to the road and
all the way down to the ranger station at O’Neill Park to report it. One of the rangers called the sheriff and then beat it
back out there. When they got back into Falls Canyon, the bodies were gone. They just weren’t there anymore.”
Peter looked at him for a moment before asking, “A woman and boy?”
“I’m afraid so.”
12
P OMEROY PICKED UP A FOIL-WRAPPED TOWELETTE FROM the dashboard and tore it open, carefully wiping his face with skin freshener. Dust and leaves swept through the deserted
schoolyard across the street, and he felt suddenly lonely and disconnected as he listened to the wind. It reminded him of
playing alone on autumn afternoons in the empty field of his neighborhood school. What he remembered most keenly was the drone
of distant, unseen airplanes. Somehow there was a world of loneliness in the sound of an airplane. It was sentimental weakness,
though, thinking like that now. The past was simply past, and unless you could use it, it was nothing but a liability to recall
it.
He tossed a bag full of videotapes into the backseat. He had spent longer in the video store than he’d meant to, looking at
titles. Once, five years ago, he’d been at a party for a salesman friend of his that was getting married—not exactly a friend,
really, just a man he worked with. They’d drunk beer, the rest of the men had, shown porno movies of the worst kind—women
together, men and women committing perversions … He had walked out. There was no way he was going to sit around with a bunch
of beer-swilling perverts and watch filth.
The video store had a whole section in the back full of movies like that. In the privacy of his own home a man might look
into them. Some of them might be quite artistic, really, which was something you could appreciate if there weren’t a lot of
drunks shouting obscenities at the screen.There was no way he could check one out, though, not face-to-face with the clerk behind the counter….
Even though there were a couple of hours to kill, he had no desire to drive back out into the canyon today. There was the chance that he
could shoehorn another cabin owner into thinking about selling, but the cat bite in his hand throbbed, and the wind was just too
damned wild, blowing straight down off the hills like that. And besides, there were other
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