Perri O'Shaughnessy - Presumption Of Death

“Paul,” she said.

He put his finger over her lips. “Let’s have ourselves a TGIF nap. We are not going to discuss work. We are going to take our clothes off and frolic. I need a quick shower. Dinner after. I’ll take you out for barbecue.”

“No, Paul, wait…”

He covered her mouth with kisses, nudging her toward the bedroom. “I want you in bed, naked and ready in two minutes. Can you do that? I think you can.”

“Really, I need to tell you!”

He shut the door on her. “Shh. Save it.”

She heard him slam the door to the bathroom, and the shower going on. Might as well do what I can to mitigate the shock, he’ll find out soon enough, she thought. Hint to investigator: no hot water.

Meanwhile, she combed through her brown hair, sitting at the mirror. The woman in there was turning back into a mother right before her eyes.

He took a long time in the shower, cold water or no cold water. She crawled between the sheets to warm her cold feet. She pulled a fuzzy blue blanket up from the foot of the bed. She would just get warm… she could explain everything…

Paul wrapped the towel loosely around his waist and peeked into the bedroom. In the light of early evening through the deck doors, Nina lay on her side, pillow spread with her long soft hair, hands in prayer position under her head, knees bent. She was asleep, and he took a long moment, admiring her. What a beauty she was, and she was his now.

Humming, he decided to take a second to check his E-mail. He opened the door to his den. He stopped.

A form covered with blankets too heavy for summer lay on the sofabed. At its foot, Hitchcock lolled, eyes closed, lost in canine cogitation.

Who?

He moved in closer. Gingerly, he lifted the blanket from the face.

Bob.

Bob Reilly. Nina’s son. Home to roost.

Stepping back into the living area, gently closing the door behind him, he thought about it. He considered Nina’s preoccupation on several previous occasions. He thought he now understood the source of her anxiety.

He was feeling some anxiety himself.

He decided to pour himself a stiff one. In the kitchen, in the cabinet near the refrigerator, he located the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. However, a glass did not come as quickly to hand. No matter. He drank from the bottle.

Better, he thought, and drank some more. After a while, a pleasant, welcoming attitude warmed his heart. Good old Bob! He liked the boy, after all!

But Bob could not live here, no, no, no.

He looked again for a shot glass. This drinking from the bottle seemed suddenly rude. Finding a souvenir from Caesars Palace at Tahoe, he filled it and downed it.

But he was hungry. It was dinnertime. All is flux, people sleep at five in the afternoon, plans go aft agley…

He checked the microwave, in case some plate was in there, still warm. Empty. He checked the refrigerator. Also nothing. The uncooked fish filet in there looked disgusting.

On the counter, nothing but an ancient wrapped turkey sandwich and a sandwich bag full of pennies and acorns and loose, discolored peppermint Lifesavers and blackened scraps of paper. He discarded the sandwich, fiddling with the bag.

Various things fell from the baggie onto the counter. They appeared to be the property of Wish Whitefeather, student, or so it seemed according to the filthy student ID he found. Finding nothing of redeeming value in the stuff, he tossed most of Wish’s bits in the garbage below the sink.

But what was this?

He examined a plastic card of electronic material, no more than a few inches long, narrow. Familiar, he thought, squinting. Oh, yes, but why here?

He knew that he had drunk too much when he stumbled slightly leaving the kitchen. He would have some coffee, he promised himself, just as soon as he checked this out.

Opening a cupboard by the television, he pulled out his camera, opened a small compartment, and pushed the thing into place.

A memory card, perfect fit.

He clicked through twelve pictures, all orange-and-yellow, flames, underexposed because Wish must have been using the automatic functions of the camera, which would not be able properly to process the brightness of the nighttime scene. Three showed people, men. Two men.

He woke Nina up.

I N THE HARSH LIGHT OF THE fire, the whole forest around Wish was revealed, bit by bit, as he had spun around, twelve pictures in all. In nine of the pictures they saw nothing but creepy-looking bushes and trees, and whiteouts of smoke.

“ Blair Witch stuff,” Paul said. After sneaking into the den to retrieve it, he had moved the pictures from his camera to his portable computer screen. The bigger pictures made the faces of the men easier to see. He double-clicked on his photo program, and began doing some easy enhancements to see if there were any details he had missed on first persual. He brightened the pictures of the men, compensating for the poor exposure.

They now sat together on the couch in the living room, two cups of coffee steaming on the table, the warm body in the den behind the closed door nearby lurking between them like a monster under the bed. Nina had changed into jeans and a T-shirt. Paul now wore shorts.

They were not touching.

Wish had taken one photo of Danny in his spinning, the very first shot on the memory card, and now they saw the man who had brought Wish up the mountain, Wish’s dead friend, at last. Danny’s hand was up, shielding his face from the light, and he was grimacing. He wore a dark T-shirt over black pants. He must have flung off the Army jacket. His face was handsome, planed, stark in the light, with a thick neck and shoulders.

He looked directly at the camera and his parted lips were arrested midword. He looked familiar to Nina, as though she had met him before, and she had indeed met his type before, strong young men who ought to be building families or serving in the military but instead drifted into purposelessness.

“Good-looking dude,” Paul said, keeping his voice low. He clicked to the third and fourth shots and manipulated them so that they were side by side on the screen, and Nina saw that Wish had done it, managing in spite of his terror to take two shots that linked Coyote forever to the fire.

In the third shot, they saw mostly Coyote’s lower body as he hid or stepped out from behind a bush. He wore a long white T-shirt and jeans, and his long dark face was somewhat shadowed.

“Nothing in his hands,” Paul said, disappointed. “A can of kerosene would have been good.”

“It’s incredible just to have the shot.”

In the fourth shot he had stepped fully out and was advancing toward Wish, holding his hands up and looking scared and angry. He was built like Danny, muscled, tall, dark, and young.

“Wish was lucky,” Nina said.

“To get these pictures?” Paul’s hand moved to her thigh. They had both leaned back to study the three shots, now side by side on the computer screen, their necks stiff with the effort, as if the shots were Picassos. Which they were, lawyers’ Picassos, strong, timeless, and irrefutable.

And as mysterious as a Picasso. The two shots still did not reveal why this young man had killed three people and almost killed another.

Nina accepted his touch. “Yes, Wish was lucky to take the shots, but also to still be alive.”

“So, after tucking the memory card into his pocket, Wish drops the camera and runs at this point, and Danny gets lost for a while but catches up to him on the trail. But Coyote has followed Danny. He kills Danny and grabs Wish, who manages to escape.”

“That’s how Wish says it happened.”

“Why didn’t Wish mention this memory card? How the hell could he forget it?”