The Hanged Man Read online

  But outside town, the countryside is still spare and uncluttered, the sunlight still reels down from a clear blue silky sky, the mountains and the buttes still soar wild and reckless from a landscape so nonchalant about its lean rugged beauty, so indifferent to the passage of time, and the passage of man, that it takes the breath away. Driving through this country can be, should be, an exercise in humility; and that may be one of the very best exercises possible.

  And so I drove north toward Agua Caliente and I admired the scenery and I felt properly humble and I thought about what I’d learned from Brad Freefall and Sylvia Morningstar.

  Once again, when Brad and I returned to the living room, it had been Sylvia who had done most of the talking. Her account of the get-together last Saturday night didn’t differ, in any significant way, from the accounts given by Justine Bouvier and Bennett Hadley, or from what I’d read in the police reports. Except that Sylvia minimized the violence of Bernardi’s attack on Bouvier, tried to make the confrontation sound less like an actual physical assault than a spunky debate that had gotten a bit out of hand. Brad had sat there, quietly deferring to her. I got the impression that he usually deferred to her: that she provided the strength in the relationship.

  When I asked her about her guests that night, I learned that Sylvia, unlike Bouvier and Hadley, didn’t have an unkind word to say about anyone, anyhow, in this life or any other. According to her, all the people who had been there when Bouvier was killed were paragons of probity and kindness, selfless souls dedicated to the betterment of mankind. After the earlier interviews, it was refreshing to listen to someone for whom derision wasn’t a hobby. But it was also less than illuminating.

  Brad, when I talked to him alone in Bouvier’s bedroom, had been a bit more helpful.

  I had set him up, of course, put him at ease and then sandbagged him with the question about Justine Bouvier. And, as I’d thought, Brad didn’t possess the emotional equipment—duplicity, we call it in the trade—to carry off a convincing denial.

  As he went pale, he had said, “What?” He tried for a smile, and it came off sickly.

  I grinned at him, man to man. This didn’t come off too well, either—it was almost a leer, and it made me feel slightly tainted. “Come on, Brad,” I said. “It was probably no big deal. A quick roll in the hay, right?”

  He surprised me then by blushing. A lot of people in Santa Fe did things that deserved a blush or two, but Brad and Sylvia were the first people I’d seen in a long while who actually came through with one. For a moment he said nothing. He blinked. He took a deep breath. He sighed, and then he said, with more sadness than anger, “The bitch.”

  My turn to say nothing.

  He said, “She’s the only one could’ve told you.” But there was a thin note of doubt running through his voice, and a questioning, almost anxious look on his healthy, open face.

  Still I said nothing. Brad had the ball and I let him run with it.

  “I begged her not to tell anyone,” he said. “I warned her. I told her that if Sylvie ever found out, I’d …” He frowned, looked away.

  Kill her? Make her listen to rap music?

  He sighed again, looked down, shook his head. “Ah shit, man.” He took his hands from his back pockets and sat down on the bare mattress, arms on his thighs, shoulders bowed, head down.

  I sat down myself, atop the dresser. “She didn’t tell me, Brad.”

  He looked up, puzzled, perhaps a bit alarmed, afraid it might have been someone else.

  “No one did,” I said. “It was a guess. A shot in the dark. I saw how you reacted when I mentioned her name. And I’ve met the woman.”

  Not quite believing me, but clearly wanting to, he said, “She didn’t say anything about me?”

  “Nothing about any kind of relationship.”

  His face went suddenly sour. “Shit, man, it wasn’t any kinda relationship. It was a one-shot deal. She showed up here one night when Sylvie was out of town. Came to the door wearing a fur coat and nothing else. Even then, man, nothing would’ve happened, probably, except that I was feeling down, you know? Missing Sylvie and all. I had some weed in the house, not much, an old joint somebody left, like years ago. But I did it, and that just made me feel more down, and then she showed up. Invited herself in, told me she knew I’d be lonely with Sylvie off in Mill Valley. And it just happened, man. She got what she wanted.”

  He flushed again, remembering. “Well, shit, man, I wanted it too, I guess. Hard not to. She’s—well, like you say, you met her. You know what she’s like, I guess. But it was just that one time. Never again. And I told her, man, I told her I never wanted Sylvie to find out. She just laughed at me. And so I had a beer can, empty, you know? And I tore it in half, right across the middle, and I told her that’s what’d happen to her if it ever got to Sylvie what’d happened. She believed me. I must’ve sounded pretty spooky.”

  I nodded.

  He frowned at me. “What is it with her, man? Why does she do that shit? Is she, what, like a nymphomaniac?”

  I shrugged. “I think that Justine uses sex,” I said, “uses her body, to control her world, to give herself a sense of power. Or she tries to.”

  He shook his head. “She’s a flake, man.”

  I nodded. “Probably as good an explanation as any.”

  He looked at me. “You’re not gonna …”

  “Tell Sylvie? No.”

  “Jeez,” he said, and shook his head sadly. “It was just that one time, man. And it never happened before, not with anyone.”

  I nodded. “Who else has she been involved with, Brad?”

  He frowned again.

  “Brad, you don’t believe that Giacomo killed Bouvier. I don’t either. It had to be one of the others.”

  He nodded, looked away. “Yeah. I could see you didn’t go for the burglar bit.” He looked back at me. “I guess I don’t either. I wanted to, because Sylvie does. But, Jesus, man, that’s heavy. That means that someone we know is like a murderer.”

  “That’s right. And you do know these people, Brad. I don’t. I don’t have any kind of handle on them. Who else has Justine been involved with?”

  “But it doesn’t make any difference, man. Quentin didn’t give a shit. He knew she played around. He did, too. I think they got turned on, the two of them, telling each other about it. I think that was their number.”

  “Maybe. But I still have to learn as much as I can.”

  He took a deep breath. “Shit, man.” He shook his head again. “I don’t feel right, talking about other people.”

  I respected his sense of honor, but I had a job to do. “I already know about Peter Jones,” I said. Taking the first olive out of the jar, trying to make it easier for him to give me the rest. “Who else? Carl Buffalo?”

  He looked surprised. “Jesus, man, how’d you know about Carl?”

  I hadn’t known; I’d picked a name at random. Maybe that was also the way Justine operated. “I heard something,” I said. I didn’t mention that I’d heard it right here, and right now.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Carl told me she came over to his place and did the same deal with him that she did with me. But Carl got off on it—this is before he had an old lady of his own. A couple years ago. Carl fell for her, man. He was gonzo for her, and when she cut him off, he kinda flipped out for a while. He kept calling her, you know? Asking her to see him. She’d just laugh. Like you say, man, she’s a power tripper. She gets off on it. Carl couldn’t see that. Finally Quentin had to go over to Carl’s and ask him to cool it.”

  “Quentin went to Carl’s place?”

  “Yeah, like I say, Quentin knew what she was doing. That was their game, man. Being, like, secret swingers.”

  “When did she cut it off?”

  “I told you. Couple years ago.”

  “Who else was she involved with?”

  “Shit, man, she’s not the one who’s dead. Quentin is.”

  “And I won’t know why unless I understand
the connections between all these people. What about Bennett Hadley? Was she ever involved with him?”

  He looked at me, frowned, shook his head. “Don’t think so, man. Bennett’s not her style. Too spooky, maybe.”

  “Spooky?”

  “He gets these headaches, like. Migraines, I guess. And he weirds out. It’s like, you know, people who drink too much and get blackouts? But Bennett, man, he doesn’t need to drink. He gets one of those headaches, like when he gets upset, and he starts talking weird, and then later on he can’t, like, remember any of it.”

  I remembered Hadley massaging his temples. “Weird how?” I asked.

  “Weird, man. I was out with him once, me and Peter Jones and him, we were at Vanessie’s having a drink. Just beer, right? That’s all I ever drink. And so Peter asks him something about his family, right? About his father. What’d his father do, you know? What kind of job did he have? And Bennett starts rubbing his head and wincing, sorta, and then the next thing you know he’s shouting at us, me and Peter. Stuff about ingratitude and envy, crazy stuff. Came out of nowhere, man. And loud. The bartender had to ask us to leave. Bennett’s still babbling away, right? And then, when we get outside, Bennett sorta stops and looks like his knees are weak. And he rubs his head some more and then he looks around like he can’t figure out where he is, you know? And then he asks what happened and Peter tells him. Peter’s good with that stuff, real gentle. And Bennett, he says he musta had a flashback. From the war, you know? Vietnam. He was there.” Brad shook his head. “Spooky, man.”

  “How often does he get these headaches?”

  “I dunno. Peter told me he’s seen him do it before. But that was the only time I ever saw it happen. Only time I want to see it happen, man.”

  “You’ve read his book?”

  “Sure. Good book. He’s okay, he’s cool, he knows what he’s talkin’ about. It’s just those headaches, man. They’re spooky.”

  “What about Leonard Quarry?”

  “What about him?”

  “Was Justine ever involved with him?”

  “With Leonard? Are you kidding? He weighs like a million pounds. He looks like Jabba the Hut, man. Justine can’t stand him.”

  “What do you think about him?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. He’s always been okay to me.”

  “Does that mean he hasn’t been okay to other people?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know about other people, man. All I know is how the guy treated me.”

  “No way he might be responsible for Bouvier’s death.”

  “No way, man. All Leonard wants to do is buy and sell things and lie around in the hot springs. The heat is good for his emphysema. That’s why he moved to Agua Caliente.”

  I nodded. I said, “I’ve heard that Justine had a relationship with Veronica Chang.”

  His eyebrows went up. “No shit. I didn’t know that.” He grinned. “Far out.” A thread of admiration, perhaps even envy, ran through his voice.

  “What do you think of Veronica Chang?”

  “Amazing lady, man.” He nodded. “Amazing.”

  “How so?”

  “First of all, she’s like drop-dead gorgeous. I mean, you remember the Dragon Lady, from the old ‘Terry and the Pirates’ thing on TV?”

  “Sure.” Brad was, on that evidence, a few years older than he looked.

  “Really? You remember that? A million years ago, it seems like now. But I still remember the Dragon Lady. And Jesus, man, was I in love with that chick. Those eyes and that slinky body, you know? Well, that’s Veronica. And I know it’s like a stereotype and all, but Veronica, well, she really is, like, inscrutable, you know? She sits there, man, with this little Dragon Lady smile, like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. She doesn’t say much, most of the time. Hardly says a word. But when those eyes of hers lock on, man, watch out. This is a lady with some serious charisma.”

  “Has she been involved with anyone besides Justine?”

  “Shit, man, I didn’t know she was involved with Justine. Far as I knew, the only person she ever hung out with was her brother.”

  “Her brother?”

  “Paul. He lives with her. Better watch out for him, too, man. He’s a Bruce Lee clone. Except that Bruce Lee was like, what, only about three feet tall? Paul is like six feet if he’s an inch, and he’s built like a brick shithouse. And he does some kind of martial arts thing. I dunno, karate, kung fu, some kinda Oriental thing like that. Chop chop.” He chopped his hand at the air.

  “Paul wasn’t at the party.”

  “No. He doesn’t go out much. Probably hangs around the house all day and punches sandbags. Or whatever it is they do, those karate guys.”

  I asked him about the others who’d been there last Saturday night. He liked them all, not perhaps with the blanket exuberance that Sylvia would later show, but genuinely, it seemed to me.

  So, as I drove northwest through the rolling hills, I ticked off what I’d learned that was possibly important. The state police had checked the drains and the fireplaces in the La Cienega house. Bennett Hadley had headaches from time to time. Justine Bouvier, from time to time, had had Carl Buffalo. And had once had Brad Freefall. Veronica Chang had a brother. I didn’t know yet whether any of this was actually important, and maybe I would never know.

  Agua Caliente lies in a narrow valley bordered by low-lying brown hills, the hills striped today with irregular bands of melting snow. I passed the entrance to the commercial hot springs and drove another quarter of a mile, following the directions I’d received from Brad Freefall. Found a large aluminum mailbox, battered and unmarked, listing atop its wooden post as it guarded the entrance to a small dirt track that wound off to the left, through a snow-splotched field and down into the pale spidery cottonwoods. I turned off the main road and followed the path along the slope. The station wagon coughed discreetly once or twice, a professor clearing his throat before his lecture on semiotics.

  Surrounded by tall trees that filtered out some of the sunlight, Leonard Quarry’s house squatted at the end of the road, a two-story, chocolate brown adobe rectangle with a steeply pitched zinc roof. There were no cars parked in front. Black brittle weeds leaned out of the thinning snow. Shadowed, solitary, the old house seemed gloomy and abandoned. Water streaked the plaster, staining it the color of old blood. Beneath the roof’s overhang, to the left of the cement steps, sat an unruly stack of pinon firewood. A few logs had escaped the pile, but hadn’t made it back to the safety of the forest. They lay black and twisted atop the snow. Over the wooden door brooded a large bleached steer’s skull.

  I eased out of the Subaru, walked up the steps, knocked on the door. Meltwater dripped from the skull’s shattered sinus cavity, as though the thing were suffering from influenza. I stood away from the drip.

  After a moment, the door opened. Halfway. Cautiously.

  Peeking around the door, bent slightly forward, she was medium tall, in her late twenties, and as thin as Sylvia Morningstar but very pale. The paleness was highlighted by the jet black makeup outlining her large, expectant brown eyes. Her hair was also black and it hung in soft, Pre-Raphaelite curls to her delicate shoulders. She wore a long-sleeved dress of white lace that fell loosely to the gathered waist, then continued its fall to her ankles. Her feet were bare, the skin so translucent that I could see the blue of veins. She was very beautiful—an earlier and more ethereal version of Cher.

  “Oh dear,” she said, as though mildly surprised, and she put the slender fingers of her right hand lightly to her throat. Her wrist was fine-boned, not much thicker than my thumb.

  “Sierra Quarry?” I said.

  “Yes?” Sounding faintly uncertain, as though she were unsure of my intentions, or her own identity.

  “My name is Joshua Croft. I’m an investigator working for the Santa Fe public defender’s office.”

  “Yes,” she said, her soft voice low and solemn. She nodded. “I know who you are.”

  This caught me
off guard. Maybe it was supposed to. “Really?” I smiled. “How?”

  “Sylvia called. Sylvia Morningstar. She said you might be coming by.”

  Ah.

  “Oh dear,” she said again. She blinked and glanced around me, left and right, as though checking to see if there were any more of me lurking about.

  “Yes?” I said.

  She removed her hand from her throat, put it along the edge of the door, elbow out, as though barring me. Her fingernails were bright red, the only touch of color she apparently allowed herself. Like Giacomo Bernardi’s, they’d been bitten to the quick. She stood up straight. “Leonard’s not here,” she told me. She said it bravely, the mistress of the castle denying entrance to the Saracens. “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “Do you know where I could reach him?”

  “No,” she said with that low, fluting solemnity of hers. “No, I don’t.”

  “May I come in for a few minutes and ask you a few questions?”

  “Oh no,” she said, and her bravery vaporized. Her eyes widened slightly and her fingers went again to her throat. “No, I couldn’t do that. Not without Leonard here.”

  “It won’t take long, Mrs. Quarry.”

  She shook her head. “No. No, I’m sorry. It wouldn’t be right. Not without Leonard here.”

  “Mrs. Quarry, you’re welcome to call the public defender’s office if you like, to verify my credentials.”

  “No, no, no. It’s not that. It’s just that it wouldn’t be right without Leonard.”

  “I see.” I didn’t see much of anything, except her, and her I didn’t understand. I reached into my coat pocket, slipped out a business card, held it out to her. “Could you give this to Mr. Quarry, please, and ask him to call me?”