“I have a license,” I said impatiently.
“A license?” Derek asked. “For a cheetah? What’s it, on her collar?”
“It’s not that kind of license. It’s more of a permit. You need one, to legally own an exotic or endangered species, and so I got one.”
“How come?” Lucas asked.
“Look, this really isn’t what I want to discuss—”
“And I didn’t want to discuss my sister—so how come you decided to get a license for a cheetah?”
“It’s a long story.”
“So’s my sister being our guardian—didn’t stop you from asking about it.”
“Oh, good God,” I said, frustrated both by the questions and by Marcianna’s refusal to stop bumping up against my leg, which then turned into attempts to stick her face directly into my empty but fragrant jacket pocket. “Marcianna!” I tried to command, as I almost fell over. “I told you, I don’t have any more—you’re going to have to wait.”
At the admittedly comical sight of nature’s fastest land mammal trying to stuff her big head into my small pocket, the boys relaxed, and even started laughing a bit. “Where the hell did you ever get a cheetah, anyway?” Lucas said, taking a gutsy couple of steps closer to Marcianna.
“And how come you call her your sister?” Derek added, although he was too scared to follow his friend forward.
“That has to do with her name, and it’s a long story, too.” Both Derek and Lucas looked at me with expressions that said they had time enough to listen: our roles were reversing, somehow, largely because of Marcianna’s suddenly clownish behavior. “I got her when the state troopers and the Humane Society raided that petting zoo off Route 22, over near Hoosick Falls.”
“Oh, yeah?” Lucas said. “We used to go there, it was fun. Why’d they shut it down?”
Now very exasperated at the insistent attitudes of both my companion and the two newcomers, as well as the continuing need to keep my balance, I said, “Okay—one more answer, and then we’re moving on: they closed it down because when the cute little animals got too big for you kids to pet, they would lock them up in filthy cages and pretty much torture them until they could sell them off, illegally, to private owners, who usually kept them in even worse conditions. So, after I, along with several other people, brought the conditions to the state’s attention, they shut them down, and placed the animals in good homes. Refuges, where they would have room to run and get proper care.”
Lucas again looked around at the parts of the farm he could see. “Yeah? So, what, you run some kind of animal shelter up here?”
“Seriously,” I said, “one more answer: no, I don’t run some kind of shelter. Nobody would take Marcianna, because she had a disease. A bad one.” My inquisitor took a sudden step back. “No, it’s nothing you can catch, don’t worry.”
“What is it, then?”
Sighing at how badly I was losing this information war, I said, “Feline leukemia—only other cats can get it. So she’d been kept by herself, in a particularly nasty little cage, and treated extra badly. Even after we raided them, no sanctuary wanted her, because of the risk. They were going to put her down, but I offered to take her on instead. And no, she’s not sick now, and she’s not dying, and that’s not how I lost my leg, if that’s what you’re thinking. She has an immune system that manages to keep the virus in remission, so long as she’s looked after correctly. Which most people won’t do, because it’s expensive. That about cover it?”
Both boys nodded quickly, and Lucas pronounced, “Okay, okay. You don’t need to get all riled up about it. We were just curious.”
“And you’ve had your explanation. Now—how about you listen to my business proposal?” The pair paused, glancing at each other again; but Derek shook his head quickly.
“I—I don’t think so, mister,” he said, already pulling away. “I got too much to do.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ to do, Derek,” Lucas declared. “But if it freaks you out—”
“It don’t freak me out, Luke,” the larger boy answered, moving off toward the hollow road. “But I do have stuff I gotta do. Plus I don’t think Ambyr’d want us getting into anything up here. You can stay, if you want, but—I gotta get back to school.”
“What the fuck you gotta do at school?” Lucas said, looking just a little uneasy at the prospect of being left alone with Marcianna and me, but obviously intrigued at the notion of some kind of job in Death’s Head Hollow.
“You don’t know everything, Lucas,” Derek declared. “Besides, we don’t even know this guy! He could be a—a—”
“How’s he gonna be ‘a—a—’?” Lucas mimicked. “He ain’t even got two legs!”
But such did not put Derek at ease: “Well, anyway—I say I got things to do. So I’m just gonna head back down to town, and I promise I won’t trespass up here again.”
I would have rathered they both stay, if only for secrecy’s sake; but I also didn’t want to push the obviously unnerved and confused kid into a corner. “That’s all right, Derek,” I said amiably. “But I have to ask that you don’t tell anybody about Lucas sticking around.”
“Not even Ambyr?” he asked, still backpedaling toward the road.
“Especially not Ambyr!” Lucas answered for me. “Don’t you snitch, Derek, I swear, I’ll—”
“I won’t, Luke, I won’t!” the older boy said, now very anxious and turning to make his escape at a faster pace. “But I—I gotta go, I got things to do!” And with that final iteration of his desperate excuse, he gained the road and was off down it, moving at a quick pace. “I’ll see you at home for supper,” he called when he was about to vanish from sight. “And don’t be late, you know what Ambyr’ll say if you are!”
“She won’t say anything, Derek,” Lucas shouted to his friend, “if you just tell her I stayed behind to do some more fishing! Right?”
“Okay, okay!” Derek called; and after that, he quickly disappeared. His decision to leave seemed without deeper meaning, then; but I would soon be given sound reason to reassess it.
{iii.}
Lucas turned back toward me, a little uneasily. “Derek’s—he’s all right. Just gets that way. You probably noticed, he ain’t exactly…”
“I noticed,” I said, accepting the fact that I would only be able to try my luck with the one of them, and pleased that, if it did have to be just one, it would be the more emotionally steady of the two. “And that’s fine. I’m not drafting anybody. Besides, he’s right about one thing—you don’t know me, I could be a threat.” I gave him a second before adding: “One leg and all…”
Lucas smiled self-consciously, scratching at his rough-cut hair. “Oh. Yeah, sorry about that. I was just trying to get him to stick around. But you don’t seem like the type to be a threat. And I seen ’em.” I found his reliance on his own correct perception, in addition to his self-confidence, even more of an encouragement. “So—what’s this ‘business proposal’ you got?”
I regained my stability, now that Marcianna had finally given up trying to get more dog treats out of my pocket. “Have you ever heard of another girl named Kelsey Kozersky?”
“Sure,” Lucas said. “They told us that story, too, but I didn’t know her. She went to West Briarwood, that was Shelby’s school. But she wasn’t—well, she didn’t get around like Shelby. Liked horses. She died the same way, though. ‘Suspiciously.’ We had a special assembly. I guess after they found Kyle, the whole school system was afraid we were all gonna wind up dead.”
“Predictable,” I replied, pointing with my cane toward the gateway of the little clearing and starting toward it. Lucas made sure to stay on my left side, as Marcianna fell in on my right. “But you see, Lucas, there’s some question, as far as the law is concerned, about just what did happen to those three kids. The investigations are still officially open, though nobody’s supposed to know that. My partner and I have been brought in as—advisors, you might say.”
“Oh?” the boy noised. “So you
’re working the case with the sheriff and them?”
“With the sheriff, yes, but not the rest of them. That’s confidential, too. And it occurs to me that we could use what you might call an expert advisor of our own.”
Lucas grew ever more intrigued, plainly liking the sound of expert advisor. But he wasn’t yet entirely convinced: “ ‘We’?” he asked. “Who’s this partner of yours?”
“An expert in trace analysis—do you know what that is?”
“Sure,” Lucas said proudly. “I’m studying forensic science in school.”
The statement was enough to stop me dead in my tracks. “You’re what?”
“Studying forensic science,” the kid answered simply. “One of the science teachers, he does a middle school and then a high school course on it. I got in, no problem—see, I’ve always been into that kinda stuff. I used to watch CSI, and alla them shows, before they got canceled, I mean. But I still watch the reruns.”
This was bad news on top of a wholly mysterious statement: although I knew that some schools downstate had begun to teach courses in forensics as a way to get young kids interested in science, I had no idea that the practice had spread so far north, much less to a school like Morgan Central, where the student body struggled simply to maintain a steady, rather than precipitous, rate of decline in their annual test scores. Both of Lucas’ revelations required deeper discussion; but the second, which he had intended as proof of his competence, was the more dangerous.
“Listen, Lucas,” I said, as we made our way through the gateway. “I want to hear more about your course at school—but the first thing you’re going to have to do, if you want this job, is forget anything you ever saw on CSI, or on Criminal Minds and the rest of those shows that are still on. Stop watching reruns, even. They’ve got nothing to do with real investigations.”
“Whaaat?” the kid droned, skeptical of this notion. “What’re you talking about, I thought they showed what really goes on! They got all that up-to-date equipment, and experts, and—”
“Fantasy-land, Lucas,” I said. “As you’ll find out soon enough. Just try bringing it up with Mike—that’s my partner—and see how he reacts.”
“Well—if that’s not how it really works…” The boy was struggling with the same preconceptions that had been put into the heads of so much of the American public—and worst of all, American jurors—by television producers who didn’t care how much damage they did. “Then why does our teacher assign those shows as part of our homework?”
“Because he’s probably never observed a real investigation,” I replied, not wanting to openly insult the teacher of a course that Lucas plainly liked. “If he had, he’d know better.”
“But—it’s true that he’s just my tenth-grade science teacher, not an ex-cop, or anything. But if that’s not how it really works—well, then, how the hell does it really work?” He kicked at the ground of Death’s Head Hollow as we crossed it, in a way that suggested, at least to my eyes, that he suspected he’d been had by his school as well as by television, and didn’t care for it one bit.
“You’re about to find out how it really works,” I answered. “But remember—you’re going to have to keep everything you hear and see to yourself. In return, I’ll make sure nobody knows you’re coming up here.”
“Just make sure my sister doesn’t know,” Lucas answered. “She’ll tear me a whole new one, if she finds out.”
“She won’t,” I said. “There’s too much riding on it. And so—what do you say? Are you ready to become a true consulting detective on a real case? I think I can guarantee it’ll be far more educational than what you’ve been learning.”
“A ‘consulting detective’—you mean, like Sherlock Holmes?” The boy’s game attitude returned in full: “And don’t try to tell me Sherlock Holmes was full of it—because he is the shit.”
“You’ve read the actual Holmes stories?” I queried, surprised.
“Yeah,” he said proudly. “I read ’em all the time.”
“Well, then, we can agree on one thing, anyway—he is, indeed, the shit. Although I doubt your teacher thinks to assign those as homework.”
“Nope. I read ’em on my own,” Lucas said. “Gives me a jump on the other kids.”
“Indeed—if you are listening to Arthur Conan Doyle, instead of to the TV shows you’ve been watching, never mind whatever actual books this science teacher assigns, then you would certainly have a jump on most kids here. Most kids anywhere, for that matter.”
Lucas puffed himself up again, though not obnoxiously. “You know, those shows, they’re entertaining enough; but I always did kind of wonder about some things that happen in ’em…”
“As well you should,” I replied. “Because that kind of ‘entertainment’—and that’s really all it is, Lucas—has done more damage to real criminal investigation in this country than almost anything in history. As you’ll discover. So—what do you say?”
“Well…” Lucas’ characteristic confidence seemed to waver a bit. “I’m just not sure how much good I can do. On an actual case, I mean.”
I had been given two more things to admire about the kid: he had sought out a sound fictional model for his detective ambitions in Sherlock Holmes, and his mind was adapting to the realities of his present situation, rather than insisting on the validity of the television-based tripe he’d seen and evidently studied. “Trust me. You’re going to do fine—”
At that instant—and I cannot help but think, looking back, that it was a sign, of sorts—the small black book that I had forgotten I was carrying fell to the ground from my left-hand jacket pocket. Lucas saw it immediately and, realizing that I had no free hand, picked it up. “Hey, you dropped your—” Studying the thing, his face grew puzzled. “Book? Or whatever the hell it is.”
“It’s a journal,” I replied, allowing him to leaf through the thing, so long as he was careful with it. “Haven’t you ever seen a journal?”
“It ain’t your journal, though,” Lucas said, making the kind of sour face that the young often do, when faced with something very old. “Been around a while.”
“Indeed,” I answered. “Almost a century.”
“Yeah? So whose was it, originally?”
“It belonged to an early psychiatrist,” I answered, taking the journal from him. “One who was vital to the history of criminal investigation. Although most people don’t know his name.”
“Well—he couldn’t’ve been that important, then, could he?” Lucas meant the question honestly, not as a challenge, and I treated it as such.
“Yes. He could have. But I’ll explain that story to you, as well.” I caught the boy eyeing my companion somewhat nervously again as I replaced the volume in my pocket. “Don’t get jumpy, Lucas. Marcianna might even like you, once she gets to know you.”
“Yeah? O-kay…” Lucas allowed himself a slight smile, again betraying his actual youth. “You know—she’s kinda cute, once you stop thinking she’s gonna eat you.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I answered. “Now let’s get up to where we do our work, and you can begin telling us everything you know about those three dead kids.”
Lucas’ steps started to fall faster and more easily; and I began to feel much better about trusting my instinct that here, at last, was the break in the case that Mike and I needed so badly…
Although it plainly wouldn’t come without its own form of expense. As he grew more comfortable with the idea of being in Death’s Head Hollow, and as he caught sight of the farmhouse ahead, Lucas brightened, already aware that he was going to have an inside track on things that had been topics of discussion in Surrender for longer than he’d been alive:
“Say—” He caught himself in mid-thought, and then asked, “I just thought of something—what am I supposed to call you, anyway?”
“For the moment, you can call me what most people do—Dr. Jones.” It was my turn to look puzzled. “And, by the way—I don’t know your last name,
and probably should.”
“Kurtz,” he said. “And I guess I shoulda deduced that you were a Jones.” He returned to his original question: “So, Doc—has anybody up here ever figured the story? You know, that one about the guy who built this place, and what he said the last time he came down to town?”
It was all I could do to keep from bursting out with an oath. “No!” I exclaimed, but with a smile. “I do not know what Colonel Jones meant when he rode to Surrender, damn it.”
“Ouch, geez! I guess you been asked a few times, hunh?” Clearly fascinated, he pressed on: “But come on—nobody in your family has ever figured it out?”
“Nobody.”
“Seriously?” he nearly squeaked, as we moved back across the western side of the farmhouse lawn. “All this time, and nobody ever—”
“Lucas,” I said, trying to hide my impatience. “Have you ever been told you may have problems maintaining your focus?”
“Hey, don’t you start—I get enough of that from my teachers. And my sister.”
“I can just imagine,” I replied, as evenly as I could.
“I’m serious!” Lucas defended. “If you’re gonna start right off riding me about that—”
“I won’t. But if you intend to become a detective, even a consulting detective, you will find that a certain ability to maintain your focus on one topic—”
I stopped and, defeating the lesson I was trying to teach just a bit, looked ahead to see Mike outside the JU-52’s hangar, waving his arms. “Hmm,” I said, controlling my own excitement. “It would appear that there’s been a development.”
“Who’s that?” Lucas asked, having caught sight of Mike.
“My partner,” I said. “Michael Li, also a doctor.”
“Lee?” Lucas said. “Like the general, you mean?”
“No,” I answered quickly. “I most emphatically do not mean like the general. L-i: Li.”
“Oh—Chinese, hunh?”
“Chinese-American,” I replied. “But do yourself a favor and don’t bring that up.”
“Whatever,” Lucas replied blithely. “So what’s he going so crazy about?”