Presumption Of Death

Perri O'Shaughnessy

Presumption Of Death

The ninth book in the Nina Reilly series, 2003

T O PETER VON MERTENS, ARDYTH BROCK, NITA PIPER, SHERRY JENKS, MARY ANN ROBNETT, ELIZABETH BLAIR, JANE FULLER, JOAN WESTLUND, JOANNA TAMER, HELGA GERDES, AND JOYCE LINDSEY-STEADFAST FRIENDS.

PROLOGUE

“A little noiseless noise among the leaves.”

– Keats

PICTURE IT: A MOONLESS SUMMER NIGHT filling a hollow sky, glossy unblinking stars; under this, the rolling brown summits of the Robles Ridge; under this, the dry rattling of the leaf-tops of clustering oaks; and beneath all this, in the deep forest that slopes even farther down toward Steinbeck’s pastures of heaven, two young men, hunting.

In soft clothes that did not rustle, one behind the other, they moved in a line between gnarled tree trunks.

To the west, distantly, out of sight, the Pacific Ocean lay black under the sky and poured itself out onto the shore, then drained back into itself with a soft rush. Up the mountain above them somewhere, their prey must be softly crunching like a big buck over the dense dry carpet of dead brush.

They hunted along a steep wooded trail below where it widened to an open saddle before continuing up rocky slopes to the summit, hunting as their ancestors of the Washoe tribe had hunted for tens of thousands of years, following with ancient purpose a spirit moving through the darkness.

But this spirit was no animal.

“Shut up, Willis,” Da

“Don’t call me that. Only my mother calls me that.” Wish followed Da

“Something plops every time you step.”

“Oh. The camera. It’s slung over my…”

“And you sound like an ox. What have you got on your feet?”

“Hey, these are my new Doc Martens. I showed them to you. Remember? I paid a hundred twenty bucks for these…”

“They sound like weed whackers. Pick up your feet. Shh. I hear something.”

An owl made a low percussive sound. Above them, bats whooshed through the air like dry leaves. No sound, no echo of the sound they sought. A light rippling liquid fell onto Wish’s 49ers hat. Wish tore it off and hit it softly against a tree. “Bat guano falling through the branches, that’s all I hear,” he whispered.

He looked up at a rift between the treetops where the Milky Way spread like silver buckshot across the sky.

“Is he gone?”

Da

Da

“Kinda warm for June.”

“Listen!”

“No, I…” Wish stopped talking. He cupped a hand around his ear. He heard a new sound. Singing, like cicadas.

No.

Crackling.

“Fire!” Wish breathed. “He set one up there!”

“Uh huh,” Da

“There are houses down here!”

“We’ll get him. Then we’ll call for help.”

“I don’t like this.”

“We’re not giving up. I know what I’m doing. Don’t I always?”

Not at all, Wish thought. Just about never. His mom said Da

They would get out of it somehow, he thought, come fire, earthquake, or landslide. You could depend on Da

Around them, other creatures stirred in their holes, disturbed, sniffing in the bush. Wish caught a whiff of smoke, pleasant and woody, like the fires in the cabin in winter back at Markleeville. “Fire, Da

“Not hardly.”

Though Da

“We’re close,” Da

Too afraid to pretend patience, Wish flapped his long arms. “Haven’t you ever seen those shows? Where fire like, blows up in people’s faces? Where even firefighters get trapped? We gotta make like Bambi and Thumper and get outta here!”

Ignoring him, Da

“Yeah, sit there and get burned up,” Da

“He might try to go uphill instead of down. There’s a trail that runs just below the summit.”

“He might. But he’s got a car down there on Southbank.”

“He won’t leave his car,” Wish said to reassure himself.

“We stay put,” Da

“But-”

Da

What if this guy didn’t try to run after they shot him?

Birds fluttered invisibly into darkness. Gusts of heat blew down the mountain. A hell was starting up there.