A Place of Hiding

Cherokee chatted most about his sister. Chine—as he called her—had finally learned to surf. Did Debs know that? Her boyfriend, Matt—did Debs ever meet Matt? She must’ve, right?—well, he finally got her out in the water...I mean far enough out because she was always freaked out about sharks. He taught her the basics and made her practise and the day she finally stood up...She finally got what it was all about, mentally got it. The Zen of surfing. Cherokee was always wanting her to come down to surf in Huntington with him...i n February or March, when the waves could get gnarly, but she would never come because coming to Orange County meant going over to Mom’s in her mind and Chine and Mom...They had issues with each other. They were just too different. Mom was always doing something wrong. Like the last time Chine came down for a weekend—probably more’n two years ago—it became a major big deal that Mom didn’t have any clean glasses in the house. It’s not like Chine couldn’t wash a glass herself, but Mom should have had them washed in advance because washing the glasses in advance meant something. Like I love you or Welcome or I want you to be here. Anyway, Cherokee always tried to stay out of it when they went at it. They were both, you know, really good people, Mom and Chine. They were just so different. However, whenever Chine came to the canyon—Debs knew Cherokee lived in the canyon, didn’t she? Modjeska? Inland? That cabin with the logs across the front?—anyway, when Chine came over, believe it, Cherokee put clean glasses everywhere. Not that he had too many of them. But what he did have...everywhere. Chine wanted clean glasses, and Cherokee gave her clean glasses. But it was weird, wasn’t it, the kinds of things that set people off...

All the way to Guernsey, Deborah had listened sympathetically to Cherokee’s rambling. He’d wandered among reminiscence, revelation, and explanation, and within an hour it seemed to St. James that over and above the natural anxiety the man felt because of his sister’s position, he also felt guilt. Had he not insisted that she accompany him, she wouldn’t be where she was at the moment. He was at least in part responsible for that. Shithappens to people was the way he put it, but it was clear that this particular shit wouldn’t have happened to this particular person had Cherokee not wanted her to come along. And he’d wanted her to come along because he needed her to come along, he explained, because that was the only way he himself was going to be able to go in the first place and he’d wanted to go because he wanted the money because finally he had a job in mind for himself that he could bear to think about doing for twenty-five years or more and he just needed a down payment to finance it. A fishing boat. That was it in a nutshell. China River was locked behind bars because her asshole brother wanted to buy a fishing boat.

“But you couldn’t have known what would happen,” Deborah protested.

“I know that. But it doesn’t make me feel any better. I’ve got to get her out of there, Debs.” And with an earnest smile at her and then at St. James,

“Thank you for helping me out. There’s no way I can ever repay you.”

St. James wanted to tell the other man that his sister wasn’t out of gaol yet and there was a very good chance that even if bail was offered and paid, her freedom at that point would constitute only a temporary reprieve. Instead, he merely said, “We’ll do what we can.”

To which Cherokee replied, “Thanks. You’re the best.”

To which Deborah then said, “We’re your friends, Cherokee.”

At which point the man seemed struck with emotion. It flashed across his face for an instant. He managed only a nod and he gave that odd clenched-fist gesture that Americans tended to use to indicate everything from gratitude to political agreement.

Or perhaps he used it in that moment for something else. St. James could not keep himself from that thought. Nor had he truly been able to since the moment he’d glanced up to the gallery in Courtroom Number Three and seen his wife and the American above him: the two of them shoulder to shoulder with Deborah murmuring to Cherokee’s bent and listening head. Something wasn’t right in the world. St. James believed that at a level he couldn’t have explained. So the sensation of times out of joint made it difficult for him to affirm his wife’s declaration of friendship to the other man. He said nothing, and when Deborah’s glance in his direction asked him why, he offered her no answering glance as reply. This wouldn’t, he knew, improve things between them. She was still at odds with him about their conversation in the Old Bailey.

When they arrived in town, they established themselves in Ann’s Place, where a former government building had long ago been converted into a hotel. There they parted: Cherokee and Deborah to the prison where they hoped to make contact with China in the remand section, St. James to the police station where he wanted to track down the officer in charge of the investigation.

He remained uneasy. He knew very well that he didn’t belong there, insinuating himself into a police investigation where he wouldn’t be welcome. At least in England, cases existed to which he could refer a police force if he came calling and requesting information from them. You recall the Bowen kidnapping? he could murmur virtually anywhere in England...And that strangulation in Cambridge last year? Given enough opportunity to explain who he was and to seek a common river of knowledge in which to swim with the police, St. James had found that the UK officers were generally willing to part with what information they had while remaining unruffled in the face of any attempts he might make to find something more. But here things were different. Garnering if not the cooperation of the police then at least their grudging acceptance of his presence among those people closely connected to the crime would not be a matter of jogging their memories of cases he’d worked on or criminal trials in which he’d been involved. That put him in a place he didn’t like to be, relying on his least developed skill to gain admittance into the fraternity of investigators: the ability to establish a connection with another person.