The Knights of the Cornerstone (8 page)

“Sounds as difficult as wheeling West Virginia,” he said, repeating one of his father’s old jokes, and he was happy to see that his aunt smiled at it.

“There wasn’t anything around here back then—just a few shacks over across the river, prospectors, mainly. And the land was worthless unless there was gold or silver under it, which there wasn’t much of, leastways not over on the Arizona side. A lot of Okies came in through Needles during the Depression, and some of them stayed to quarry more stone out of the Dead Mountains, mainly for the funeral industry and to build New Cyprus houses. The stonecutting was a going concern in the thirties. They put it on flatcars running out of Barstow and sent it all over the country. That’s why they call them the Dead Mountains.
Lots of headstones and urns and crypts cut out of those hills.”

“Is that right? I was wondering about that old quarry and rail line. No profit in stonecutting anymore, I guess.”

“Once the homes were built, quarry work slacked off, and then during the war most of the men went off to fight and the stonecutting was about over. It’s a lost art now, what Hugh Blankfort used to do.” She lapsed into silence now and watched the river.

“It’s interesting how the Temple is built right into the rocks like it is,” he said after a time, and she turned to look at him again.

“That’s Blankfort’s work. Some of the old-timers called that island the Temple Mount; some of them called it the Temple Bar. All of it’s tied right into the Cornerstone.”

“ ‘The stone that the builder refused,’ eh?”

“ ‘… Shall become the cornerstone,’ “ she said, finishing the verse for him and looking straight into his face.

For a moment he was afraid that she thought he was trying to mock her—hauling out a Bible quotation himself before she could get a crack at it. But evidently she didn’t. “So the Knights must have a fairly big membership,” he said finally. “Probably they don’t need an absentee member like me.”

“They’re not all of them active,” she said. “Lots of them are standing by. ‘Blessed is he that waits, and cometh to the days.’ So says the Old Book.”

Calvin nodded. It was a good sentiment—being blessed for waiting.

“Yes, sir. Blessed are those who wait,” she said again, maybe to make sure that he was listening. “But you can’t wait forever,” she said. “Sooner or later you’ve got to do what it is you were called out to do.”

He found he was unsettled by his aunt’s easy way of quoting Bible verse. She could find something useful in it without a moment’s thought. She had always been naturally religious, ever since he could remember, which had sometimes been an embarrassment to him. Her early efforts to interest him in things of the spirit hadn’t exactly taken hold when he was younger, and even now it was a reminder that he had shirked another duty. “What if you weren’t
called out
to do anything at all?” he asked. “It’s kind of restful that way.”

“A person thinks so, but then comes a day when you come face-to-face with it.”

“With
what
?” he asked, vaguely surprised that he was actually interested in an answer.

“Well, with whatever it might be. With the
dragon
, I guess you could say.” She nodded her head. “We’re all sent out to do it battle, you see, only some of us pretend otherwise, and then we start to believe our pretending, and then when it comes for us, we’re no match for it.”

“Maybe it’s best to avoid it. Just don’t open the door when it knocks.”

“Oh, it’s already inside,” she said. “That I can guarantee. You get to be my age and you can’t fool yourself about that. It’ll look right out of the mirror at you. And anyway, what’re you doing out here in New Cyprus if you weren’t called out?”

“Well, sure,” he said, trying to deal with this. “I didn’t think you were talking about that kind of calling. I mean, on the telephone, or a letter in the mailbox.” He shifted in his chair, looking for something more to say, and uncomfortable with the notion that she seemed to be talking to him for a reason now, and not just shooting the breeze. He glanced sideways at her. Her eyes were illuminated by the
rising sun. “You look good this morning,” he said. “Rested or something.”

“I
feel
rested,” she said. “Like a desert tortoise waking up to spring weather.”

“Tell me about Aunt Iris,” he said.

“I don’t know the woman. Whose aunt is she?”

He found himself at a complete loss. “I seem to remember stories about an aunt Iris. Apparently she was a spiritualist …?”

“A spiritualist? Not our branch of the family. We don’t hold with that.”

“Of course not,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply …” He let the thought trail away. “Did you feel that quake last night?” he asked. “Round about ten?”

“No,” she said. She looked at him curiously, and he had the uncanny notion that she had figured him out somehow—perceived the gears going around inside his soul. “Were you out to the Temple last night?” she asked.

“On the island? Why do you ask?”

“No reason. The ground gets shaky out there is all. Maybe it’s the river pushing on it all the time. We all get shaky with the river pushing on us.” She went back to watching the water now, and Calvin kept his mouth shut, having avoided the outright lie.

A pontoon boat appeared on the river, and he watched it sweep past, several people sitting on board. One of them waved, and Calvin waved back. “Another cup of coffee?” he asked her.

“I’m already afloat,” she said.

He smiled at the idea. “I’m going to grab a second cup,” he said. He went inside and was halfway through the den, heading back into the kitchen, when the telephone rang. He looked back to see if his aunt was going to get up, but she
sat there placidly, either not hearing it or not caring, and after the third ring he shouted, “I’ve got it!” and picked up the wall phone receiver over the counter. “Lymon residence,” he said.

There was a silence long enough to become slightly ominous, and then a familiar but flat-sounding voice said, “Identify yourself,” which struck him as a strange sort of greeting.

“Warren?” he asked, realizing it was Cousin Hosmer. “It’s Cal. Cal Bryson.”

“Where’s Lymon?”

“Out. I don’t know where. He made coffee and …”

“Coffee? What are you talking about?”

“About … coffee. He brewed some up before he left, so I guess he wasn’t in any kind of hurry. Maybe he wanted to make the first ferry into town.”

“When’s he coming back?”

“I don’t have any idea. Let me ask Nettie what she knows. Hold on.”

He went out through the den again. “Warren Hosmer’s on the phone,” Calvin said to her through the screen door. “He wants to know when Uncle Lymon’s getting back.”

“He’ll be back,” she said. “He always is.”

“Do we have an ETA? Warren seems anxious to talk to him.”

“Tell him it’ll happen in the fullness of time. Hosmer’s always in a tearing hurry. We were out in Grand Junction once, up on the Monument, and there was a thunderstorm coming up. Well, Hosmer was there with the Hyink crowd from Iowa and the Streffs and their tribe. We were setting out a picnic, and I said to Hosmer—”

“Hold on one second. I’ll be right back.” He returned
to the kitchen and picked up the phone. “She doesn’t know either. Should I have him call you?”

“Not on this phone. Did you get the item out there safe? No incidents?”

“Yes to the safe part. Or at least I think so. But no to the no-incidents part. There was a little trouble at the store when I stopped to buy grape soda.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Well, there was this character who told me his name was Woolsworth, although apparently he’s actually a local named Bob Postum who used to go by the name King Baldwin, so I guess it doesn’t really matter what his name is now. He drives a green pickup truck with a bad muffler, and—”

“Get to the point. I don’t give a damn about the man’s muffler.”

“The point is this Postum character apparently stole the box out of the trunk when I was inside buying the soda. Then Shirley—”

“Not over the telephone.”

“Pardon me?”

“Name no names, my friend. Telephone’s too public, especially those New Cyprus phones. There’s something for you to think about before you start yapping. They can tap right into the junction box across the river and get an earful. I’ve been telling Lymon that for years.”

“They
can? Who are
they?”

“Ask Lymon. I’ve got to get a move on. Did Postum see your face?”

“My face? Yeah, we had a long chat. He said he knew my dad back in—”

“Then watch out for him. Everything he says is a lie. If you see him a second time, it’s not by chance. First
time wasn’t either. Do you understand what I’m saying? Not … by … chance.”

“Sure. I guess so. Are you telling me he’s dangerous?”

“Everybody’s dangerous if there’s something they want bad enough. I’m telling you that when he finds out that you foxed him with the fake article, he won’t be happy. They’re going to wonder who you are exactly, and why we called you in.”

“Called me in?”
Here it was again.

“Many are called,” Hosmer said heavily, “but few are chosen. And the ones who are, pretty much choose themselves. Remember that. Whatever you might think to the contrary, you set out walking like a duck yesterday, and now you’re starting to quack like one. To their minds you’re either a by-God duck or else you’re a decoy. Right now even
you
don’t know which one you are, but before this is through you’re going to have to quit mincing around like a parlor monkey and make up your mind one way or the other or else someone will make it up for you. Chances are they won’t waste a bullet on a decoy. And you can take the heat as long as you’re not stupid. Either that or stay out of the kitchen. Mind your p’s and q’s. Don’t ruffle your feathers. You’re family, like I said, and Lymon tells me you’re a good man. So was your father. He was one of the best. They got to him finally, but they had to work hard to do it.”

“Got to him… ?
Dad died of liver cancer in the hospital. I was there. What do you mean, a
bullet… ?”

“I didn’t say they shot him.”

“No, I mean will they shoot
me
? You said they won’t waste a bullet on a decoy.”

“Figure of speech. Or at least we hope so. Did you see the autopsy report?”

“On Dad? He was seventy-eight years old. They don’t
do an autopsy on a seventy-eight-year-old man with liver cancer. It stands to reason what he died of.”

“Nothing in this world stands to reason, son. Human beings aren’t reasonable creatures. If they were, this whole shebang would be a Utopian carnival with a champagne reception. You start believing in the champagne and a man like Postum will sweep you straight under the rug, lay it back down over your corpse, and dance you flat as a pancake. They won’t find you to
do
the autopsy on, not out there in the desert they won’t.”

Calvin almost laughed out loud with relief. This nonsense about his father’s death put the rest of Hosmer’s talk into perspective—ridiculous perspective.

“Like I was saying,” Hosmer went on, “your father was a good man to have at your back, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. What I’m telling you is not to underestimate Postum. That could be fatal.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Calvin said. “A stitch in time saves nine.”

“You’re right about that. And I mean
fatal
, too, just in case you missed that part. Keep that in mind whenever you start thinking you’ve got time sewed up tight.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Do you want me to give Uncle Lymon a message?”

“Yeah. Tell him I’m going under.”

“Under?”

“
Under.
Doggo. Incommunicado. Tell him I don’t like the weather. Iowa’s too hot.
I’m going under
. You got that?
Under
. He’ll catch your drift. He’ll know where. Tell him the temperature’s rising out in New Cyprus, too. That’s the word on this end. And warn that interested party, but make sure you’ve got a secure line. Tell her they’re turning up the heat.”

“I will,” Calvin said, assuming that he meant Shirley Fowler.

“And about yesterday. You delivered the goods anyway?”

“Yeah,” Calvin said. “Everything worked out okay.”

“Good.
Then for you chickenshit bastards listening
in,” Hosmer said in an abruptly loud voice, “you can
go
to Hell.”

There was the sound of the phone hanging up. Hosmer had gone under. The old man had referred to Hell as if he had meant the place itself, and not just a general-purpose cussing. Calvin heard a double click, and then what sounded like wind blowing through a garden hose, as if the line were still open. Maybe someone—some chicken-shit bastard—was tapped into the junction box across the river. …

He slammed the phone back onto its cradle, wondering suddenly if even his cell phone was secure and whether he should dig it back out of the glove box, but then he remembered Hosmer’s earlier warning. And anyway, he had read that cell phone conversations could be picked up by people lurking nearby with a tin can and a string. It was an age of spy ware and listening devices and miniature cameras and identity theft, an age when it was impossible to sort out the Postums from the Baldwins and the Woolsworths.

Clearly this was all nuts. Of course it was. But Shirley Fowler had also been “called in,” apparently, and the least he owed the poor woman was a phone call to tell her that the kitchen was heating up in Iowa. It might be nonsense, or it might be a stitch in time, but what he needed, apparently, was a pay phone—not a New Cyprus pay phone, but a randomly chosen pay phone across the river, just to be safe. And while he was there, he could pay a small visit to
the bookstore where the Fourteen Carats Press was allegedly hiding out.

He wondered how he could contact his uncle, who didn’t carry a cell phone at all. Uncle Lymon wasn’t exactly a card-toting member of the twenty-first century and probably never would be. He had been in his prime in the 1950s and had held on to that era with both hands, dragging a slide-rule mentality along with him through the computer age. Probably he was better off for it. Almost certainly he was, Calvin thought, rooting through the cabinet drawers beneath the wall phone and coming up with the narrow little Needles and Bullhead City area phone book. He found the number of the Gas’n’Go Antiques and Cafe and wrote it out on a notepad, then tore it off and put it into his shirt pocket. Hosmer had told him to call Shirley Fowler, so he would call Shirley Fowler. This was no time to quit taking orders. It occurred to him that if
they
caught up to him, the phone number would be incriminating evidence—duck evidence. He would have to chew it up and swallow it along with a cyanide capsule. He tried to chuckle at the idea but failed. The only thing that was funny was that it wasn’t funny, and even that was only barely funny.