W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

The camp itself was a revelation. I took in the layout at a glance before I turned my attention to Felix and Pearl. The Boggarts had suspended tarps from clotheslines that neatly divided the space into “rooms,” one of which was furnished with a plastic table and chairs confiscated from god knows where. Hammocks were strung between closely spaced trees, looking like traps for airborne creatures not yet in captivity. Tents had been erected as shelter from the elements. Plastic milk crates, arranged in various configurations, served as storage for their provisions. On a picnic table sat a big insulated cooler for foods that required refrigeration. Beach umbrellas protected some of their belongings, but many items had been left in the open air with no apparent harm.

The “mess” was in a tent of its own. Hijacked electric lines were connected by a series of bright orange extension cords that disappeared in the grass. A hose with a spray nozzle lay close at hand and provided running water as long as the zoo paid its bills. Big garbage cans with the lids secured in place were marked SANTA TERESA WASTE MANAGEMENT, which meant that by judicial placement among similar cans, the Boggarts could have their trash picked up on a regular basis as did everyone else in town.

The only thing lacking was an indoor flush toilet. The smell in the air suggested weeds and bushes had been adapted to that use. I supposed being downwind of the zoo had its advantages. There was scant time to marvel at the wholesale thievery because Pearl and Felix were busy trashing the place. It was a sorry impulse with gleeful undertones. Felix had overturned a large metal footlocker and the contents were now strewn across the ground. He bent and picked up an item that he secured behind his back in the waist of his jeans, moving so efficiently I didn’t have a chance to see what it was. He shoved other items in a second canvas duffel, apparently intent on packing Terrence’s belongings along with anything else of value, whether Terrence’s or not. He was as methodical as a soldier stripping the enemy dead.

My attention snapped to Pearl, who had kicked over an oil drum that now lay on its side, heavily dented where she’d stomped it dead center. This was a makeshift incinerator emptied of half-burned logs. Firewood from a nearby stack had been supplemented with books, which must have made good tinder. The blackened spines of once whole texts had tumbled out of the drum like bones, doilies of charred paper spilling over the hard-packed dirt.

“What are you doing?” I asked in a hoarse whisper. I’d meant to warn them, but I was so taken aback, I couldn’t gather my wits about me. The big guy was probably already making short work of the hill.

When there was no response, I hissed, the sound harsh and unexpected. Pearl scarcely seemed aware of me, but Felix lifted his head abruptly. As it turned out, even the hiss was pointless because the bum in the red flannel shirt chose that moment to stride into the camp. He knew instantly what was going on and his rage was a sound that started low in his throat as he crossed the littered ground. He grabbed Pearl’s jacket and shoved her. Off balance, she fell backward with a thud. Any other woman would have had the air knocked out of her, but Pearl was made of sturdier stuff. She tried to sit upright so she could get to her feet, but the bum kicked her squarely in the side and then landed on her chest with both knees.

Felix bent and picked up a piece of firewood, which had been hewn from a young tree with a diameter about the size of a dinner plate. The log had been split into four sections, the raw wood visible in a wedge as sharp as a fixed-blade machete. He moved toward the bum with a measured pace, his face blank. Gone was any suggestion that he was mentally slow. I saw now that his thinking was straightforward. Subtlety wasn’t high on his list and he lacked the facility for reflection. He was practical. He saw what needed to be done and he did it. In this case, the bum attacking Pearl needed to be hit with a hunk of wood, which Felix managed with dispatch. The bum toppled over in exactly the manner you’d expect for a man who’d just been hit with a hunk of wood.

I didn’t wait to see what happened next. I made a quick run to the tree, where I snatched the backpack from its resting place. I was surprised to find it nearly weightless, offering little or no resistance. I’d imagined having to drag it along behind me, but while it was unwieldy, it was easy to carry. I grabbed the nearby canvas duffel and dragged it into the dense shrubs, pulling it in one hand while I held the backpack in front of me like a shield. Advancement was almost impossible. I plunged through the path of crushed and snapped undergrowth created by our approach. I broke out of the woods and began to struggle up the hill toward the fence. I was breathing hard and sweating, and my shoulders burned. I like to think I’m in good shape, but clearly that was not the case. Behind me, I hoped Felix and Pearl knew how to protect themselves. The last I’d seen of them, they were doing okay. Rescuing the backpack had been the goal, and if we failed at that, then the venture was all risk with no payoff. Once I’d tossed the backpack and the duffel in the trunk of my car, I’d go back and offer what I could in the way of help.