Free Dead Seed by William Campbell Gault Page B

hero. I had a new one, Sydney Morgenstern. Carol had her money to insulate her from the cruel and real world. Grange had had his agent. Morgenstern would have his avenger.
    We have a nationally known school of photography in our town. I phoned them and asked for the man in charge. Was there any source he knew of, I asked him, who might help me locate the present whereabouts of Carl Lacrosse?
    He knew of none. “His last showing was in Beverly Hills,” he told me. “I talked with him there last week. I wanted him to come up for a short talk with our students this week, but he said he had another commitment.”
    I told him what Vogel had been told on the phone by an employee at the Roquel Gallery, that Lacrosse might be heading for Norway.
    The director thought it unlikely. “Carl often puts out those hints to keep people from bothering him. He goes where his mood of the moment takes him. He is a very private man. You might phone his family down in Skeleton Gulch. That’s in Arizona. But it’s possible they don’t have a phone. It’s not really a town, only a few buildings on the road about halfway between Prescott and Skull Canyon.”
    “You’ve been there, then?”
    “Oh, yes. That’s where he grew up. It’s one of our shrines.”
    I thanked him. Skeleton Gulch, Skull Canyon, Barren Rock, Death Valley; the desert, has so many depressing place-names. Rome, Paris, Venice, Florence, Vienna, London; what magical names those must have been to an artistic kid growing up in Skeleton Gulch.
    Vogel didn’t phone me around noon, as he promised. I didn’t phone him. He was working with Captain Dahl, another professional. They didn’t need any outside help from the bush-league Lord Peter Whimsey.
    Grange had called Mrs. Lacrosse an awful woman. So far as I knew, he had never met her. But what did I know? I hadn’t even known that photography was an art. I had thought that Fortney Grange was a legitimate hero.
    For a man who had grown up in Long Beach and spent his working years in Los Angeles, that was a shameful adolescent hangover. It was about time I learned that real-life heroes usually wound up as victims or martyrs.
    I was deep in reverie when Mrs. Casey came out to ask me, “Would you like a drink before lunch as long as the missus isn’t here?”
    “Why not? Bourbon and water, mostly bourbon. Pour yourself some Irish and we’ll sit out here together and curse the British.”
    “You—!” she said. “You are a caution!”
    She brought my bourbon and water. She brought her own drink along, straight Irish whiskey over ice. Our liquor bill had gone up since she had joined us. It was one of her fringe benefits.
    “Did Mr. Grange explain about that pair in the van?” she asked me.
    “He did. I’m a little disappointed in him.”
    “Why? Because he’s living with Miss Medford? If the kids can live in mortal sin today, together, why not adults?”
    “I suppose you’re right. With people their age, the Church might consider it only a venial sin.”
    “Not to good Catholics. All adultery is a mortal sin. I know that you have left the Church, Mr. Callahan, but I hope you still believe that.”
    “We can’t be sure they are committing adultery,” I pointed out.
    She sniffed. “I may be old-fashioned, but I’m not stupid. They are lovers. But neither one is Catholic. Let them have their fun. Maybe they honestly believe they aren’t going to burn in hell for it.”
    That could be where I had developed my instinctual need for vindictive retribution—from my youthful training.
    I had the rest of last night’s Irish stew for lunch and considered several courses of action for the afternoon. None of them seemed likely to be rewarding. I took a nap.
    I was awake and trying to find new connecting lines between the characters on my chart when Corey came. It was only three o’clock, which I pointed out, and added, “You couldn’t have put in your full eight hours today. Were you fired?”
    “No. There were