Alibi Creek (10 page)

19

T
HE WIND DIED AND AS
daylight faded the dogs began their anxious barking at real or imagined threats lurking on the mesa. Walker sat in the willow chair on Mother's porch, feet propped on the railing, smoking, and sipping whiskey on the rocks. Full darkness set in and the dogs shut up, scampering off to greet someone approaching from the workshop. Walker kept quiet as Lee Ann walked quickly to her house.

He'd give Keith some time to enjoy Plank's Plot, zero in and make the sale and haul ass out of here, cash in hand. Within a week every last one of them would be on his ass, teeth gnashing, CBs on, pistols loaded—Lyle, with deputies Jeremy and Lewis, Ralph Archuleta and a couple of officers from the state police, Owen, Danielle, and Eugene. You bet, Eugene. They'd call Ted Bowles at his law office in Socorro and check the legitimacy of the quitclaim deed, agree it was legal, and grumble about the stupidity (or senility) of the old man falling for the scam of a convicted criminal, a man Ross knew to be a con artist from the day he was born. They'd call Border Patrol, expecting him to head to Mexico, but he'd travel in the opposite direction, to Michigan's Upper Peninsula, where he and Pat Merker had plans to meet in a town called Paradise.

He lit another smoke and drank from the plastic cup that rolled around the floor of his pickup. Coming home
after Mother went to bed and taking off in the morning before Grace arrived prevented getting trapped in matters of consideration—consideration of Mother's routine, feelings, and needs. Truth was, she was just a shell of her former self and probably didn't understand or give a damn about all the fuss over her wellbeing.

The full, white moon inched over the mesa and traveled its path over the northeast end of the house, shining in Mother's window. If she woke up, she'd be helpless, unable to call someone to close the curtain. Hell, in her shoes, he'd as soon give up food and water and be done with life in three short weeks. Poor Mother couldn't even tell her Christ-loving daughter to quit saving the dying, quit being a martyr, leave a worthless old woman's life alone, get on with her own.

Black walnuts hit the roof. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. When Dad plucked that young tree from the forest and planted it out back, Mother had warned the nuts would become a problem—not a problem really, but something that might take getting used to. Dad had laughed, saying that'd be years away. When the nuts began to fall, they'd all grown used to the tree, welcomed its summer shade and by unanimous decision agreed to let it grow, although they half laughed, half grumbled about the concert every fall.

He poured another drink, and another. An owl hooted from the cluster of cottonwoods by the creek. Small rodents scratched under the porch. Past midnight, light hit the trees and Danielle's jeep slowed to a stop. He sat there until the last minute, and hop-skipped down the steps.

“Lady deserves an escort to her new home,” he said, opening the car door. He sniffed for hints of sex on her, but liquor and cigarettes overpowered anything else. She wobbled against him and straightened.

“I'm fine.”

“Sure you are,” he said, clutching her upper arm. “Now we're going to tiptoe down the hall and tuck you into Lee Ann's bed.”

Her tee shirt was inside out, lipstick gone, liner smeared into dark smudges under her eyes. Her feet dragged across the floor, and she held onto the wall as they made their way down the dark hallway.

He flipped on the light, shoved the pile of clothes to one side and turned down the covers. She dropped on the mattress like falling timber. He pulled off her boots and drew the quilt over her.

“I hope you got somewhere with the old boy,” he said.

“Oh, we got somewhere,” she said, as if in a trance.

“I'm talking about the land, the good deal we're going to offer him.”

“He was interested in only one thing.” She smiled. “You men are all alike.”

“Christ, Danielle. You got to remember our purpose here.”

Her tongue moved in and out like a turtle's, suggesting obscene, intimate acts and her eyelids closed over eyeballs rolling this way and that, dreaming about sex with a capital S. Her skin was pale, sort of the color of those piglets, and a spot of saliva collected in the corner of her mouth. Sober, she might hang onto their objective, steer every conversation with the vet toward the purchase of Plank's Plot, but drunk she'd throw a fortune away for Keith's prick inside her. She used to call Walker's cock Little Man. His ears turned red. The schemes he concocted and his own internal dialogue were way more interesting than sweaty encounters with women. Flirting served to sharpen his skills. He could do without the heavy breathing and wet stuff.

He checked the amount of cash in the cookie jar and carefully replaced the lid. The ceramic pig had sat beside the Folgers coffee can containing spatulas and wooden spoons as long as he could remember, hell, probably as long as Mother could remember, the glaze on its green bandana worn thin, only faint touches of pink still coloring the inner folds of his ears. Walker touched the pig's snout. Stay right there, Tubby. Hold onto what's inside you for a couple more days.

20

FRIDAY OCTOBER 5, 2007

L
EE
A
NN HEARD THE BATHTUB
filling as she fed Mother breakfast, could not remember indulging in such luxury, did remember Harley's fat hand squeezing her shoulder while asking her to change the second figure of the lowest bid on an electrical contract from a three to an eight. A slight swish of water sounded from the bathroom, a body lolling, not rising. What must it be like, working at the motel—checking them in, checking them out, telling Carlinda which rooms to clean, showing up at nine, leaving at four, reading magazines on the job, suggesting points of interest to eager travelers, organizing the brochure rack and driving home without budget details, altered documents, and bothersome people to contend with, personnel who, like herself, would never quit.

A copy of the Sunday
Albuquerque Journal
had been placed on her desk with an article circled in red. Her purse fell from her shoulder and still in her jacket, she sat down to read.

Several rural New Mexico counties have hit a jackpot—at least temporarily—under a beefed-up federal program for those with large tracts of federal forest.

The revenue stream known as County Payments swelled in 2007 as part of the $700 billion federal bailout program, with New Mexico's share jumping from 2.3 million to 18.8 million.

Forest payments in six counties increased as much as 1,000 percent, with about half going to county road projects and half to the school systems.

Dax County, according to the Associated Press, received the highest per-capita payment in the nation. Its federal payment grew from $733,422 in the 2006 fiscal year to $6.4 million a year later. Critics say the changes, originally intended to help logging communities hurt by the Endangered Species Act and battles over the Spotted Owl, have transformed the program into an entitlement.

Because four-fifths of Dax County acreage is federal or state trust land, economic development is greatly restricted.

The funds will likely rekindle a century-old debate about what rural counties should expect from the federal government in exchange for hosting public lands.

Her body bent toward the paper, fingers gripping her forearms. State reporters would likely show up at the courthouse within the next few days to ask just how Dax County planned to spend the windfall. The commissioners hadn't shared the news. She pictured Harley, Ed, and Saul standing side by side, collars choking thick necks, arms limp, shirts stretched tight, buttons threatening to pop their holes. Three little pigs. A padded wall of resistance. To her face, pleasantries. Behind her back, disrespect.

No doubt, within the next half hour one of the three would call to “chat.” The room was cold. Saul Duran's brother-in-law, who constructed the building, had probably charged the county a bundle and scrimped on the insulation. Last winter the heat had gone out for four days and she'd had to call a plumber from Socorro. No one in town knew how to fix the furnace. She grabbed the closest folder to give the impression of impending business and went downstairs to the clerk's office to have them send a
memo saying the heat would be turned on the following day.

In the hall she met the sheriff, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Mornin', Lee Ann.” He cleared his throat. “Ross Plank died last night, peacefully, in his sleep. The nursing home called Owen first thing this morning.”

She hadn't been particularly fond of the man.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Let me know when they schedule the funeral. Tell Owen I'll contact the women's auxiliary and arrange for a potluck at the community center. He and Rita will have enough on their hands.”

She opened the file in her hand and lifted her head, as if suddenly remembering an item needing attention, flashed a weak smile, and hurried down the corridor.

She could quit. Let them hire another patsy. Until now health insurance, retirement benefits, and a steady salary had justified sticking with the job. It hadn't mattered much if Saul Duran gave a construction contract to his brother-in-law. Things had always been that way. When federal funds specified for Head Start had been used to create a position for Ed Richter's niece in the treasurer's office, she'd looked the other way, like everyone else. But what she'd termed “misdemeanors” were indeed criminal acts, and passive acquiescence amounted to active participation.

In her dreams papers blew off her desk. Wind spewed data in all directions and her fingers reached for information beyond her grasp. The filing system was jumbled. Dates and titles made no sense. Numbers added up to incorrect totals, other pages were blank. Paper-clipped reports stamped Urgent and Top Priority had pages missing. Frantic, she leafed through them…1, 2, 3, 4…22…10, 11,…18, shuffling, re-counting.

The Jeep's squeaky brakes and bright headlights woke her at two a.m. The car door slammed and Walker muttered as he steered Danielle into Mother's house. Lee Ann got into her robe and pulled a chair up to the small round table in the corner of the dining room. Lamplight picked up her thumbprints on the glass covering Jesus and a smudge where she'd once pressed her lips to his image. She opened the Bible to Ecclesiastes, as it spoke to the meaninglessness of life's labors, the inability to change one's fate, and acceptance of the intrinsic nature of all God's creatures.

As she often did as a child, she selected a page at random.
One event happens to the righteous and the wicked; to the good, the clean, and the unclean. To him who sacrifices and to him who does not sacrifice. As is the good, so is the sinner; he who takes an oath as he who fears an oath.
Ecclesiastes 9:2. The passage implied all would suffer indiscriminately during catastrophic earthquakes, hurricanes, or floods. The good and faithful would not be selected, given preference, or be saved. However, the passage might also mean that even under ordinary conditions, kindness and faith do not determine a person's worth in the eyes of the Lord, that in light of all that may befall a person, to any degree, intention matters not a hoot, that God inflicts wrath or bounty indiscriminately, without preference for who will suffer and who will not. This couldn't be right, for the Bible instructs how to act, and that God will be pleased if His instructions are followed. There would be no point in living faithfully if there was no payoff. Good deeds
must
merit special treatment—if not in this life, then the next—or all efforts to live devoutly would be in vain. Tears fell onto the passage. She swiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, but the tears kept flowing, wetting the page clear through to the one underneath, and the one beneath that.

From the window, moonlight shone on Mother's house, all the windows dark. Walker home almost a week. Dad dead sixteen years. At some point Mother and Dad must have accepted that environmental influences had little to do with how Walker turned out. Like everyone else, Dad had been baffled at Walker's talent for getting into trouble, but played along, agreeing with Mother to bail him out of jams. Many were the nights Dad ordered Walker to sit on a stool, lecturing him on regard for others. As far as speaking the truth, Dad admitted no one did. From early on, Dax County folks learned to hide honest opinions under a façade of pleasantries and tuck condemning comments behind a neighborly smile. But damn it, the boy ought to have a sense of regard.

Mother and Dad argued behind their bedroom door. He means no harm.
He's got to learn.
This is a stage.
It's gone on too long.
He'll mature.
He ain't interested in being an adult.
A sigh. Another sigh. But most often Dad laughed at Walker's spunk and bravado, his daring, his defiance of authority, his confidence in being able to worm his way out of any scrape. What ingenuity! Such imagination! The two of them hung over the corral fence, Dad resting on his forearms, Walker letting go of the rail to imitate Pastor Fletcher slinking up the church aisle, his body concave as the hook on a coat hanger, or Ross Plank pushing his wife across the dance floor, rigid as a robot, or Grace following each sentence with her nose when she read up close, and Dad would roar. Pretty soon he'd grab Walker's neck, stick a shovel in his hand and shove him toward the barn. Walker would heave a few clumps of manure and the minute Dad disappeared, plant the shovel in the rest and mount Lucky, gallop across the field and up Salida Canyon. How she'd despised him! How she'd fought giving in to those contemptible emotions!

These days, folks sought explanations for reprehensible behavior—verbal or physical abuse during childhood the most common reason. Mother and Dad had their faults and idiosyncrasies, but they enjoyed their kids. They'd bicker over the date to plant the garden, how much household money to keep on hand, how rare to cook a steak, when to breed the heifers. Any subject would set them huffing and puffing, as if their particular point of view determined life or death, then one or the other would walk away or shrug their shoulders, the whole argument having amounted to nothing more than an exercise in who could banter better. Sunday morning, instead of dressing for church, Dad would be seized by an urge to organize the shop. Mother would dash about like a border collie herding the family together, fuming, in desperate need of a good sermon to settle her down.

If anything, Lee Ann and Walker had been spoiled as kids. Each rode their own horse, raised their own animals, wore new clothes, owned a personal vehicle at sixteen, had been allotted a generous allowance, and been given the freedom to arrange social activities, with one exception. Church attendance on Sunday was mandatory. From the start, the Bible's teachings from a God on high, delivered passionately by an emaciated pastor in a stark room, stuck to Lee Ann. Guided by the pastor's words, lifted by hymns sung in unison, greeted by a congregation decked out in their Sunday best, the church encouraged the best in her. If she forgot those qualities during the week, the Lord reminded her every Sunday. The same sermon delivered in the same environment by the same preacher passed straight through Walker's head, as if there were nothing in there for the message to latch onto.

She straightened the picture of Jesus and turned back to Ecclesiastes. The tear-soaked pages had begun to crinkle
and curl. She closed the Bible and placed a high school atlas from the living room bookshelves on top of it.

Before breakfast, she set the iron on
delicates
and pressed a sheet of used wrapping paper. The creases disappeared. She opened the Bible and ran the iron over the corner of a wrinkled page. Faint lines showed and she increased the heat to
wool.

The phone rang and she took the receiver from Dee's hand as he mouthed, “Harley.”

“Lee Ann, sorry to bother you so early. Saul, Ed, and I would like to schedule a meeting with you today, as soon as possible.”

“I assume this is regarding the windfall.”

“Yes, we'll fill you in on the figures and discuss what we want you to say to reporters. We also need to go over the proposed bid for a youth center and some issues with the volunteer fire department.”

“I'll meet you at ten o'clock in the conference room. I don't think there's anything scheduled at that…” She grabbed the iron. Where it had rested, the paper was scorched and hot to the touch, the page brittle and scarred.