Alibi Creek (14 page)

27

F
UCK
. W
HEN
E
UGENE GOT BACK
, he'd fall into a rage, madder than a bull elk defending his harem. If he settled down, it would be into a self-righteous, close-mouthed snit, pretending to ignore the disaster while tallying every detail. Without Dee, the crew would be short a man and without Lee Ann, lunch (if they got to it at all) would drag into a wordless ordeal, mouths chewing and swallowing, slurping lemonade, hiding their disgust for The Screw-up, The Loser, The Clown—Eugene the quietest, stiffest of all.

Walker drove the tractor across the cattle guard, Sonny's legs sticking out at odd angles like a broken carousel horse. When they reached soft ground behind the barn, Walker lowered the bucket and stepped down from the tractor, reached for the flask in his back pocket and took a long drink. Liquor and sorrow loosened his joints and his knees buckled. He leaned against the tractor wheel, tilted his head back, and emptied the flask into his throat.

“You been a good horse,” he said.

Butch would be thirsty. He walked to the barn and ran water from the hose into an empty coffee can, snapped on the lid, and strapped it to the ATV under a bungee cord. The cows wouldn't appreciate the noise and he would despise the image of himself herding cows on wheels, but roundup had already turned into a day from hell, so what the hell.

Toby helped him move the cows onto the property before Eugene and the others got back.

“I owe you one,” Walker said.

He drove to the store and convinced Shelly to pour off a quarter of that special bottle and took his cup into the storeroom. The old men came for their papers and sat on the porch and went on about the same useless shit they always jawed about and he didn't go outside to join them. When they asked Shelly why Walker's truck was parked out back, she said he'd met someone and taken off, she didn't know where. Atta girl, Shelly.

That night he buried the horse alone in the beams of the Kubota's headlights, using the old Yanmar utility tractor to dig the grave. He drank, fortifying his nerves against the thud of Sonny dropping into the hole, a deep abyss blacker than night shadows. Stars that usually winked at him looked elsewhere. Even the dogs left him to himself. In the end, he had no words for Sonny.

He parked the equipment back at the barn, checked their exact positions and angles twice. Had to. Eugene was P-I-S-S-E-D. Silent guys were the scariest, but not for long, because in the end men like Eugene, intent on holding onto what they bottled up, couldn't think fast, couldn't come up with creative moves, invent stories to mesmerize, tantalize, hypnotize. The quiet ones couldn't talk long enough or fast enough to convince an opponent to abandon reason and act against his better interests. Being slippery, sly, smart, and sassy compensated for a whole hell of a lot. Quick thinking bull-shitters provided the fun in life, the pizazz, the icing on the cake, and admit it—a cake is nothing without icing.

He stripped and lay on the bed. A shower would feel fine, water pelting his back and shoulders, running through his hair. Too tired to get up. Too drunk to care how he
smelled or that the crew would be a day late branding and inoculating, or that Danielle hadn't been home for two nights, or that Dee's shoulder would put him out of commission for who knew how long.

Lee Ann's Blazer pulled in, or maybe he imagined that. He waived a finger in the air making a mental note to get Mother dressed and fed in the morning if they didn't get back from the hospital tonight. He needed to find his duffle bag, ought to get up and pack, raid the cookie jar…vamoose…let loose…don't forget a toothbrush. Nah. Pick one up on the road.

28

MONDAY OCTOBER 8, 2007

S
IR
G
ALAHAD ANNOUNCED THE NEW
day well before sun up. Walker went outside, took a leak, and wandered over to Lee Ann's. The Blazer was there, the hood cold. The dogs romped around him, jostling against his legs, and he patted their heads and said, “Git,” and when they disobeyed and snuck back to Mother's, he growled, “G'wan!”

With one sweep, he emptied the cookie jar, running his knuckles around the bottom to corral any change. Danielle's room remained unoccupied. Mother snored softly. He groped around the top shelf of his closet and yanked down the old duffle bag, spread it apart, and opened his bureau drawer. Tee shirts were neatly stacked beside socks folded toe-to-toe and heel-to-heel in neat pairs. He shoved the drawer shut and stuffed the duffle bag back on the shelf. Early light struck the Anasazi bowls and ladles, bone tools,
metates,
and grandfather's spittoon on the bookshelves, and a dull sheen reflected off his breakaway roping trophy. The delicate black and white Mimbres pot with the narrow neck, the one the posthole digger had brought up while replacing a rotten fence post, would make a nice souvenir. It had clinked when he'd cleaned it off and four obsidian bird points had fallen into his palm. He shook out the contents now, picked out an arrowhead, polished it against his shirt, and slipped it in his vest pocket. He reached for the 9mm Glock 26 subcompact and shoulder holster in the drawer,
wrapped his fingers around cool metal, shut out the memories, and walked out.

The pickup slowed and his pulse raced as he rounded the knoll at Plank's Plot and pulled up beside Danielle's Jeep. He cut the engine, stretched his legs under the steering wheel and sipped from the flask. The cinderblocks had settled, sending the southwest corner of the trailer into a nosedive. Ought to put a rock under it. A couple of rusted fifty-five-gallon drums had overflowed with garbage, some of it finding a home under the crawl space. The back of Keith's SUV was open, a canvas overnight bag and paper grocery sack stuffed with dirty clothes inside. All right. They were both ready to deal, wind things up, and split. He squinted against the sun's reflection bouncing off a small metal strip running along the edge of the roof. The go-ahead light. Poor now, rich by night. Offer the bait, let him bite. Close the deal, take flight.

Quitclaim deed in hand, he sprinted toward the steps and came to a full stop. Whoa, boy. Don't kill the transaction with enthusiasm. Keep the zipper shut. Don't slap the dude's shoulder. Hold off on that handshake until the money's delivered and stowed in the truck. Tonight there'll be plenty of time to let loose, order a shot of Johnnie Walker Gold, and celebrate. Hell, buy the whole bottle and pass it around the bar in some unknown town. The world didn't lack watering holes, no matter where he'd bed down. Hey, he might use the big bucks to purchase a dive in the UP, with padded leather trim along a shiny bar, low lights, high stools, red and black décor, nothin' fancy, a hangout for the common man. Pat said folks drank a lot up there, to get through the winters and all. The place would have a jukebox, if they still made those things, and a rock fireplace, a
dartboard, and pool table. And to hell with what the law said about cigarette smoking in closed quarters, because those would be
his
quarters, his and Pat's, and he'd do what he damn well pleased. Don't like smoke? Go elsewhere. Music too loud? Bring earplugs.

Keith opened the door, the living room darkened by heavy curtains. Down the hall the bathroom door closed.

Walker slipped inside, the deed against his thigh.

“Beautiful day,” he said. “My bones tell me the weather's about to change, though. We'll be getting some rain in a day or two.”

“No need for small talk,” Keith said. “I have your money.”

Sunlight broke through dusty kitchen blinds, shooting pinstripes across the floor. Keith reached into the cabinet under the sink, pulled out a black suitcase.

“Open it,” he said, shoving it across the table.

Walker's mouth watered, as if he just got a whiff of strong coffee with a big splash of Bailey's.

“Okay, then.”

He flipped the clasps and exactly like in a B-grade movie, tightly packed stacks of hundred dollar bills filled a suitcase that seemed custom-made for that purpose.

“I'll take the deed,” Keith said. “Sign this receipt for the cash.”

Walker shoved the deed next to the money. Keith placed his index finger on it and slowly drew it across the table. Walker picked up the pen. Wait a minute. In the long run, land was worth more than any amount of money. But the short run won out and he signed. The Handsome Man side of Keith's face turned ugly. Cold air seemed to come off him, cold beyond a freezer on the highest setting. The hairs rose on the back of Walker's neck and arms. He lifted the suitcase and with his free elbow nudged his jacket. The
Glock peeked out. With a brief salute he backed into the living room, and keeping his eyes on the motherfucker, fumbled behind his back for the doorknob.

Out of here quick, down the steps, suitcase on the seat, ass behind the wheel. A shot rang out. Walker turned the ignition, put her in reverse. Another shot. He slouched down in the seat, his foot to the pedal. A hissing sound leaked from the tires.

Grab the suitcase! Run! He zigzagged across the field to the barn. Two bullets whizzed by. Walker jumped into overdrive, his legs bounding on invisible springs. A regular kangaroo. Run! Think! Take cover in the barn until nightfall, then cross the clearing to the mesa, hike through dense piñon and cedar to the road a few miles north and hitch a ride.

He squinted through a crack in the barn's siding. Keith drove his SUV behind a crinkled metal shed and faced it toward Walker's get-away route to the mesa. The automatic window opened and the engine cut off. Dust tickled Walker's nose and he squeezed his nostrils against a sneeze. Crouching low, and using the barn as cover, he retraced his steps to the trailer. Danielle kept the key to the Jeep under the seat and sure enough, there it was, gas tank half full.

He drove away slowly, letting Keith assume Danielle had left for work. When he reached the highway, he gunned the engine and headed north. Let's see how fast this red crate'll go! Five miles up the road he took off his hat and laid it on the suitcase and laughed and laughed and laughed.

29

S
CRAMBLED EGGS STEAMED ON A
platter. Bacon, sausage, and leftover cornbread were already on the table, coffee had been poured. Odd how men grew silent after a catastrophe, whereas women rushed to bake a cake, utter assurances, dress a wound, and send condolence cards. Eugene broke open a biscuit and asked for the jam. A stranger might think his soft-spoken manner and no-tell expression conveyed an easy-going man, an uncomplicated man. Anyone who knew him understood that long ago boundaries had been set, codes of conduct established.

“Scott will have to postpone college,” he said.

She passed the eggs to Dee's left hand. Across the table, Manuel and Rudy said nothing as they loaded sausage and bacon onto their plates, feigning disinterest. Conversation uttered at this table would be common knowledge throughout the county within twenty-four hours.

She said, “This is not the time.”

“It's okay, Mom,” Scott said.

She shook her head. Since childhood, the limp swing of his arm tossing a rope over a colt's head, his slow gait to the hen house to feed the chickens (detouring to chase a lizard, or inspect a spider weaving her web), and the lazy way he brushed the horses signaled boredom with ranch chores. Rural life was too small. By the time he was a teenager, he'd not only observed much of the local flora and fauna, he'd
studied books about the unique species in the Galapagos, been captivated by South American parrots and poisonous snakes of Africa, banyan trees in India, creatures and plants of the sea and jungle, intrigued by information about the larger world.

Scott laid his knife across his plate and tapped his fist lightly on the table, left his food half-finished and went outside.

“He was counting on going,” Lee Ann said. “We'll never know where this disappointment fits on the list of others he's experienced—number ten, twenty, forty. He mustn't be assigned an unfulfilled life.”

Dee said, “Stuff in books is always there. There's work to do right here.”

“You don't share his interests, Dee,” she said. “Don't berate his passion. This isn't a question of one endeavor being superior to another.”

“Right now, it's a question of what's practical,” Eugene said.

He swallowed a final gulp of coffee and took his cup to the kitchen. The others cleared their places. Dishes clattered in the sink, the back door opened, footsteps crossed the porch and thumped down the steps.

She stayed at the table, folding and re-folding her napkin. Too much space. Too many men. But friendships with women had always seemed complicated by confidences and snide insinuations. At school, girls who'd shared romantic secrets and compared beauty tips had paired off around her and she'd treated them like another species. At work, betrayals and shifting loyalties warned against bonding with co-workers and subordinates. She trusted Mother. She trusted Grace.

“I'll be praying for a girl,” Mother had said at the news of Lee Ann's first pregnancy, twenty-one years ago. “Boys
grow up to find a woman of their own and leave their mother. A daughter stays forever.”

Lee Ann had proved her right. They'd planted and harvested together, ran errands and shopped together, sewed, cooked, and attended church together. They lived together by choice and circumstance. Together because of a promise, because of obligation, because of loyalty, family ties, soul ties, and tradition. Together—side by side, eggs in a box, cards in a deck, bread in a toaster, cherries on a stem. Mother and daughter.

Mother had been mistaken about sons. Except for his marriage and periods in jail, Walker had stuck even closer to home than Lee Ann, his bedroom the base from where he came and went as he pleased, partly to play, partly to escape, accountable to no one. Mother collapsed like a wilted daffodil when he left, jumped for the phone the entire time he was gone, and perked up when he returned. When his inane exuberance, lies, and deceit beat Lee Ann down, she worked ugly thoughts out with her Lord, for Mother had made it clear—Walker was the one person Lee Ann must never criticize.

She found Danielle on a paint-splattered stool next to the workbench in the shop, boot heels hooked on the top rung, a black cat on her lap.

“I'm sorry we missed each other yesterday,” Lee Ann said. “There was an accident.”

Danielle stroked the cat's head.

“His name is Woolly. The other one's Mister.”

Lee Ann leaned her hip against the table saw.

“I assume they're fixed,” she said.

Actually, she was surprised Eugene hadn't “mistakenly” let them loose. But, of course he wouldn't—they belonged
to Danielle. Every hair in place, gold earrings twirling even when her head didn't move, bright red lipstick, flimsy, semitransparent tee shirt that looked like something to wear to bed. A fallen angel, or one about to fall. No bigger threat than the magic or wizardry of a gorgeous woman, and nothing more unfair.

Jesus stood behind Lee Ann's shoulder.
But I say to you that hear, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless—

She moved away from the table, away from Him.

“Please ask Walker to stack wood for you.”

Danielle lowered Woolly to the floor and whisked cat hair off her jeans.

“He wasn't around. And I didn't ask. Eugene offered.”

Several milk jugs filled with water lined the back edge of the table. Danielle unscrewed one of the caps. “It wasn't a big deal.”

“Walker can do that for you.”

“Tell him that. Tell them both.” She retrieved the cats' water bowl and filled it, splashing water on the legal pad beside the chop saw. “I don't want to be here any more than you want me around,” she said. “As far as Eugene is concerned, you need to take the matter up with him.”

Before the crew returned for lunch, Lee Ann stacked plates by the stove and set out pitchers of lemonade and iced tea. She left a note telling the men to help themselves, retrieved her Bible, and called the dogs, who sensed her destination and shot past Mother's toward the mesa. Walker's truck was gone. Typical. Bungle things and disappear.

Up the canyon, they added paw and footprints to fresh elk and coyote tracks. Often, she'd dally along this route and admire lichen or pick up interesting rocks. This morning
she trudged, leaning forward as if fighting a swift wind, one arm swinging free, the other holding the Bible like a school book. Cedar branches, stripped and mangled by bull elk in mating frenzies, hung from maimed trees, droppings everywhere, the musky odor of fresh urine pungent in the stagnant air. The trail crossed an arroyo, flattened out some, and continued climbing at a steep angle, flanked by rocky walls.

Danielle, curvaceous and coy, with skin like silk and heavy lashes, was there for the asking. Eugene was unhappy. Wordless messages passed between men and women.
I'm married, but it doesn't mean anything.
I'm married, too, but looking elsewhere.
I have erotic secrets to share.
I want to experience them.
I'll keep things light.
I'll appreciate that.
I can make you feel good in ways you can't imagine.
You already do.

The narrow passage ended at a weak spring seeping from porous rock, a destination they called “the dribble.” The pebbled conglomerate oozed water into soggy muck beneath it. Panting, she turned to Proverbs 27:4. Alternating waves of dizziness and heat left her light-headed and she swayed, struggling to keep her balance. She reached to wet her palm and cool her forehead. The Bible weighed nothing, no more than a leaf, and slipped from her hand into the mud. A single note escaped from her throat and she held her ears against the sound of her own anguish.
Wrath is cruel, anger is overwhelming, but who can stand before jealousy?