Alibi Creek (22 page)

50

A
T SUNSET
, W
ALKER LEANED ON
a broom, a pile of mouse droppings and dust at his feet. Over the weekend he'd located a single bed (outgrown by Art's nephew), a set of silverware donated by Vera, and a card table and two chairs from the thrift store. He'd chinked the cracks between the logs with mud and straw. The cabin was taking shape. No hot water, but he'd shower at Jo's. No washing machine, but hers could handle an extra load once in a while. He'd buy a small fridge that fit under the counter in Show Low this week. He swept the dirt onto a piece of cardboard and opened the door to toss it, just as a tan Pathfinder splashed across the creek. Company already.

“Merk!”

A blast of cold wind blew his cellmate inside.

They hugged, slapped backs, tap danced, stepped back and came together, poked ribs.

“You got any glasses?” Pat said, waving a bottle of Jim Beam.

Walker set out two jelly jars and Pat poured. They clinked rims. Walker threw a log into the wood stove and they huddled next to the heat, warming their bellies and backs, and caught up, Pat reporting prison gossip, Walker filling Pat in on his deal with Keith.

“About the money,” Walker said. “It just didn't work out, man.”

Pat stepped over to the north-facing window. “Nice view.”

“Bastard tried to kill me,” Walker said. He closed the damper, glanced sideways at Pat and nice and slow, said to his back, “I figure you and him might have pre-planned that.”

Pat faced him. “You and me are partners, buddy.”

“How many partners you got?”

“Only one. Only you.”

The cabin was as tight as their jail cell, with one difference—the entire free world waited outside an unbarred door. Pat poked the bottle under his armpit and they took off for the bar.

Jo was on her perch, talking to a man Walker hadn't seen before, an administrative type wearing a suit. She borrowed his pen and wrote something on a napkin. The man slipped the information between the pages of a thin, black notebook.

Owen bought everyone a drink.

“Except for him,” he said, pointing at Walker.

Walker winked at Jo, who didn't notice, and ordered a couple of beers.

“Don't pay Owen no mind,” Walker said, steering Pat to a table. “It was his ranch I sold to Keith.”

Owen came over, already drunk, told Pat he was keeping company with the biggest thief in the county, maybe the entire state, called Walker a slimy bastard, and drifted back to the bar.

“I hear you gave him all the money,” Pat said. He raised his beer, took a drink. “I figure you owe me something.”

“Like hell.”

“I set us up. You fucked up.”

“You gave me a name.”

“That led to $880,000.00.”

Jo laughed with the stranger.

“I happen to know your mother left you a shitload of money,” Pat said.

“Whoa,” Walker said. “Not true. Twenty grand, that's it.”

He took out his wallet and opened it just enough to show one end of a cashier's check for $20,216.00.

“Bullshit,” Pat said. “Your sister told me about your gambling granddad, about the money he'd socked away, and that your mother never told a soul.”

Gambling granddad? Mother's father was a preacher, so poor he couldn't replace his coat buttons. Dad's father was a lean, mean rancher, raised on pinto beans and stringy beef. If there'd been any money in the family, Mother would have put up bail the last time he got arrested, bought back the two sections of the ranch he'd sold just north of the store, and made sure he drove a spiffy truck.

Owen yelled across the room. “I surveyed your property today. You'll get what you deserve! Serves you right for taking advantage of a helpless old man!”

“Let's go,” Walker said, shoving his chair back. “Los Olmos is an hour south. The Hole in the Wall is open until two. They got a band.”

He stopped by Jo's stool and squeezed in between her and the man, laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I'll be late tonight,” he said. “Introduce me.”

“Walker, this is Gerald. Gerald Murray.”

Driving south, Walker filled Pat in on the hunters' lodge. They didn't have zoning laws in Alibi Creek and he could build what he wanted any way he wanted. He didn't know how to cook, but he could flip burgers and tell the difference between medium and rare, and Jo could roast a leg of lamb
and whip up a few cakes and pies. The season would run from late August through November. Over the winter they'd kick back in their recliners and rest up. Out-of-state hunters had the big bucks. The only bad part would be waking up at three a.m. to get 'em fed and out the door long before sunup. Hell, he'd stay up all night. Breakfast would be served in a big kitchen with men dishing bacon and eggs on their plates, drinking OJ. Bowls of energy bars, candy bars, and cheese crackers would be available to stuff into their camo vest pockets. There'd be a separate refrigerator just for beer.

Pat grunted. Must be the adjustment of getting out. Walker asked about his plans and Pat said, “We had plans. You fucked them up.”

“Hey, I tried. You go on up to the UP and live up there. That part of the country ain't for me.”

Pat stared straight ahead.

“Look,” Walker said. “I'd take you in as a partner on the hunting lodge if you want to stick around. What's wrong, man? Your mouth usually runs looser than a woman's at the beauty shop.”

At the Hole in the Wall, the three-man band played classic country. During the break Walker bought the musicians a beer. Pat loosened up some, but not enough to launch into the bullshit he'd told in prison that got Walker laughing so hard his stomach ached. Walker tapped his foot to the music. Two gals at the next table smiled.

“I'm serious, man, about going partners,” Walker said. “That little brunette sitting across from the blond has her eye on you. Ask her to dance.”

“I'll think about it.”

“The girl or lodge?”

“Both.”

The blond met up with her date and Walker sat back as Pat and the brunette danced to a Patsy Cline song. The lead singer played the guitar like a pro and sang with his eyes closed, dragging a tune out longer than a string of TV commercials. After a couple more dances, the girl led Pat outside.

Walker wandered over to the pool tables and listened to the balls clink, sink, and rebound to the cheers and moans of the players. He knew some of the guys, but games were a drag and he sat down again, put his feet up on Pat's chair and emptied his beer. Life was good—twenty grand in his wallet, a plan, a woman—
his
woman, Jo. He was as close to peaceful as he'd known. A little buzz vibrated in his right ear. He tilted his head. When everything seemed perfect, except for one little thing, that little thing usually turned out to be a big problem. He listened closely. The problem was Pat. Pat the Rat.

The rodent showed up at closing time, just before last call, all cocky, and said, “Let's split.”

Walker stuffed a ten in the band's tip can and followed the rat outside.

51

WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 21, 2007

E
XOTIC SPICES AND COOKING INGREDIENTS
from the Asian Market, Whole Foods, and the Mediterranean Specialty Shop took up a corner of the kitchen counter, and now, the day before Thanksgiving, Lee Ann stored them in the cupboard. Tradition called for plain old salt, pepper, and sage.

She picked through the cranberries, extra red and fresh this year, added sugar, and set them to boil. Mid-afternoon she poured a cup of the morning's coffee and leafed through a copy of
Bon Appetite
that she'd picked up in Albuquerque. Developing skills as a gourmet cook was pointless. Soon Scott would move, Dee would marry and get used to Ginny's cooking, and Edgar would die. Eugene would eat with the Bidwells, owners of the dude ranch. Between shots of whiskey and chugs of beer, Walker picked at a meal with taste buds that didn't discriminate. As for Grace, eighty years of meals prepared according to her particular tastes would resist change, and deep down, Lee Ann liked plain old-fashioned cooking, too. She closed the magazine as the phone rang.

Jo asked if Walker had been around. He'd borrowed her car and she needed it. She'd last seen him two nights ago at Art's, drinking with some guy that looked just like him. Owen had been shouting rude remarks and Walker and his buddy had left. He'd been busy fixing up the cabin. Would
Lee Ann mind driving up the creek to see if the car was there?

The north end of the ranch hadn't been used since Dad quit raising hogs, the failed endeavor having left the property with the reputation of being good for nothing. In winter, dense thickets of matted willows and bare, young cottonwoods clustered along the creek. Deep green pines shot up between massive boulders where it seemed unlikely any seed could take root, lending a chilling enchantment to the place.

Already the sun had dropped behind the mesa. Jo's car was parked with the key in it. Lee Ann expected Walker's head to pop out the door and when it didn't, she called his name and knocked, listened for creaking floorboards, and went inside. Dad had once stored slop buckets and garbage cans of ground corn and bean meal, extra fence wire, and sheets of corrugated tin, every inch of space stuffed with something or other. All that had been cleaned out and the cabin was lovely in a rustic way. As a girl, she'd despised pigs' swollen bodies and dirty noses. Funny, Scott and Dee's litter didn't bother her at all, perhaps because they hadn't grown to full size, or because the threat of Walker shoving her into the pen had long passed.

She picked Jo up that evening in front of Art's.

“Thanks for making a special trip,” Jo said.

“It's the least I can do. He should have returned your car.”

“Maybe he's off looking for a truck with Leo, or hauling supplies,” Jo said, latching her seat belt. “He's got big plans.”

Lee Ann's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. No prayer could save him. Prayers didn't save anything. All
they were good for was pinpointing problems to solve and goals to achieve and dreams to actualize.

Boxelder and scrub oak lined the road, disappearing as they passed the turnoff to the dump. The smell of cigarette smoke came off Jo's clothes and hair. Lee Ann didn't mind. Jo did a good job. She was one of those people who could swear without being offensive and smoke and drink as if it were as harmless as popping gum and sipping ginger ale. She minded her own business while managing to know everybody else's and what she knew she kept to herself.

Jo said, “Gerald Murray told me all three commissioners could serve jail terms. You should run for office.”

Lee Ann laughed.

“You know as well as I do, a woman would never be elected county commissioner in Dax County.”

“Be the first.”

They drove in silence for a mile or so.

“You should stay clear of Walker's schemes,” Lee Ann said.

“You should take my advice and I should take yours. We've both got points.”

Alibi Creek had iced over and they broke through it, Jo saying she wished she could see the land. In the dark, the closeness of the mesas blocked chunks of starlit sky and the willow thickets seemed like bodies crowding around. Lee Ann handed Jo her car key.

“I assume Walker has told you I want nothing else to do with him.”

Jo got out.

“I understand,” she said. “Thanks for the ride.”

52

THURSDAY NOVEMBER 22, 2007

S
HE WOKE EARLY AND STUFFED
the turkey while the pumpkin pie baked. The boys left to help Edgar feed and water the chickens and hogs.

“Bring in extra firewood, and remind Edgar we're eating at three.”

The table was set for five, with Mother's ceramic cornucopia the centerpiece. She placed an extra plate and silverware on the buffet, brought in a folding chair from the shed and leaned it against the wall and hung her apron. In the bedroom, she fussed with her hair, tried on the navy sweater, then the off-white. The pants with the side zipper were the most flattering. She fluffed the couch pillows, straightened the painting above the buffet, and plucked the dry leaves off the geranium. When the pie came out, the turkey went in and by one o'clock the entire house smelled of juices running and skin browning. Time to whip the cream. She opened the front door and listened, and set the beaters to whirring.

She greeted Edgar with a brief hug and spoke loudly into his better ear and he nodded as if he'd heard and understood. Ginny helped carry the platters and bowls to the table, setting the stuffing in front of Dee. Scott carved. At the last minute Lee Ann remembered the cranberry sauce still in the fridge, and holding it in both hands, paused in the doorway before returning to the dining room. Scott pulled back her chair.

He said, “Let's skip grace.”

“No,” Dee said. “I'll say it.” He bowed his head and Ginny did the same.

“Lord, on this day of thanksgiving, we wish to express our gratitude for this meal. We send our thoughts and prayers to those who aren't with us today. Amen.”

Scott forked turkey onto plates, dishes were passed and compliments offered, with a toast to the chef.

Before dessert, Lee Ann excused herself to take the dogs some scraps, which they lapped up with two licks of their tongues. They accompanied her along the well-worn garden path and stopped at the fence, at which point they were not permitted entrance. Clouds thin as gauze passed in front of the moon. She fumbled with the gate and walked southward, away from the house, between the hard, dry rows. He did not miss her, did not miss home, could celebrate Thanksgiving elsewhere, eat some other woman's food, sleep in a strange bed, alone, did not care if she got chilled at night, or stressed during the day, if the place fell apart, if she fell apart.

At the end of the row, she turned. The dining room and kitchen lights shone yellow-white. The muted dirt road dipped to the creek and the tin roof of the barn, reflecting moonlight, seeming to float like a giant raft in space. Mother's house and the weeping willow were barely visible. She turned south again, humming. “You have stolen my heart, now don't go 'way, as we sang love's old sweet song on Moonlight Bay.” Scott's arm hugged her shoulder and guided her back to the house.