Horace Afoot (36 page)

“They’re right about that. Never seen such a maggot-eaten mess my whole life.”

“How do you know it was a man, then?”

“Don’t too many women wear size eleven Nikes. They pulled him up in his damn running shoes. We’ll know a lot more when the coroner finishes checking it out. How long he’s been dead. How he died. Who he
was
.”

The sheriff walks over carrying his clipboard and wearing an expression right out of television. “I want you to tell me how many times you’ve been out here in the last year.”

“Exactly?”

“That’s right.”

“I can’t say exactly.”

“Try. Give me a number.”

“Twenty. Maybe.”

“You sure?”

“Give or take a few.”

“Ballpark. Twenty.”

I nod.

“Now tell me who else you’ve ever seen out here.”

“You. You arrested me here, remember?”

“Besides me.”

“Those two drunks last week and them.” I point over to the archaeologists.

The sheriff writes. “That the only time you ever saw either one of them out here?”

“The archaeologists?”

“No. Schroeder and the woman.”

I nod.

Ross looks on, amused. The sheriff glances at him, the outline of a dislike professionally underconcealed. “He’s all yours, boss,” the sheriff says. “We’ll let you know when we have further questions.” Pro-forma eye contact. “Have any travel plans?”

I shake my head.

“Good,” he says. “Let us know if you plan to leave the area anytime in the next few weeks.”

I shrug, stop short of agreeing. He turns to leave. “You coming back to the station, boss?”

“I’ll be back later. Got a few things to check up on first.”

The sheriff doesn’t bother to turn around but marches away toward his car.

“Prick.”

“He’s your sheriff.” Ross dabs at the back of his neck with his handkerchief. The archaeologists are still at the picnic bench. Palmer is gesticulating, cigarette between two fingers. Norris is slumped, fedora pulled over his eyes and stubby legs stretched out. Middleton is pacing and twirling her braid. “Them two you found out here last week—the woman, she was the same one that was raped.”

“I know.”

“And Schroeder. She’s his girlfriend.”

I shrug. Should I tell him about the gun? Put them on to Schroeder so they can put him away? Get rid of him, at least for the time being?

“People say she’s one sweet bitch.” Ross grins, mopping his neck. “Least that’s what they say out at Jack’s.”

“Who says that?”

“Everybody I talked to out there. Deals a little coke on the side too. One dude told me they’re thinking about installing her next to the cigarette machine.”

I glare at him, resolved not to tell him anything now.

The ambulance pulls away; the sheriff, the deputy, and the highway patrol follow behind in convoy. Ross’s expression changes. He motions for me to walk with him toward his car. “You remember telling me you heard some shots that day?”

I nod.

“And you saw some cars too.”

“Did I say that? I don’t remember.”

“How many shots did you hear?”

“I don’t remember. Two or three.”

Ross pulls open the door of his car and settles behind the wheel. “Try and remember. Two? Three?”

“I can’t remember exactly.”

He pulls the door shut with a grunt, twists the key in the ignition. “I have it written down somewhere. I suppose that’s about it for now. See you around, ah, Luke, is it?”

“Lucian.”

“Right.” He lifts a fleshy hand from the wheel and then pulls away, tires spurting dirt and gravel. I watch the car bounce onto the roadway and speed off. Is it possible that he knows more than I do? Has he made a connection between this body and Sylvia and Schroeder? A whir of factors and considerations kicks up. Does he know I know? Does he know I know he knows?

Palmer and Norris are still smoking cigarettes at the bench. Middleton is loading equipment into the back of the van. I leave without saying goodbye.

The clock at the bank reads three-thirty. Sylvia is nowhere to be seen. At three-forty I decide to go in to get the money before the bank closes for the weekend. Maybe she was delayed, went off to sleep and forgot. But maybe she is afraid to come into town. Maybe she knows. Maybe the police have her. Maybe she doesn’t want the money.

Derringer is startled when I tell him how much to withdraw from my account. “You want a bank draft?”

“Cash.”

“That’s an awful lot of scratch to be carrying around. A bank draft would be safer.”

“Cash. In hundreds.”

He shrugs and fills out the withdrawal slip and goes to the cashier. I settle back in the air-conditioned coolness and look out the window, hoping to spot Sylvia and at the same time not wanting to. Derringer returns with two banded stacks of newly minted bills and places them on the desk. “Five thousand times two,” he says. “You want to count it?”

“No.” I put the money into my pack and zip it closed.

Derringer shakes his head in disapproval. “That’s the worst place you could put it,” he says.

“Don’t worry about it.” I get up.

“Mind if I ask what you’re planning to buy with it?”

I shoulder the pack and pause for a moment.

Derringer is awaiting my answer. “Could it be? Finally? At long last?” An eager grin spreads across his face, and his eyebrows do a canny one-two bounce. “A car? You buying a car?”

“No. I’m buying a fuck.”

Derringer’s face registers shock, but in an instant he recovers himself, guffaws loudly with locker-room aplomb. It’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard from me.

Outside there is still no sign of Sylvia. I cross the street and sit on the bench in front of Town Hall to wait. Of course I’m buying something. I didn’t have to, but I did.
Ordo amoris. Ordo amoris
. So clear and lucid in theory. The order of love and hate, a simple premise that contains the proper element of sweet and rational necessity.

The hand of the clock moves steadily toward the hour. I watch the traffic on Main Street. At five o’clock I stand up and cast my last glances up and down Main Street. Derringer emerges from the bank, locks the front door behind him, sees me, waves tentatively. I stand, shoulder the pack, and start for home.

At Liberty Street the hound catches sight of me and gives chase. He catches up, barking and leaping, then settles into pace alongside, tongue flying out the side of his mouth. Good boy. Good boy! Come on, now! Good boy. At West Street I feel an urge to turn around, to look back, but resist. I stop, pat the dog, but instead of sending the dog away, as I always do, I invite him along with a slap of the thigh—come on, boy—and with vigorous tail-wagging the dog trots along with me.

I arrive at my front door to find it locked and the house exactly as I left it. The dog sniffs at the edge of the crow’s (or is it a grackle?) basket. “No. Away from there.” The dog sneezes, waggles its tail, and follows me into the house.

I lift a bottle of wine from the case in the kitchen closet, dropping the pack on top. Open it, fill a glass to the brim, and sip, wandering out the
kitchen door and into the early evening, dog shambling behind me. The newly green trees rustle. A breeze has picked up and on it the pungent smell of fertilized fields. The weather seems to be changing, the humidity easing. I wander to the edge of the lawn, sipping, wondering how it has come to pass that the
autarkeia
I have held to so stubbornly can have been so easily obliterated? The intentional sublimation of want and desire, the contempt for the instincts—the fucking and feeding and fighting and fleeing—has been replaced without the least effort—virtually overnight. I take down a large gulp of wine, abating consciousness, a pleasant easing inside. Sublimation suddenly seems less sublime, and
autarkeia
—the worthy goal of Cynics—seems too abstract to live by. Had I not striven to try and attain a portion of it I would be tempted, with another big sip of wine, to deny it altogether. Don’t cynics hold all abstractions in contempt? My
bios theoretikos
is crumbling, falling gently to my feet, replaced by an elated longing to have Sylvia next to me again tonight, and maybe tomorrow. And the day after?

Exchanging my glass for the bottle, I march into the woods, swigging, the hound tagging faithfully behind. Presently I find myself near the tracks staring at the shallow grave containing my old clothes and boots. An animal has dug through and uncovered them. One boot lies gnawed and torn in the dirt. The dog sniffs it, paws it, roots around, then loses interest. I drink from the bottle, wiping my chin with the back of my hand, contemplating this grave of mine. A snatch of Horace comes to mind and I recite a few lines, feeling simultaneously silly and serious.

I swig again. And again. Then I strip myself naked, toss my clothes onto the upturned grave, and walk back to the house, the dog barking, leaping about me.

“That you?” Sylvia’s voice.

“Er. Yes.” I put the bottle on the table, no leaping of heart, no urgent rush to embrace her. Cower in the kitchen, not knowing what to do.

She appears in the doorway. “Jesus Christ! What happened to your clothes?”

My face colors; I try to cover myself with my hands. “I took them off.”

“I guess so.” She leans in the door frame. “The question is, where did you leave them?”

“In the woods.”

She nods in mock approval. Then laughs. “Didn’t realize you were into, like, nudity. Turn around. Let me get a good look at you.”

I slip past, heart pounding, and run upstairs to put on some clothes. When I return she is sitting at the kitchen table, wine bottle to her lips, her expression serious. She puts the bottle down. “Sorry I didn’t make it to the bank.”

I take two glasses from the cabinet, fill each to the brim, emptying the bottle.

“Did you get the money?”

I drink, avoiding her eyes. The dog paws at the door. I let it in, pat it on the back, good boy, raw disappointment making it difficult to respond, or even to look at her.

“They found a body at the Indian mound today.” I watch for her response.

She sips from her glass, eyes cast down at the table. “They did?”

“It had been buried there for almost a year.”

“Who says that?”

“The archaeologists who found it.”

She drinks again. Says nothing.

“The cops were out there. Ross, the detective, he asked about you and Schroeder.”

She avoids my gaze. Drinks more wine.

“Why would he be asking about you two?”

“I don’t know. He probably thinks we did it.”

“Did you?”

“Look. Do you have my money? I don’t feel like being interrogated.”

“Maybe I should ask Schroeder.”

“Good luck.” She drains her glass. “I don’t know where he is.”

I retrieve another bottle from the closet, shoving the pack into the corner.

“Look,” she seems to fumble for words, twirls her empty glass by the stem. “What is it you want from me?”

I pour more wine. “I don’t know.”

“Then why all the questions? I thought you wanted to help me out?”

“I did.”

“You did? You mean you changed your mind?”

“I still do. I think.”

“You think? Shit, man. What do you think I came here for?”

A twinge. I ease it with a long, loud slurp, roll the liquid on my tongue. “Don’t panic. It’s all right. I want to help you.”

An incredulous stare, then her nostrils flare, begin to pump, eyes well with tears, and she puts her head down on the table and begins to sob. I lean against the stove, watching her shoulders quake and her hair falling over arms and elbows, strangely, perversely satisfied. It is a cruel sort of pleasure, and I am neither proud nor relieved to be feeling it, but it has taken the edge off my disappointment, and because it is the truth I have no choice but to admit it. Why pretend otherwise?

“Did you kill the man who raped you?”

No response.

I press the point. “And did you bury the body out at the mound?”

No response. She won’t look up, continues to sob, face buried in her elbow. Am I torturing her? The thought that maybe I am sends a thrill through me. Revenge and the unwitting discovery of another crime. The knowledge puts me in control of a weapon that I am free to wield as I choose. “You did kill him. And you buried him on the mound. Amnesia was a way to hide everything, to keep the police from interfering.”

Her head jerks up. “No! I didn’t. I wish I had, but I didn’t!”

“Who did, then?”

“Tom did.” As she says it regret writes itself across her features, and to hide it she lifts the glass, buries her face in it, drinking greedily. “I wanted to. I would have. I’m glad he’s dead. But I didn’t kill him.”

“Why are you running away, then? You had a year to get away. Why the sudden rush?”

“I wanted to go with Tom.”

“But he left you.”

“He came back to get me. We were supposed to go together.”