The Matriarch (33 page)

The word ‘Sheriff’ rolls off the druggist’s tongue real natural-like, Al is pleased to notice.

“I’m fairly certain there’s nothing to this,” Richard continues, “but I’m duty bound to inform you.”

“Get to it, man,” Al says. “What have you got?” He listens in amazement then as Richard tells of his suspicions that the Murphys, the Russo girl, and the preacher lady are trying to find a synthetic androgen to administer to Carla Russo and the Banyon woman.

“What the fuck is a synthetic androgen?”

“It’s a steroid, Sheriff,” Bloome states. “Giving steroids to humans is illegal.”

Al’s stomach cramps in frustration. “I’m well aware of that,” he says slowly, trying to keep from yelling into the phone. “But why do they want to give it to those women?” Al doesn’t mention the fact that only one of those women is still alive.

“They have some hare-brained idea,” Bloome pauses to chuckle, “that the testosterone in steroids will cure them.”

In the loaded silence that follows, Al presumes Richard is waiting for a laugh, but Al can’t oblige. He’s too fucking confused. Jesus
Christ
but he wishes he could cool off! Maybe then he could think.

“When I guessed their purpose,” Richard continues, “they tried to tell me the whole steroid thing was just a bet they were trying to settle. Well, that’s nonsense!”

“So … where would they get that steroid?” Al asks.

“Well, they knew athletes take them sometimes. And I mentioned, probably un-wisely, that they’re used sometimes in raising cattle. As I said, Sheriff, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing to this, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, Richard.” This guy can ramble on for hours! “You did right, reporting this. Thanks.” Al hears Richard take a breath, and he hangs up quickly. He sits drumming his fingers on the metal top of his desk.

Interesting development, but what does it really mean? He pulls a scratch pad near him and makes some notes.

Two men are dead, Dante Russo and Arty Banyon—each apparently murdered by his own wife. And then that wild story about Victor Hammond being murdered and buried. All of this bloodshed—according to that punk Cassidy Murphy—because of some crazy women being made into killers by eating figs from a crazy tree in Frank Murphy’s horse pasture. Carla Russo kills herself, and Shelly Russo is found dead in the Murphy ranch house under suspicious circumstances. And now Murphy and his pals are trying to find steroids to give to the women.

The constant, Al sees, is Cassidy Murphy. He’s already been implicated and questioned concerning a death in Oregon. Trouble hovers over that boy like flies on shit.

And, damn it all to hell, why doesn’t Manny call?

Al smiles. All that sincere crap about Cassidy being so fucking pleased to come in Monday morning and answer any questions. Al will just see how pleased that kid will be to answer some questions ahead of time. Like right now.

I’d sure as shit like to get that Cassidy asshole alone with me again! I won’t be so damned gentle this time, punk!

He dials the Murphy house. No answer. No problem. Al will take a spin through town and look for Cassidy’s Ranger. Failing that, he’ll hit the fitness center at the edge of town—maybe the kid will try there for a steroid connection.

A thirty-five minute search turns up nothing. There’s no sign of the Ranger or the Murphys in town or at the gym and still no answer from the Murphy house.

And why doesn’t Manny call?

Al decides to drive out to the ranch house. He might learn something there just by nosing around.

He’s feeling somewhat better now, because he has a valid target—that hotshot Murphy kid. Al remembers the giant kick he got out of decking that guy, the beautiful smack of his fist against Cassidy’s face!

I’m gonna arrest him! Yeah, why the fuck not? I’m not gonna just play around with the idea, fuck no! I’ve got enough against that fucker to haul him in—no problem.

Al feels so good about his decision that he decides to go home for a shower and a change of uniform before he hits the Murphy place. Maybe Gin will be in the mood.

Not likely. But that hasn’t stopped me yet. I’ll nail Cassidy right after I nail Gin!

Al grins to himself and turns the squad car toward his house.

11:50 a.m.

“The world is her agenda,” Charlotte’s explaining, and I wonder if she’s still in shock. “It’s for her children.”

I gun the Ranger over the bridge, armed now with five passengers, two spray cans filled with booster testosterone, two refill cans, and a Pit Bull puppy. Frank and I wear our loaded revolvers, and Lester has the sawed-off shotgun. Charlotte and Dott are with me in the front and Lester, Frank, and Louie are in the back, the bed of the truck.

“She comes from another time, another world,” Dott says, and I decide we’re probably all in shock. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe shock is a good place for us to be, considering the task ahead.

“You wanted to know the
why
of the tree’s agenda, right Cass?” Dott asks. “Here’s my opinion. The tree is completely female. She propagates all on her on—don’t ask me how—and no male seem to be involved. To her, human males are destroyers. The enemy. That’s from something in her past that Lindee talked about. The ‘children’ must be her seedlings, and Lindee says they need land to grow.” Dott leans forward, looking past Charlotte at me. “I think they’re male killers too, just like the Mama Tree. Cass … we’ve simply
got
to win today!”

A somber group, we now stand with the Ranger behind us facing The Tree. Almost all evidence of the fire is gone. The Tree has repaired herself. She’s gaudy green and ready for anything. She’s in such robust good health, I feel like David with his slingshot, and I know she’s laughing at us. Vine-like tentacles hang from her larger branches and move back and forth in the non-existent breeze.

“She’s thumbing her nose at us, boys,” Lester says, grinning. “Let’s get her!”

Jesus, when did he get so ballsy? I’m scared right down to my boots.

“Okay, here’s a plan. Dott and I will man the sprayers while Lester and Frank will help with the refills—I’m certain we’ll need them. Frank, you and Charlotte keep an eye on The Tree and tell us if she’s sprouting machine guns or anything—”

“Oh sure, give me a nothing job like that.” Frank pulls on Louie’s leash and hauls the pup up closer to his thigh. “Lordy-God, Cassidy—”

“You didn’t let me finish. You watch The Tree and us, Frank, cause I’m sure we’ll need you and your gun. You have to be at the ready. And, we need you to help Lester with the refills.” Frank glowers at me. ‘You’ll stand just a little back of us so we can yell for you when we get low on the spray.”

Frank is still frowning at me, but he straightens as if at attention. Louie is standing quietly at his side. The two of them are like soldiers on the brink of battle. And that’s just who they are, I realize. That’s who we all are.

I walk over to Charlotte who stands mute, looking at The Tree. I take her hand, and she resists at first but then allows me to pull her close. I’m elated. I feel her body soften against mine.

I look up and see The Tree waving at us.

I release Charlotte and help Lester and Frank unload the spray cans and the refills. Everyone is silent. They seem to be waiting for me to sound the charge.

How did I get this duty, anyway? I don’t have a clue what’s the right thing to do!

I smack my forehead with the heel of a hand. “Fuck it! We haven’t eaten.” They all give me stricken looks. “We’ve had practically nothing to eat today. No wonder we’re all so tired. Jesus, how stupid!”

They stand staring at me, as the hot sun sucks up our energy. Dott walks over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“I know what you mean, Cass,” she says in a soft voice. “Me too. I’m pooped, scared, and hungry. But here’s the thing. In a situation like this … we don’t need food.”

She’s humoring me. Treating me like a child.

“Nerves, Cass. You can run very well on nerves. We’ve all got those today, more than enough. You’re letting your mind do a job on your body.” She moves her hand to my neck, massaging it—her fingers surprisingly strong. “Your body was doing just fine, Cass, until your mind got in the way.”

“Time for trust now, boy,” Frank says, his voice booming. “Time to trust yourself.” He comes over to me with Louie, and the dog licks my hand. “Take a breath,” Frank orders me. “A deep one.”

I do what I’m told. And then take another. Whether I actually believe Frank and Dott, or I’m just so fucking angry at the situation I find myself in, some adrenaline kicks into me, and I feel better … stronger. Frank swats me on my back, and my fatigue fades into excitement. I’m ready.

Dott and I shoulder the sprayers and begin walking toward The Tree. Frank follows, pulling along a can of refill, Louie at his side. Charlotte and Lester stay back a few yards.

We come within ten yards or so of the overhang of The Tree’s foliage. As we draw near, The Tree breathes and trembles with life. The stench of burned and rotting figs is overwhelming—it grabs at my throat.

She knows what we’re going to do. How will she react?

Have these pitiful beings learned nothing? I move my limbs and tentacles about, seeking the most favorable battle posture. Let them have their pathetic try. Puny creatures at best these humans—as if they can possibly mount a significant defense against me. My energy is high, my resolve strong.

The children I am producing in this new home of mine must have the room and the care to grow. To grow into others like me.

I am not alone. I have my tentacles, my warriors. Many are not yet fully grown, but they are ever so loyal to me, and so very strong.

And I now have something else going for me. My anger has blossomed into a fiery rage.

The Tree gathers herself. She brings her limbs closer together and lowers them to form a thick, living barrier. Her masses of vines and branches seem to alter themselves into substantial green tentacles that quiver and reach out for us. We slow down a little, but I know if we pause now, we might never find the courage to continue.

“Dott … I think … we should split up.” I force air into my lungs. “That will distract her, possibly weaken her.” I motion Dott a few yards to the right. “I’ll take the left,” I say, and notice Lester is near Dott along with his sawed-off shotgun and a can of refill. The smell of burned decay grows stronger as I come closer to The Tree. It’s a reek that slides down my throat into my belly, and I hope to God I don’t throw up. I take another few steps forward.

That’s close enough!

I look over at Dott and Lester who have stopped walking and are watching me. I grin at them. “Let her have it!” I yell. Dott and I begin madly pumping our sprayers, and they seem to be working beautifully. A gray mist of testosterone soon engulfs The Tree. I’m overjoyed!

A hissing sound then. My arms sting. Then my face.

“Jesus!” My exposed skin burns. She’s spraying back, with fire. The Tree is spitting sap at me, a scalding mother’s milk. It’s coming at me in steamy spurts. Blisters instantly form on my hands and arms, and I feel their sting on my face and neck as well. I quickly step back, out of her range.