Beyond This Point Are Monsters (3 page)

Half of the stove used butane as fuel, the other half used wood or coal. Even on warm nights Lum Wing kept a small fire going with bits of old lumber, or limbs pruned from the trees or blown off in windstorms. He liked the busy but impersonal noise of the burning wood. It helped cover what came out of the darkness on the other side of his flannelette wall—whispers, grunts, snatches of conver­sation, laughter.

Lum Wing tried to ignore these common sounds of common people and to keep his mind fixed on the ivory silence of kings and queens and knights. But there were times when in spite of himself he recognized a voice in the dark, and when this happened he made tiny plugs out of pieces of paper and pushed them as far into his ears as he could. He knew curiosity killed more men than cats.

He swallowed and regurgitated another mouthful of air.

“ . . . probably his liver,” Ysobel said. “I have been told there are many contagious diseases of the liver.” She took a handkerchief out of her purse and held it tight against her nose and mouth. Her sharp voice was muffled: “Jaime! Do you hear me, Jaime? Answer your mother.”

“Answer your mother, Jaime,” Dulzura said obligingly. “Hey, wake up.”

Jaime's eyelids twitched slightly. “I'm awake.”

“Well, answer your mother.”

“So I'm answering. What's she want?”

“I don't know.”

“Ask her.”

Dulzura leaned over the front seat. “He wants to know what do you want?”

“Tell him not to let that Chinaman breathe in his face.”

“She says don't let the Chinaman breathe in your face.”

“He's not breathing in my face.”

“Well, if he tries, don't let him.”

Jaime closed his eyes again. The old lady was getting kookier every day. Personally, he hoped he'd be lucky like Mr. Osborne and die before he got senile.

on the courthouse steps
pigeons preened in the sun and walked up and down, looking important like uni­formed guards. Beside one of the colonnades Devon saw her lawyer, Franklin Ford, surrounded by half a dozen men. He caught her eye, gave her a quick warning glance and turned away again. As she went past she heard him speaking in his soft slow voice, enunciating each syllable very distinctly as though he were addressing a group of foreigners or idiots:

“ . . . bear in mind that this is a non-adversary proceed­ing. It is not being opposed by an insurance company, for instance, with a large policy to pay out on Robert Os­borne's life, or by a relative who's not satisfied with the disposition of Mr. Osborne's estate. The amount of Mr. Osborne's insurance is negligible, consisting of a small policy taken out by his parents when he was a child. The terms of his will are clearly stated and have not been challenged; and of his survivors, his wife petitioned the court for this hearing and his mother concurred. So our purpose in today's hearing is to establish the fact of Robert Osborne's death and to prove as conclusively as possible how and why and when and where it occurred. Nobody has been accused, nobody is on trial.”

As Devon went into the building she wondered which came closer to the truth, Ford's “Nobody is on trial,” or Agnes Osborne's “Of course we are on trial, all of us.”

The door of courtroom number five was open and the spectators' benches were nearly full. On the right side near the windows Agnes Osborne sat by herself. She wore a blue hat that perched like a jay on her careful blond curls, and a ribbon knit dress the same dark gray as her eyes. If she felt that she was on trial, she gave no sign of it. Her face was expressionless except for one corner of her mouth fixed in a half-smile, as though she was mildly, even a little contemptuously, amused by the situation and the com­pany she found herself in. It was her public face. Her private one was uncertain, disordered, often blotched with tears and mottled with rage.

She watched Devon walk toward her down the aisle, thinking how incongruous she looked in this place of vio­lence and death. Devon should still be wandering around the halls of some college with other nice mousy girls and earnest pimply boys.
I must be kinder to her, I must try harder to like her. It's my fault she's here.

Mrs. Osborne had thought that if she sent Robert away from the ranch for a couple of months, the scandal about Ruth Bishop's death would blow over. It was a double error. His absence merely intensified the gossip, and when he returned he brought Devon with him as his wife. Agnes was shocked and hurt. She wanted her son to get married eventually, of course, but not at twenty-three, not to this odd little creature from another part of the world. “
Robert, why? Why did you do it?” “Why not? The girl loves me, she thinks I'm great. How about that!”

Devon leaned over and the two women touched cheeks briefly. There was an air of finality about the cool embrace, as if both of them knew it would be one of the last.

at the back of the courtroom,
sitting between his father and Dulzura, Jaime was like a patient coming out of an anesthetic and discovering that his moving parts could still move. He did a couple of secret isometric exercises, cleared his throat, hummed a few bars of a TV commercial—“Shut up,” Estivar said—stuck another piece of gum in his mouth, pulled up his socks, cracked his knuckles—“Stop that!”—scratched his ear, rubbed one side of his jaw, pushed the greasy stump of a comb through his hair—“For God's sake, sit still, will you?”

Jaime crossed his arms over his chest and sat still except for the swinging of a foot against the bench in front and the practically inaudible grinding of his teeth. The scene was different from what he'd expected. He'd thought there would be a lot of fuzz hanging around. But in the whole courtroom only one cop was in sight, an old guy of thirty-five having a drink at the water cooler.

The judge's bench and the jury box were both empty. Between them a large drawing had been set up on an easel. Even by narrowing his eyes to slits and using all his powers of concentration, Jaime couldn't make out the con­tents of the drawing. Maybe it was left over from yesterday or last week and had nothing to do with Mr. Osborne. In spite of the cool act Jaime put on for his friends and the somnolent pose he assumed within the family circle, he still had the lively curiosity of a child.

He whispered to Dulzura, “Hey, move over so I can get out.”

“Where you going?”

“Out, is all.”

“You can get past.”

“I can't. You're too fat.”

“You're one fresh little big-mouth kid,” Dulzura said and heaved herself up and into the aisle.

Casually, hands in pockets, Jaime walked to the front of the courtroom and sat down in the first row of benches. The cop had turned away from the water cooler and was watching him as though he suspected Jaime might pull a caper. Jaime tried to look like the kind of guy who could pull a caper if he wanted to but didn't feel like it at the moment.

The drawing on the easel was a map. What had ap­peared from the back of the room to be a road was the riverbed which marked the east and southeast boundaries of the ranch. The little triangles were trees, indicating the lemon orchard on the west, on the northeast the avocado grove, and on the north the rows of date palms with grape­fruit growing in the shade between. The circle showed the location of the reservoir; and the rectangles, each of them lettered, were buildings: the ranch house itself, the mess hall, the bunkhouse and storage sheds, the garage for all the mechanized equipment and, on the other side of the garage, the house where Jaime lived with his family.

“Are you looking for something, fellow?” the cop said.

“No. I mean, no, sir. I was just studying the map. It shows where I live. The square marked C, that's my house.”

“No kidding.”

“I'm a witness in the case.”

“Is that a fact.”

“I was driving the tractor when suddenly I looked down on the ground and there was this knife lying there.”

“Well, well, well. You'd better go back to your seat. The judge is coming in and he likes things tidy.”

“Don't you want to know what kind of knife it was?”

“
I can wait. I have to sit through the whole thing any­way, I'm the bailiff.”

The clerk of the court, a young man wearing horn-­rimmed glasses and a blue serge suit, got up and made the first of his four daily announcements: “Superior Court of the State of California in and for the County of San Diego is now in session, Judge Porter Gallagher presiding. Please be seated.”

The clerk took his place at the table he shared with the bailiff. The hearing of probate petitions was usually the dullest of all judicial procedures, but this one promised to be different. Before putting it aside to file, he read part of the petition again.

 

In the Matter of the Estate of Robert Kirkpatrick Os­borne, Deceased, the petition of Devon Suellen Os­borne respectfully shows:

That she is the surviving wife of Robert Osborne.

That Petitioner is informed and believes and upon such information and belief alleges that Robert Osborne is dead. The precise time of his death is not known, but Petitioner believes and therefore alleges that Robert Osborne died on the thirteenth day of October, 1967. The facts upon which the death of Robert Osborne is presumed are as follows:

The Petitioner and her husband, Robert Osborne, lived together as husband and wife for approximately half a year. On the night of October 13, Robert Os­borne, after dining with his wife, left the ranch house to look for his dog, which had wandered off in the course of the evening. When Robert Osborne failed to return by half past nine, Mrs. Robert Osborne roused the foreman of the ranch and a search was organized. It was the first of many searches covering a period of many months and an area of hundreds of square miles. Evidence has been collected which proves beyond a reasonable doubt that between 8:30 and 9:30 o'clock on the night of October 13,1967, Robert Osborne met his death at the hands of two or more persons . . .

CHAPTER THREE

judge gallagher
tugged impatiently at the collar of his black judicial robe. Even after fifteen years on the bench he still dreaded this moment when he walked into the courtroom and people stared up at him as if they expected the robe to endow him with magic qualities like Batman's cape. Occasionally, when he caught a particularly anxious eye, he wanted to take time out to explain that the robe was merely a piece of cloth covering a business suit, a drip-dry shirt and an ordinary man who couldn't perform miracles no matter how badly they were needed.

Gallagher looked around the room, noting with sur­prise that the only empty seats were those in the jury box. To his knowledge there'd been no publicity about the hearing except the legal notices in the newspapers. Per­haps the legal notices had a larger public than he imag­ined. More likely, though, some of the people were drop-ins who had no real interest in the case: the lady shopper resting her feet between sales; the young marine who seemed to be suffering from a hangover; a small group of high school students with notebooks and clipboards; a teen-aged girl, thin as a reed, carrying a sleeping baby and wearing a blond wig and sunglasses as big as saucers.

Some of the spectators were courtroom regulars who came for the excitement and because they had nowhere else to go. A middle-aged German woman knitted with speed and equanimity through embezzlement trials, di­vorces, armed robberies and rapes. A pair of elderly pen­sioners, one man on crutches, the other carrying a white cane, appeared even in the worst weather to sit through the dullest cases. They carried sandwiches in their pockets and at noon they would eat outside on the steps, feeding the crusts to the pigeons. To Gallagher, looking down on them from the windows of his chambers, it seemed a very good way to spend the noon hour.

Even without years of practice it would have been easy for Gallagher to pick out the people closely connected with the case: Osborne's wife and mother pretending to be cool in the heat of the morning; some leather-faced ranch­ers looking out of place and uneasy in their city clothes; the ex-policeman, Valenzuela, almost unrecognizable in a natty striped suit and orange tie; and sitting at the coun­sels' table, Mrs. Osborne's lawyer, Ford, a soft-spoken, gentle-mannered man with a ferocious temper that had cost him hundreds of dollars in contempt fines.

“Are you ready, Mr. Ford?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“Then go ahead.”

“This is a proceeding to establish the death of Robert Kirkpatrick Osborne. In support of the allegations con­tained in the petition of Devon Suellen Osborne, I intend to submit a considerable amount of evidence. I beg the indulgence of the court in the manner of submitting this evidence.

“Your Honor, the body of Robert Osborne has not been found. Under California law, death is a rebuttable pre­sumption after an absence of seven years. The presump­tion of death before this seven-year period has passed requires circumstantial evidence to show first, the fact of death, i.e., there must be enough evidence from which a reasonable conclusion can be reached that death has oc­curred; and second, that absence from any cause other than death is inconsistent with the nature of the person absent.

“The following quote is from the People versus L. Ewing Scott: Any evidence, facts or circumstances concern­ing the alleged deceased, relating to the character, long absence without communicating with friends or relatives, habits, condition, affections, attachments, prosperity and objects in life which usually control the conduct of a per­son and are the motive of such person's actions, and the absence of any evidence to show the motive or cause for the abandonment of home, family or friends or wealth by the alleged deceased, are competent evidence from which may be inferred the death of one absent or unheard from, whatever has been the duration or shortness of such ab­sence. Unquote.

“We intend to show, your Honor, that Robert Osborne was a young man of twenty-four, mentally and physically well-endowed, happily married and the owner of a pros­pering ranch; that his relationship with his family, friends and neighbors was pleasant, that he was enjoying life and looking forward to the future.

“If we could follow any man around on any particular day of his life, we would find out a great deal about him, his character, the state of his health, his mind, his finances, his interests, hobbies, plans, ambitions. I can think of no better way of presenting a true picture of Robert Osborne than to reconstruct, as completely as I am able, his final day. Bear with me, your Honor, if I elicit from witnesses details that are seemingly irrelevant, and opinions, suppo­sitions and conclusions that would not be admissible evi­dence in an adversary proceeding.

“The final day was October thirteen, 1967. It started on the Yerba Buena ranch, where Robert Osborne was born and where he lived most of his life. The weather was very warm, as it had been since early spring, and the river was dry. A late crop of tomatoes was being harvested and crated for shipping, and the picking of dates was sched­uled to begin. The ranch was a busy place and Robert Osborne a busy young man.

“On October thirteen he awoke before dawn as usual and began his preparations for the day. While he was in the shower his wife, Devon, also awoke but she didn't get up. She was in the early stage of a difficult pregnancy and under doctor's orders to stay as quiet as possible . . . I would like to call as my first witness Devon Suellen Osborne.”

The courtroom stirred, rustled, whispered, shifted its weight. Then everything was suddenly quiet again as Dev­on walked toward the stand.
“Do you swear . . . ?”
She swore, her raised right hand steady, her voice flat. Ford could scarcely remember the wild weeping girl of a year ago.

“Would you state your name for the record, please?”

“Devon Suellen Osborne.”

“And where do you live?”

“Rancho Yerba Buena, Rural Route number two.”

“Displayed on the easel is a map. Have you seen it before?”

“Yes, in your office.”

“And you had a chance to study it?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a true representation of a portion of the property known as Rancho Yerba Buena?”

“To my knowledge it is.”

“Do you own any portion of Rancho Yerba Buena, Mrs. Osborne?”

“No. The deed has been in my husband's name since he was twenty-one.”

“During the early part of Mr. Osborne's absence, how was the ranch business carried on?”

“It wasn't. Bills piled up, checks came in which couldn't be cashed, purchases were at a standstill. That's when I went to you for help.”

Ford turned to Judge Gallagher. “Your Honor, I ad­vised Mrs. Osborne to wait until ninety days had elapsed from the time her husband had last been seen and then appeal to the court to appoint her as trustee of the missing man's estate. The appointment was granted, Mrs. Osborne was bonded, as required, and through my office made peri­odic accountings to the court of receipts and disburse­ments and the like.”

“And that is your present position, Mrs. Osborne,” Gal­lagher said, “trustee of the estate?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“Continue, Mr. Ford.”

Ford went over to the map and pointed to the small rectangle bearing the letter O. “Is this the ranch house, Mrs. Osborne?”

“Yes.”

“And it was here that you saw your husband before sunrise on October thirteen last year?”

“Yes.”

“Did any conversation take place at that time?”

“Nothing important.”

“In the reconstruction of a man's final day it is difficult to say what's important and what isn't. Tell us the things you remember, Mrs. Osborne.”

“It was still dark. I woke up when Robert came out of the shower and turned on the bureau lamp. He asked me how I felt and I said fine. While he was getting dressed we talked about various matters.”

“Was there anything unusual about the way he dressed that morning?”

“He put on slacks and a sports jacket instead of his working clothes because he was driving into the city.”

“This city, San Diego?”

“Yes.”

“Would you describe the slacks and jacket, Mrs. Os­borne?”

“The slacks were lightweight gray gabardine and the jacket was gray and black dacron in a small plaid pattern.”

“Why was he driving into San Diego?”

“A number of reasons. In the morning he had a dental appointment, and after that he was going to drop in and see his mother and then pick up a tennis racket he'd or­dered, one of the new kind made of steel. I reminded him too that it was Dulzura's birthday—she is our cook—and that he should buy her a present.”

“Did he, in fact, do all of these things?”

“Except the present, he forgot that.”

“Wasn't there a luncheon meeting at noon which he was expected to attend?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what the meeting was about?”

“It concerned problems of migrant labor in California agriculture.”

“Did he go to the meeting?”

“Yes. Robert had the idea that the problem must be solved at the source, the crops themselves. If crops could be regulated chemically, such as by hormones, perhaps harvesting could become a twelve-month-a-year business which would give steady employment to agricultural workers and do away entirely with migrant labor.”

“Now, Mrs. Osborne, that morning after your husband finished dressing, what did he do?”

“He kissed me goodbye and told me he'd be home for dinner about seven-thirty. He also asked me to keep a sharp lookout for his spaniel, Maxie, who'd taken off the night before. I thought Maxie had caught the scent of a bitch in heat and gone to find her, but Robert suspected something more sinister might be involved.”

“Such as?”

“He didn't say. But Maxie was never allowed near the bunkhouse or the mess hall, and at night he was kept inside the house.”

“Was this for the dog's protection or yours?”

“Both. At certain times of the year there were quite a few strangers around the ranch. Maxie was our watchdog and we were—well, I guess you could call us his watchpeople.”

At the unusual word a little hum of laughter vibrated through the courtroom and bounced gently off the walls.

“The dog, then,” Ford continued, “was not friendly toward any of the workers on the ranch?”

“No.”

“In the event of an attack on your husband, do you think the dog would have gone to his defense?”

“I know he would.”

Ford sat down at the counsels' table and spread his hands in front of him, palms up, as if he intended to read in their lines the past as well as the future. “When and where were you and Robert Osborne married?”

“April twenty-fourth, 1967, in Manhattan.”

“How old was Mr. Osborne at that time?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Had you known him long?”

“Two weeks.”

“Since you were willing to marry him after so brief an acquaintance, I must assume he made a considerable im­pression on you.”

“Yes.”

A considerable impression.

They had met at a Saturday afternoon concert at the Philharmonic. Devon arrived during the opening number and slipped quietly and apologetically into her seat. As her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness she became aware that the seat on her left was occupied by a large young man with fair hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Every minute or two he turned to stare at her and at intermission he fol­lowed her into the lobby. She wasn't used to such unin­vited attention and it made her a little uneasy and more than a little curious. The young man gave the impression of having walked into the concert hall either by mistake or because someone had given him a ticket and he didn't want to waste it.

She was the first to speak. “Why are you staring at me?”

“Was I staring?”

“You still are.”

“Sorry.” His smile was shy, almost melancholy. “I guess I can't help it. You remind me of someone back home.”

“Someone nice, I hope.”

“She used to be.”

“Isn't she nice any more?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She's dead.” After a moment's hesitation he added, “A lot of people think I killed her. I didn't, but when people want to believe something, it's hard to stop them.”

Now it was Devon who stared, and a pulse began to beat rapidly in the back of her head like a warning signal. “You shouldn't go around saying things like that to stran­gers.”

“I never did before. I wish you'd—”

But she had already started to walk away.

“Please wait,” he said. “Did I frighten you? I'm sorry. It was a dumb thing to do. It's just that I haven't talked to anyone since I came to town and you looked nice and gentle like Ruth.”