Blue Lonesome (20 page)

“There are ways, by God.”

“Sure there are,” Dacy said. “Night riders with buckets of tar and sacks of chicken feathers, that’s one. Or maybe you could hire a couple of men to lure him out to Mackey’s and shove him down into the snakepit.”

“What the hell?” John T. said, and for the first time since Messenger’s arrival he put his gaze on her. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. If it even happened.”

“It happened,” Messenger said.

“Well, I didn’t make it happen. I don’t do things that way.”

“Too violent for you? Or not violent enough?”

“Could be you’ll find out.”

Dacy said, “How much time’s he have left, Lonnie?”

“Less than a minute.”

“Just won’t learn, none of you. Just won’t learn to leave well enough alone. Well, all right. It’s on your head too now, Dacy. His and yours.”

Roebuck walked to his station wagon, back and shoulders rigid. Messenger expected him to drive off with another little show of aggression—fast and reckless, fouling the night air with dust. But he didn’t. His departure was slow, measured, as if he were afraid to slacken the tight rein he’d put on his control.

When the wagon’s lights reached the gate, Dacy said, “Well, you wanted to shake things up, Jim.”

“Yeah.”

“Having second thoughts?”

“No.” He was wondering why John T. had come flying over here in such a high state of rage. He was no real threat to the man, unless John T. was involved in his brother’s death. Or unless some other kind of guilty knowledge was driving him. He was hiding something: Messenger felt as certain of it as he did that Lonnie was hiding something. The same thing, maybe? Even if John T. wasn’t behind the snake trap at Mackey’s, it had upset him in some way that wasn’t quite clear. The fact that the target had survived unharmed? The fact that the trap had been set in the first place?

Dacy said, “Well, I’m not either, so you don’t need to worry on that score. I like seeing that strutty rooster with his feathers ruffled and his pecker down.”

“Just as long as he doesn’t … what’s the phrase? Do you a meanness?’

“He won’t. But we better watch out he doesn’t try to do you one.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“That the truth, or just bravado?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe a little of both.”

After supper he and Dacy spent an hour on the porch, talking. Her opinion on the intensity of John T.’s reaction was that it didn’t necessarily mean anything. “That’s the kind of man he is. Something upsets him, he goes off like a damn firecracker.” In addition to John T. they discussed his brother, his wife, Joe Hanratty, Lynette Carey, Maria Hoxie, and others who in one way or another had been involved with Dave Roebuck—Messenger probing for specific background information, some factor in personalities and relationships that might be worth exploring. Neither he nor Dacy found one. But he did come away from the talk with a definite conviction.

Beulah’s closets were full of secrets. More, it seemed, than in most small towns; uglier ones, too. And the more you shook the closet doors, the louder the skeletons would rattle.

IN THE MORNING
he and Lonnie finished work on the windmill and then went to the holding pens to repair a loose panel on a large cagelike device called a squeeze chute. Made of welded bars, its two main panels were used to immobilize steers during spring and fall roundups for branding, castration, and inoculation against disease.

Just before lunch they began replacing broken rails in the corral fence and loose and warped boards in the stable and barn. Next week, Lonnie said, if the wind cooperated and the weather remained dry, they would weather-seal the wood and then spray paint both buildings. They were running low on lumber and ten-penny nails by midafternoon, and Messenger volunteered to drive into town to the building outfitters. Dacy gave him a list of supplies to pick up that included paint and turpentine and a new pane of glass for the kitchen window. She also gave him the keys to their pickup.

The truck was a GMC product, fifteen years old. Lonnie was a good enough mechanic to get it running again whenever it quit (which was too damn often lately, Dacy said), but not quite good enough to keep the engine from idling high and rough and funneling hot-oil fumes into the cab. The suspension was shot too; every time a tire thudded through a chuckhole, the pickup jolted and shuddered and threatened to come apart like one of those comic cars in a Mack Sennett two-reeler. By the time he reached town he felt as shaken as a marble in a box.

The clerk at the building supply knew who he was. He wasn’t refused service, but he was subjected to obvious and sullen slow down tactics that kept him there nearly an hour. He endured it without comment. A pointless confrontation with one of Beulah’s citizens was the last thing he needed right now.

A thought occurred to him while he waited—something he should have done by now but hadn’t. When the pickup was finally loaded he drove over to the library. Thin and juiceless Ada Kendall was alone inside the stifling trailer. She drew back in her chair when he entered, as if she fancied he might leap over the desk and attack her. Then she sat spine-locked and fixed him with a sour look of disapproval.

“You’re not welcome here, you know,” she said.

“I know. But it’s a public place and you’re not going to ask me to leave, are you, Miss Kendall?”

“It’s Mrs. Kendall. I’m a widow.” She spoke the last sentence proudly, as if it were a badge of honor. “What is it you want?”

“Your file of the Tonopah newspaper, if you have one.”

“The past twelve months only.”

“That’s all I’m interested in.”

“Going to read about the murders, I suppose.”

“No. The real estate ads.”

“Real estate?”

“Didn’t you know? I’m thinking of settling in this area.”

Her mouth opened and she blinked at him behind her glasses.

“In your neighborhood, maybe. One of the places next door to you wouldn’t be up for sale or rent, would it?”

“Why, you … you …”

“Easy, Mrs. Kendall. This is a library—no obscenities permitted.”

He found the newspaper file on his own, in an airless alcove at the far end. Sweat ran freely on his face, dripped from his nose and chin, as he culled the issues containing stories about the killings. There were several, despite the fact that the Tonopah paper was a weekly: a bizarre, double homicide was big news in a small county like this one.

The initial account was prominent on the front page, and was accompanied by photographs of both Anna and Dave Roebuck. The one of Anna was a smiley wedding photo a dozen years old; the likeness between the woman and the one Messenger had observed in San Francisco was so slender they might have been two separate people. The photo of her husband was more recent but the reproduction was grainily poor; it conveyed no clear impression of the man.

He didn’t expect to learn much from the lead story and follow-ups that he didn’t already know. But he did find out one detail that neither Dacy nor Reverend Hoxie had mentioned—a detail that made Tess Roebuck’s death even more of a puzzle.

The child had been found not only wearing a white Sunday dress, but with a sprig of something called desert verbena tightly clenched in one hand. The fact appeared in two of the news stories, each time without either explanation or speculation.

Messenger left Ada Kendall glowering behind her desk and drove the rattling pickup back out to the ranch. Lonnie helped him unload the supplies, and when they were put away he went to talk to Dacy.

“Verbena?” she said in response to his question. “It’s a flowering desert plant. Common enough around here.”

“Why would Tess have had a sprig of it clutched in her hand?”

“Don’t go trying to make anything out of that, Jim. It’s not important.”

“The white dress is important—it has to be. Why not the verbena too?”

“Anna had bushes growing in the yard, along with some other plants. County cops found where the branch’d been broken off one of the bushes near where she was hit with the rock, and they figured when she fell she clutched at the bush and the branch snapped off in her hand.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Messenger admitted. “Still, what if they were wrong? What if the murderer broke it off and put it in her hand, for the same reason he changed her clothes and put her in the well?”

“Jim, nobody could figure an explanation for the dress or the well. Maybe there isn’t any that makes much sense. You’ll only make yourself crazy trying to come up with one that includes the verbena, too.”

“Crazier than I already am, you mean.”

“You said it, I didn’t. Why don’t you go on back to work and let me do the same?”

He went back to work. But he couldn’t get the Sunday dress, the well, the verbena out of his mind. Or the feeling, groundless or not, that the three were connected somehow, and that if he knew their purpose he would know who was guilty and why.

O
NCE THE USUAL
morning chores were done, Sunday was a day of rest on the Burgess ranch. This suited Messenger. He’d had a good eight hours of sleep, but he was still tired—and sunburnt and saddle sore—from Saturday’s truck-and-horseback ride across their grazing land.

He and Lonnie had set out early, with a loaded two-horse trailer hooked onto the back of the GMC pickup and the pickup’s bed stacked with fresh salt blocks. With water at a premium out here, salt blocks were essential to the survival of sagebrush cattle. They’d spent all morning jouncing over rough, arid terrain along the eastern foothills where the Bootstrap Mine was located. Most of the small herd were loosely scattered there, on land that belonged to the BLM. In another six weeks or so, Lonnie told him, the beeves would be bunched and driven back onto Burgess ground. That was when however many head they needed to sell would be culled and put into the holding pens, and any necessary doctoring taken care of; it was also when a BLM agent would come down from the regional office in Tonopah and take an inventory, one of the steps in setting next year’s quota. All the late calves would be on the ground then, too, and would have to be branded, earmarked, and inoculated. It was too much work for two people, so they’d scrape together enough money to hire a seasonal hand for a few weeks. A part-time buckaroo (yes, that was a word they still used out here) would also be short-hired for the spring roundup.

Cattle and the land were the only subjects Lonnie would discuss. Messenger tried twice to turn their desultory conversation to the murders; each time Lonnie withdrew into a moody silence. He had a feeling that whatever the boy was concealing, it was like a wad of bitter phlegm caught far back in his throat: He needed to spit it out, but he couldn’t do it even though it was choking him.

In the afternoon they’d saddled the horses and ridden along the southwest boundary line, over even rougher terrain, to check fences and look for far-straying cattle. It had been after three, Messenger feeling butt-sprung and as if he were cooking in his own juices, when they found the injured and dying steer. The animal had wandered too close to the edge of a shallow wash, and the powdery earth had given way and pitched it down into the cut. One of its hind legs had been broken in the fall. The accident must have happened within the past twelve hours, Lonnie said grimly; otherwise the steer, weak and bleating with pain, would already be dead. He’d wasted no more time with words, just gone and gotten his carbine and put the animal out of his misery, while Messenger waited with the horses. Afterward the boy grew moodily silent again. When Messenger asked him if he was upset over losing a steer from an already thin herd, Lonnie shook his head. “It’s not that,” he said. “I just don’t like to see anything suffer.”

At the time the statement had impressed Messenger as deep-felt; he was even more convinced of it this morning. Lonnie’s secret might be significant in some way, but it wasn’t murderer’s guilt that he had locked away inside. Lonnie Burgess was not capable of killing a family member in cold blood. Messenger was as sure of that as he’d been of anything, including Anna Roebuck’s innocence, in the past week.

The rest of Sunday stretched out ahead of him: free time to pursue his quest. But he couldn’t think of anything productive to do with it. He considered a trip to the Hardrock Tavern, a talk with the bartender and any customers he could locate who had witnessed the fight between Joe Hanratty and Dave Roebuck. It seemed futile, maybe even dangerous: asking prying questions in a bar was a good way of provoking trouble. Even if anybody knew what lay behind the fight, which was unlikely, the chances were slim to none that they would tell him. He’d have as much luck canvassing the town, ringing doorbells and trying to interrogate whoever answered.

He wasted the better part of an hour lying on the Airstream’s roll-away bed, brooding over what he knew, the bits and pieces of information Dacy had confided. All that came of it was frustration. It was like blundering around in darkness and finally locating a wall, on the other side of which was light: You were close to the light, you knew it was there, but you couldn’t get to it because you couldn’t find a way to scale the wall.

What nagged at him, too, was the fact that nothing more had come of his move to the Burgess ranch than John T.’s angry outburst on Thursday evening. He’d expected other visitors, protests, or actions of some kind. Lull before the storm? The real murderer
had
to be wondering what he and Dacy were up to, and worried that whatever it was might lead to the truth. He wouldn’t just sit back and wait and do nothing, would he? After the scheme with the snakes at Mackey’s, it didn’t seem likely. Cat-and-mouse game? That didn’t seem likely either. Something was going to happen. And the sooner the better, whatever it was.

Past noon he took himself to the house, detouring around where Buster squatted at the end of the short chain. The rottweiler had come to a grudging acceptance of him, to the point where there were no more barks or snarls when he was near, but the dog’s fur still bristled and the bright watchful eyes held no hint of friendliness. Dacy and Lonnie were both in the kitchen, companionably preparing what she called “Sunday dinner” even though it would be served at one o’clock. He hadn’t had much appetite at breakfast, but the aroma of pot roast was seductive.