Blue Lonesome (24 page)

“How about you, Lonnie? What’s going on inside your head right now?”

“About John T.?” He drew on the cigarette without taking it from his mouth. “I didn’t much like him, you know that. But I hate it when anybody suffers or dies sudden—anybody or anything. I guess mostly how I feel is bad.”

“That’s how I feel, too.”

“Yeah? I figured you’d be happy.”

“Why would you figure that?”

“You think whoever shot John T. killed my uncle and Tess, that it’s all part of the same thing. Don’t you?”

“Don’t you, now?”

“No. Two separate things that don’t have anything to do with each other.”

“Lonnie … when we first got to the fire you started to say something about your uncle. ‘What my uncle did—’ You remember that?”

“I remember.”

“Finish the sentence. What did he do that makes you hate him so much?”

Messenger thought he wasn’t going to get an answer. But then, as Lonnie flicked away what remained of his cigarette, “You know what he did.”

“No, I don’t.”

“All the women he cheated with.”

“That isn’t it.”

“How do you know it isn’t? You don’t know anything.”

“What did he do, Lonnie?”

“No, goddamn it. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You do want to talk about it. It’s half choking you, and if you don’t spit it out pretty soon you’ll strangle on it. I know; I keep things locked up inside me, too.”

Another silence, shorter this time. “I can’t tell you,” Lonnie said. “I couldn’t even tell Ma.”

“Sometimes it’s easier for a man to talk to another man. Even one he hasn’t known for long.”

“I can’t. I just … can’t.”

“All right. But if you change your mind …”

They sat in the quiet dark, Messenger unmoving, Lonnie restlessly shifting position, lighting another cigarette and then discarding it after two drags. A voice rose from inside the house—Lizbeth Roebuck’s, making some kind of drunken protest that didn’t last long. The smoky fireglow died away behind the hills, leaving the sky clean again. The immense canopy of stars seemed even brighter, not quite real, like a heavenly map in a planetarium.

And Lonnie said suddenly, as if the words were being torn out of him, “He messed with her.”

“… Say that again?”

“My uncle. Tess. He messed with her.”

“Sexually abused her?”

“I don’t know if he … you know. But he touched her, played around with her. More than once.”

Jesus.
“How do you know, Lonnie? Did you see him touch her?”

“No. She told me.”

“When?”

“Not long before she was killed. A few days.” The words came spilling out of him now, a purge like the emptying of a pus pocket. His voice was heavy with anguish. “She used to like to be tickled, it was a game we all played with her. I was in the barn at our place forking hay and she came in—they were down visiting that day—she came in and I started tickling her. She said, ‘Stop it, stop it!’ and then she started to bawl. She didn’t want to tell me but I got it out of her. I didn’t want to believe it but it was the truth, she wasn’t making it up.”

“What did you do then?”

“I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to break his fucking head—that’s what I
should
have done. Instead I told Tess … I said she …”

“You told her to tell her mother.”

“Yeah. Tell her mother. Because I didn’t want to do it myself.”

“You did the right thing. Better for it to come from her.”

“That’s what I thought. I thought my aunt’d believe her easier than she would me. I made Tess promise she’d tell. I made her promise. …”

“You think she did tell,” Messenger said. “You think that’s the reason your aunt went crazy and killed them both.”

“She must’ve blamed Tess as much as him. But it wasn’t Tess’s fault. Him, it was his fault. And mine.”

“No, Lonnie—”

“Mine. That’s why I couldn’t tell Ma or anyone afterward. It’s
my
fault Tess is dead!”

I
T WAS THE
heat that finally woke him. The interior of the Air-stream trailer was like a sauna: He lay marinating in his own sweat, the sheets sodden and tangled around him. What time was it? The sun must be high already for it to be so hot in here. …

He rolled over, fumbling for his wristwatch. Almost eleven. That late? Dacy must have gotten up by now; why hadn’t she called him? Get moving, he thought, there’s work to do. But he couldn’t seem to make his body respond. He felt logy, desensitized: not enough sleep, and the few hours he’d had had been too shallow and exhausted to be restful. Almost dawn before Sheriff Espinosa had allowed them to leave the Roebuck ranch, and another hour after that before he’d been able to drift deeper than a fitful doze.

He lay listening to the hot silence. As sweat-soaked as the bedclothes were, he could still smell Dacy’s scent on the sheets and pillowcase. That part of last night was clear in his memory: their lovemaking, everything they’d said to each other. But most of the rest had a blurred quality, like a poor black-and-white film print. In particular the scenes involving Espinosa’s endless questions, and the long, pointless drive back to Anna’s ranch that he’d made them take with him. The baked apple had been antagonistic enough toward him, though he’d seemed more bemused than anything by John T.’s death: a man who had suddenly lost his leader and didn’t quite know how to handle the situation. If it hadn’t been for the presence of Dacy and Lonnie, Espinosa’s hostility would have had a sharper focus and Jim Messenger might well have spent a rough night in a jail cell. He was the only person the sheriff could conceive of who had a motive for murdering another Roebuck.

The only other parts of the night that were clear to him were the image of John T.’s bloodied corpse, and Lonnie’s revelation. There’d been no time at John T.’s ranch to think about what Lonnie had told him, to sort out its implications and possibilities; Dacy had come out of the house right afterward, and not long after that Espinosa and his two deputies arrived. No time to work on it now, either. He was too dull-witted from sleep and the trapped heat.

He rested another couple of minutes, then dragged himself off the rollaway and into the tiny shower stall. The tepid water woke him up a little more. By the time he’d brushed his teeth, run a comb through his hair, and dressed, he was in a functioning state again.

As soon as he stepped out of the trailer he saw Dacy. She was standing in the yard, facing out toward the valley road; and she clutched her rifle by its barrel, the butt down in the dirt at her side. What had her attention was a small, loose bunching of half a dozen vehicles and twice that many men and women on the road just beyond her gate. Like a ragtag encampment, he thought, that had sprung up overnight.

She heard him approaching and swiveled her head. “There you are. I was fixing to go pound on the door.”

“You should have. I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

“Well, it was a long damn night.”

“What’s going on out there?”

“Vultures,” she said bitterly. “Goddamn bone pickers.”

“Media?”

“Mostly. Some longnecker from town, too. One of those TV trucks drove in a while ago and I ran the bastards off. I put up with that trespass shit when Tess and Dave were killed, but not this time. Not
this
time.”

She hadn’t slept much either; that was plain. Lines of fatigue were shaped out around her eyes, and bloody-looking veins mottled the pupils. Her hair was uncombed: the topknot had a curl in it like Woody Woodpecker’s. The fact that she looked vulnerable this morning made her even more desirable. Male ego: man the protector, the comforter. Right. Put that thought into words, and she’d probably laugh in his face.

He wondered if, after all, he was in love with her.

He had no reliable measuring stick for his feelings. The only other woman he’d thought he loved was Doris, but with her it had been little more than body heat; they’d been at each other like rabbits before and for a while after their marriage. He’d been hurt when she divorced him, but it hadn’t been the kind of wrenching, lingering pain of something ripped loose from deep inside. No, he hadn’t really loved Doris; time had taught him that. His feelings for Dacy were stronger, more emotional. A sense of kinship and the sort of bond that could lead to oneness. But there was no use in kidding himself—the potential oneness might be all one-sided. And transitory and delusional on his part, an outgrowth of the passion they’d shared last night. Middle-aged body heat could fool a lonely man just as easily as teenage body heat could fool an immature one.

Take it slow, he thought. Don’t push it. There’s too much else going on right now.

“Where’s Lonnie?” he asked.

“Gone. He got up before I did, saddled his horse, and rode off. Christ knows where.”

Messenger closed fingers lightly around her arm. She didn’t draw away from his touch, but she didn’t respond to it, either. “Dacy, let’s go inside. We need to talk.”

“If it’s about you and me—”

“It isn’t.”

“Good, because this isn’t the time.”

“I know it.”

They went into the kitchen, Dacy leaving her Weatherby propped against the wall near the front door. She said, “Coffee’s on the stove. You look like you could use some.”

“The biggest mug you’ve got.”

“Cupboard above the sink.”

He found the mug, poured coffee. Thick and bitter—just what he needed.

Dacy said, “Something’s eating on Lonnie. And I don’t think it’s what happened to John T.”

“It isn’t. Not directly.”

“That mean you know what it is?”

“Yes. That’s what we need to talk about. He knows something that’s been cutting him up inside ever since Tess and his uncle were murdered. He spit it out to me last night, while you were in with Liz Roebuck.”

“Spit what out? What could he know?”

“He believes he’s responsible for Tess’s death.”

“He …
what
?”

“He’s not, I tried to convince him of that, but he’s too guilt-ridden to listen to the truth.”

“For God’s sake, Jim, don’t dance with me. Just say it.”

He told her. Exactly what Lonnie had told him.

She took it stoically. But when he was done she sank onto one of the dinette chairs and slapped the table, hard, with the palm of her hand—a gesture of angry frustration. “That poor kid. Both those poor kids. If he’d just told me …”

“He couldn’t,” Messenger said. “You’re too close; he was afraid you’d hate him.”

“As if I could. All my hate’s for the lowlife son of a bitch Anna married. If she did blow his head off she had every right. I’d’ve done it myself if I’d known.”

“She didn’t kill anybody. You don’t believe that anymore, after what happened to John T.?”

“No, not anymore.”

“Lonnie does. He’ll go right on believing it until the real murderer is exposed.”

“Maybe if I talked to him …”

“It’d do more harm than good. He can’t face you as long as he feels responsible.”

“He ask you not to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you?”

“You have a right to know,” Messenger said. “Too many secrets in Beulah as it is.”

“And it may have something to do with the killings and two heads are better than one. All right. But I don’t see how it could.”

“Neither do I, right now. One thing I’m fairly sure of: Tess didn’t tell her mother, in spite of what Lonnie believes.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Anna kept a pocket watch that Dave’s father gave him when he was a boy; it’s among her effects in San Francisco. She wouldn’t have held on to a memento like that if she’d known he was molesting her daughter.”

“Hell, no, she wouldn’t. Child abuse sickened her as much as it does me.”

“Would she’ve let on to you if she’d known or suspected?”

“Not right away, maybe. But sooner or later.”

Messenger said, “I wonder—” but he didn’t finish the thought or the sentence. Outside Buster began a new round of barking; and a few seconds later Messenger heard the rattle and growl of an incoming car.

Dacy was on her feet. She said, “If that’s another goddamn TV truck …” and hurried to the front door, scooping up her rifle as she opened it. He followed her onto the porch.

Not the media this time; the car that pulled up in front was a state police cruiser with two occupants. The driver was a beefy individual dressed in a Western-style suit, Stetson hat, and string tie. His passenger was Ben Espinosa.

Dacy leaned the Weatherby against the porch railing as the two men climbed out. “More bullshit,” she said to Messenger in an undertone. But her expression, now, was one of weary resignation.

The beefy man was a state police investigator named Loes. Despite his outfit, he was strictly professional: direct, businesslike manner and the diction of a college graduate. Espinosa was deferential to him. As he would be to anyone in a position of authority, Messenger thought. The sheriff looked haggard, and relieved to have the investigation out of his hands. But his gaze, whenever it cut to Messenger, showed an antipathy that bordered on hatred.

He blames me. The whole town does by now. Hypocrites. If I’m responsible for John T., they’re responsible for Anna. Blood on their hands long before there was any on mine.

Loes questioned Dacy and him in greater detail than Espinosa had. His attitude was noncommittal: just a good, thorough cop doing his job without any bias. From the questions, Messenger determined that the authorities still had no idea why John T. had gone to his brother’s ranch at such a late hour, or whom he had met there. He put this into words, and Loes confirmed it.

“Mr. Roebuck was last seen at the casino around ten o’clock,” he said. “He didn’t go home from there. No one seems to know where he went.”

“Did his wife expect him?”

“She says she didn’t. He kept irregular hours.”

Dacy said, “It could’ve been a woman he met.”

“What makes you say that, Mrs. Burgess?”

“Nothing. It was just a suggestion.”

“Was he involved with a woman, to your knowledge?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. But it’s two miles from the valley road up there—two miles of bad road, especially at night. Why go all that way unless you wanted to make sure you were alone with whoever you were meeting?”