The Influence (12 page)

“So, did you grow up here?” he asked. 

“No. Magdalena is one of those places where… I think the only people who want to live here are the ones from somewhere else. Most of the people who are actually
from
here end up leaving. I don’t know too many local kids whose goal is to remain in Magdalena.”  

“So where are you from and how in the world did you end up in
this
town?” 

“The same way Dave and Lita did, probably. No, maybe not. I think Dave’s family knew about it because of the agriculture thing. But I saw an article in
Arizona Highways
about spring wildflowers in southern Arizona, and I came down here with my boyfriend at the time to take pictures. We were both in college—Mesa Community—and we were both art majors, both taking the same photography course. The actual wildflower drive shown in the magazine was closer to Sierra Vista, and we went there, but we had our camping gear and ended up exploring some of the dirt roads in this part of the state, and we happened across Magdalena. I’d never heard of it before, and I just thought it was so cute and so…so completely unspoiled. We ate lunch at the bar, and the burgers were great, and I just kind of fell in love with the place. We went back to Mesa, and Craig and I broke up soon after that, but Magdalena kind of haunted me, and after I graduated from MCC and then ASU, I decided I’d like to live out here, be a starving artist. Of course, I didn’t even have enough money to do that, so I lived at my mom’s house and worked for a few years after graduation. Various jobs, nothing permanent. I saved my money, and by the time the housing market crashed in 2008, I had enough for a down payment, and I bought this place. I was working as a telemarketer at the time and, amazingly enough, I was good enough at it to earn a pretty decent commission. I’d been painting all along, but I never sold anything, so I needed to have an income. 

Obviously, there weren’t any jobs around here, so I asked if I could keep my telemarketing job, though I’d actually been hoping I could quit. I was already working from home, checking in online, so they didn’t care, and I moved to Magdalena...and here I am.” She smiled. “Long story, huh?” 

“How long have you lived here?” 

“Going on five years now.” 

“And how’d you start with the cookies?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve always been into baking, cooking, what have you. A couple years back, I started making little…sculptures, sort of, out of my cookies. I’d experiment with different forms, give them away to friends, and someone suggested that I should sell them at the market, so I did. I don’t make a fortune, but I pay for my space, and it gives me the opportunity to try out new ideas every week. I usually try to have a theme. It’s fun, you know? Relaxing.” 

“Do you still paint?” 

“Oh sure.” 

“So…can I see some of your paintings?” 

She shook her head, her face flushing as she turned away.  

“Why not?” 

“Maybe when I know you better.” 

Jill had continued to cook while she talked, tossing the salad, draining the pasta, and now she plated the dinner and brought it over to the table. She was a good cook, and between her food and Lita’s meals, Ross realized how deprived he had been growing up. “Home cooking” to him had always meant his mom’s dry pork chops and overdone meatloaf, but he understood now that there were home cooks able to create dishes as good as those served in restaurants. 

Like Lita, Jill was one of them. 

Dinner was leisurely, relaxed, and though Jill offered to uncork another bottle of wine, Ross switched instead to water. The roads back to the ranch might be dirt and deserted, but he was such a lightweight that drinking even a moderate amount of alcohol could end up with him spinning his wheels in a ditch.  

Jill seemed to have a pretty large DVD collection, and he expected the date to be a variation on the traditional dinner and a movie, but she seemed to have other ideas. After they finished eating, she put the dishes in the sink, telling him she’d take care of them later. “Let’s go for a walk,” she suggested. 

“A walk?” 

“Yes. An after-dinner stroll. Don’t tell me that you don’t like to take walks.” 

“No, I do,” he said quickly, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually done it. In Phoenix, his condo was adjacent to a charmless business district, and Lita’s place was so remote that, while he’d walked around the ranch doing chores, he had never even thought about strolling around the neighborhood—not that there was a neighborhood. “Is there anyplace
to
walk?” he asked. “I mean, we’re kind of out in the middle of nowhere.” 

“I walk to town all the time.” 

“That’s at least a mile!” 

“Come on. You’re not afraid of a little exercise, are you?” 

“No,” he said, but he hoped they wouldn’t be walking all the way into town. That seemed a little far. He had a sudden flashback to when he was a kid and his whole life had been spent on foot. At the age of nine, he’d been on a rock-hunting kick, and he remembered getting up early one Saturday, before his parents were awake and going out on an expedition. He’d walked down the street, rock pick in hand, looking through neighbors’ front yards for fossils and petrified wood. He’d found nothing more than a few pieces of slightly shiny, reddish gravel that he misidentified as jasper, but he’d incorporated the pieces into his next batch of rocks for his tumbler, and they’d actually polished up nicely. 

Back then, every foray into the neighborhood had been an adventure, and he wondered when walking had lost its allure for him.  

Probably when he’d learned to drive. 

It was dark out, and Jill disappeared down the hall for a moment, returning with a flashlight. She flipped the light on and off, making sure it worked. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”  

They walked outside and headed down the lane, sauntering slowly. She pointed out a type of purple flower growing in abundance by the side of the road, shut off her flashlight to show him phosphorescent bugs dotting the sides of the ditch, and he thought he could understand why she liked to walk, what she saw in it. Ahead of them, down the slope, the lights of Magdalena made the town look much bigger than it actually was.  

They held hands, like schoolchildren, and it was nice. He liked her. More than he had liked anyone in a long time. He liked being with her, liked walking with her, and he was glad they hadn’t stayed inside and watched a movie.  

Twenty minutes later, they reached the town, the road they were on meeting the main street in front of the church. They turned right, heading toward the small downtown. Jill sighed. “I don’t know where we’re going to get our hair done around here,” she said. 

Ross pointed toward the salon. “There’s a—” 

“Oh. I guess you haven’t heard.” 

“Heard what?” 

“Xochi and Maria? The mother and daughter who run the place? They won the lottery.” 

He wasn’t sure if she was speaking literally or metaphorically. “The…actual lottery?” 

“Yeah. They won six million dollars.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“They closed the place up, and they’re not coming back. So we’re down two beauticians.” She toggled her hand back and forth. “Sort of.” 

Ross laughed, running his fingers through his too-short hair. “Tell me about it.” 

They had no destination in mind, but they walked down one side of the street and up the other. The bar was open, but inside it sounded rowdy, and they passed on by. He wished there was a regular restaurant in town—a hot cup of coffee and a warm piece of pie sounded good right now—but there wasn’t, and with no place to stop, the two of them headed back into the darkness of the desert toward the small cluster of lights that was Jill’s neighborhood. 

It was cold, and he wished he’d brought a jacket, but Ross said nothing. He’d come across wimpy enough as it was. She was still holding his hand, and on the way back, her fingers rubbed lightly against his. He remembered seeing a Michael Palin travel show about the Himalayas, and in one tribal village, the girls would dance with the boys in a kind of public ceremony, and if a girl rubbed her finger on a boy’s palm, it meant she wanted sex. Jill was doing that right now to him, and the feeling was electric. It was as though the nerves in his hand connected directly with his penis, and he walked all the way back to her house with a very pleasurable erection.  

Inside, she made coffee to warm them up, and put on some music, romantic piano music that he didn’t recognize.  

They ended up kissing on the couch, making out like high schoolers, and soon he was grinding against her as her legs spread wide and her crotch pressed up against his. Moments later, they were in the bedroom and their clothes were off. It happened quickly, and he barely had time to wish that he’d showered for his date before she was frantically slipping a condom on and guiding him inside her. It had been awhile, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold out, but he didn’t have to. She came even more quickly than he did, and as soon as she finished, she was whispering in his ear, coaxing him to climax. Which he did—and she did again—powerfully. 

They lay there, spent. 

“Wow,” she said. 

Jokingly, he pumped his fist in the air. “Got her on the first date.” 

“Let me assure you, this is not a regular occurrence.” 

“Hence the condom drawer.” 

She slapped his shoulder. “I’m serious!” 

“I know,” he said, laughing. “I’m sorry.”  

“It’s been a long time for me,” she admitted. 

“Me, too.”  

They were silent for a moment. 

“So,” Ross said finally, “
now
can I see some of your paintings?” 

She nodded, gave him a quick kiss. “Yes,” she said. “You can.” 

ELEVEN 

Cameron Holt strode into the veterinarian’s office with his fists clenched. He was angry but determined to keep himself under control and not make a scene, despite the fact that Gonzalez had not returned any of his calls and had been ducking him for nearly a week. Rye Callahan was in the waiting room—Cameron had seen one of his pigs in the trailer out front—as was an old Mexican guy with a scuzzy dog on a leash, but he strode past them, ignored the receptionist and pushed through the swinging door to the back, where Gonzalez was stuffing his face with a breakfast burrito. 

The veterinarian looked up, startled, as Cameron barged into the room. He swallowed quickly. “I am still waiting for lab results—” he began. 

“My cattle are dying! Four more today! How long does it take for your goddamn lab to run a blood test?” 

“It’s not just a blood test, it’s—” 

“You should know
something
by now! You should at least have a general
idea
!” 

The two men faced each other, and Cameron saw something flicker across the vet’s features: fear. He was afraid, not of Cameron but of what was happening, and Cameron knew that Gonzalez knew that he knew. 

“I found out what you did.” The vet crossed himself. 

“You superstitious old woman!” Cameron had promised himself that he wouldn’t yell, but he couldn’t help it. “It’s your job to cure sick animals and prevent diseases, not listen to local gossip.” 

“God is mad at you.” 

“Jesus fuck!” 

Gonzalez crossed himself again. 

“Knock that shit off,” Cameron ordered. “My stock is dying. There’s a disease going around, and we need to stop it before it wipes out my entire herd. And my neighbors’. It’s not magic or evil spirits or—” 

“God.” 

“Listen, asshole. If you think killing animals is God’s will, then why in the hell did you become a vet, huh? You’re thwarting God’s plan. Every time you cure a sick animal, you’re going against His wishes and getting rid of the sickness that He gave those animals. Is that what you believe? Because if you do, you’re already going to hell, and you might as well just do your job and find out what’s killing my cattle. If you don’t, and you actually understand that this is all bullshit, then stop fluttering around like some frail old Sunday school teacher and get busy. Either way,
get to fucking work
.” 

Gonzalez did not respond.  

Cameron frowned. “Did you even send that stuff to a lab?” he demanded. He suddenly had the sneaking suspicion that the little beaner was lying to him, and the thought made him furious. He was tempted to just sweep his hand across the counter to his left and knock all of Gonzalez’s veterinary implements to the floor, but he restrained himself.  

“Of course,” the vet said. 

“God didn’t tell you to pray about it instead?” 

“I told you. I am waiting for the results. As soon as they come in, I will let you know. Yours are not the only animals that died, you know. I collected samples from all of the affected ranches.” 

Cameron didn’t believe him. What the vet said was logical, reasonable and might very well be true, but it sounded like a lie to him—or, rather
felt
like a lie—and Cameron stepped forward, putting his finger in Gonzalez’s face. “
Get
the results. Today. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, I’m coming back. I can’t afford to have any more of my animals die. If they do, it’ll be your fault, and you’ll pay for that.”  

The threat was strong, the moment was right, and Cameron strode out, back to the waiting room, where a worried-looking old woman with an orange cat in a cage had joined Rye Callahan and the Mexican guy. The cat was whistling, an odd birdlike sound that made the hairs on the back of Cameron’s neck stand on end and for some reason made him think of the red moths that had flown out of his dead cattle. All four people, including the receptionist, had obviously heard the shouting from the other room, and they stared at him silently as he walked past them. 

He pushed open the door and headed into the parking lot, trying to ignore the freakish whistling of the cat. But the tune stayed with him, stuck in his head, and by the time he drove back to the ranch, he was whistling it himself. 

**** 

Cameron Holt was the last straw.