The Matriarch (32 page)

“Why not, Sheriff?” Dott asks with a pleasant smile.

“She’s … not available.”

“Well then, how about Lindee Banyon?” Charlotte asks.

She had met Lindee at Dante’s funeral, but the haggard lady in the navy blue jumpsuit seated at the metal table bears no resemblance to that woman. Charlotte and Dott sit together across from her. Lindee’s hair is filthy and frames a harshly lined colorless face. It’s a grieving face, brown eyes huge with sorrow and unshed tears, and her mouth is grim and turned down at the corners. In fact, Charlotte wonders if she has the right woman.

“Are you … Lindee?” She doesn’t answer. “Lindee Banyon?” The female deputy standing a few feet nearby nods her head.

“This is Dott Pringle, Lindee,” Charlotte says, indicating Dott at her side. “She’s with the Church of Personal Peace. We need to speak with you. We’re so sorry for your trouble, and we want to help you if we can. Can you tell us why you … hurt your husband?”

A minute passes. Lindee’s brows rise and lower, her eyes flutter open and close erratically, and her lips part and then snap shut, over and over.

“Lindee?” Charlotte says.

She stares at Charlotte, her eyes almost colorless. An eerie, beatific smile crosses her face. In a clear, mechanical tone she speaks.

“You should know why. You’re of my gender.” She gives a short, ugly laugh.

“Your … gender?” Charlotte feels a sudden mist of sweat form on her face.

“There are major differences between us, however,” Lindee says with undisguised contempt, and Charlotte thinks she may be listening to the voice of the tree.

She forces herself to continue. “The men who have … died … why?”

“Men live on slaughter,” Lindee states. “They’re killers. They used to tear the living hearts from young women. Young
virgin
women.” Lindee’s eyes fill with tears, and she shakes her head. “But men will soon be unnecessary.” Lindee frowns then and blue sparks flicker in her pale eyes. “There will soon be children conceived without men. Because of the new Mother, the Matriarch.”

“And your purpose?” Dott asks. “Your goal?”

“My goal is to help her. To help Mother. She needs land.” A drop of drool appears on Lindee’s lower lip, a translucent jewel. She smiles, and the drop falls onto her chin. “Her children need land; they need the world. Quiet and green.” She laughs then, a maniacal sound that tears the air, and Charlotte puts the heels of her hands against her ears.

“Where do you come from?” Dott asks.

The laughter stops, and a dreamy look comes to Lindee’s face. “So bright and warm. Not like here.” She turns her gaze on Dott and then Charlotte, her eyes completely focused now, sharp and piercing. “Mother’s children need your world. The Matriarch will soon become mother of the world.”

“I don’t think so,” Charlotte says, surprising herself.

Lindee’s look changes. The menace and hostility leave her face completely, replaced by a look of utter confusion. “Is Arty really gone?” she asks, the tone of her voice changing completely to one of soft, barely audible questioning.

A pause then as Charlotte and Dott try to comprehend this sudden transformation. “I’m afraid so,” Charlotte says finally. “But you can help—”

“I’m so sorry,” Lindee says, her eyes filling once again. “Do you have any figs?” she asks then, mopping at her eyes with a hand. “I need more.”

“Hold my calls,” Al says to the deputy on phone duty and takes Doctor Beaumont into his office. “You were called to the Murphy house? Shelly Russo is dead?”

“Very. And now I’ve just checked on the apparent suicide of Carla Russo, the killer of Dante Russo. Mighty suspicious all these Russo deaths, if you ask me.”

“That’s it, Beaumont—I
am
asking you. What’s the story on the Shelly Russo death?”

“My complete report will be on your desk by 1:00 p.m. today. Where is Manny anyway?”

“He’s sick. Will you give me a preview of your report? I need to get a handle on this stuff.”

“Well, the story is that the Russo girl had a hangover and was running into the kitchen when she fell and hit her head on the edge of a kitchen counter. Her head’s pretty banged up, but I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“Who told you all that?”

“Her sister Charlotte and a woman from a church, a Dott Pringle.”

He had just let those two in here to see Lindee Banyon. Well, so what? Not a big deal.

“Do you think somebody might have thrown her into that counter?”

“A possibility. The autopsy will help me with that.”

“What would the motive be? Who would want her dead?”

“I haven’t a clue, Al. That’s your department.”

“Yeah, well, let me have that report ASAP, Doc.”

“Of course.” Dr. Beaumont leaves, and Al sits behind his desk, thinking.

The bodies are stacking up like kindling. He remembers the Murphys talking to him about a Victor Hammond. Has he turned up yet? Could there be something to that Murphy kid’s claim? What if there was some …
mysterious
kind of force at work here? Al uses that word in his head, because he doesn’t want to use the word “supernatural,” but how can he explain the murders of two honest and proper men by their equally honest and proper wives? Especially when there had been no previous indication of marital trouble. How to figure it?

Al’s uniform is uncomfortable in this heat. He needs some time in front of the fan in his office at home with his collection of porn, and a drink. It’s always restorative, a half hour or so with porn. He unbuttons his shirt down to mid-chest, trying to get some relief from the hot, humid air. A buzzer sounds, and a light on his phone bank lights up.

“Yeah?”

“I know you said to hold your calls, Sheriff,” the deputy says, “but a guy, a Richard Bloome, says he’s got info about the murders you’ll want to hear.”

What could that faggot druggist have to say that anybody would want to hear?

But Al decides to take the call.

10:40 a.m.

Time. It’s marching on. She’s growing. Perhaps there are no more figs out in Diablo, but that won’t stop The Tree. I suspect she’s powerful in ways that I haven’t even thought of.

I use a crow bar for leverage and force the storeroom door in Dante Russo’s barn. “Who’s watching this place now?” I ask Frank as I push the door open.

“Neighbors, I guess. I don’t know. Not much here, really, with the cattle gone. I don’t know what’s going to become of it now, with Carla’s trouble and all. They didn’t have any kids … just the nieces.” He shakes his head sadly.

“This here’s where Dante kept all his feed and additives.” He motions toward the back of the small dark room. “Should be with those grain sacks back there.” Frank pulls the string on a light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and the dim yellow light picks up several cloth bags stacked against the far wall. Lester and I begin tugging the sacks out under the light where we can see them better. The first two are filled with a blend of grains.

“That’s it,” Frank says of the third. He kneels and wipes dust from the print on the cloth sack.

LIVESTOCK BOOSTER by COLE CHEMICAL, INC.,
the label reads. It shows a line drawing of a hefty bull looking very pleased with himself. We turn the sack over and find a brief paragraph with ingredients and directions for use. It explains that this booster, a synthetic testosterone in salt form, should be dissolved in a stabilizing oil such as cottonseed and then injected into the steer. Figures are listed showing the amounts recommended, based on the approximate weight of the animal. I notice the stuff is potent—a little goes a long way.

I rip the sack open slightly and take out a handful. It’s white and feels like coarse table salt.

“So,” Lester says, “we need some kind of oil to dissolve this stuff. But we’ve got to be able to spray it.”

“Yeah, and oil will likely clog up the sprayer,” I say.

“Yeah, it might,” Lester agrees, and Frank nods his head.

I sit back on my haunches as a wave of fatigue washes over me.

Why is everything so fucking complicated?

“Let me have a taste a’ that stuff, Cassidy,” Frank says. He takes a bit from the sack and tastes it with his tongue. “Salty,” he says. “Tastes like salt.”

“So …” I say, “what about using water? Salt dissolves in water, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, water!” Lester says, excited.

“Yeah,” Frank says. “Especially warm water like what will come outta the spigot today!”

We’re all grinning at each other like idiots.

“They probably want the customer to use oil, because that will add to the weight of the steer,” I say. “Let’s go find water and a bucket and try this stuff out.”

Frank nods, grins, and goes out onto the walkway of the barn. I marvel at the old man’s energy and enthusiasm.

“Lester,” I say, walking out onto the walkway, “haul that sack out here, will you? I’ll go get the sprayer out of the Ranger.”

We make a booster-rich paste in a bucket with water. I gradually add more water, swishing it through the paste until the small white crystals begin to dissolve. We soon have a pale solution that I pour into the spray can. I attach the hose and nozzle. I test the different settings on the nozzle, and it works well with each.

“It works!” I say, so grateful I might burst into tears. Lester is jumping up and down like a fool. At last we’re having some luck.

“Hold on a minute, boys. Let’s not be dancin’ a jig just yet,” Frank says, with a frown. “Tell me again, Cassidy, how you figure to get this stuff into that tree.”

“Well … because of all that milky sap coming into her leaves and branches when we tried to burn her, I think her—skin, so to speak—has a two-way channel, you know? I think … I
hope
we can spray this solution right into her system through that two-way channel—her pores. We can kill her that way, because I believe she’s allergic to testosterone.” Frank looks at me like he’s not quite sure I’m making sense.

“Why won’t she just send out some more of her milk to do battle with the testosterone?” Lester asks me, and Frank nods.

“Maybe she will. But maybe the testosterone solution is strong enough to repel her milk.”

Now they’re both looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I really don’t know what we’ll do if I’m wrong,” I say and feel that teary weakness in my belly again. I can’t imagine reporting all this to Al Schmidt will help us at all. And The Tree is probably sending out her roots to new locations right now.

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Lester says. “If we’re right or wrong.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s not exactly a sure thing.”

“No, but it’s as good as we’ve got right now,” Frank says, “so let’s give it a try.”

I shake my head, dazed. My uncle is actually supporting me, and that feels really good. “Thanks Uncle—”

“You see that big three gallon sprayer back there in the storeroom?” he asks me.

“No, I—”

“Well, it’s there. Let’s fill it up and take it with us.” Frank is grinning. “If one sprayer’s good, two’s got to be better, right boys?”

We decide to check up on the girls and what they may have learned from Lindee and Carla, and then take off for The Tree.

11:15 a.m.

“As a reputable pharmacist,” Richard Bloome is explaining to Acting Sheriff Albert D. Schmidt on the phone, “I have a duty to the community as well as to myself. I must report any conversations I have with anyone concerning illegal drugs—hence my call to you, Sheriff.”