Triple Exposure (11 page)

Perched atop the central cupola gracing the Presidio County Courthouse, the Goddess of Justice presided over Marfa’s downtown, as she had since 1886. But not
precisely
as she had, Zeke knew, for he had heard the legend that years before, a furious cowboy defendant had shot the scales from her hand on the grounds that there was no true justice here.

Zeke understood the sentiment, though he could have told the cowboy the problem wasn’t limited to this corner of West Texas. And besides, no one gave a damn how raw a deal a man got, as long as it wasn’t someone with money or connections. Someone like the privileged assholes he’d once mistaken for his friends.

Out of the dark haze of the past, little Willie’s smile burned its way to the surface. “
You wanna be my buddy?
”

Zeke shuddered, relieved that today, like most days, he wouldn’t have to venture near the pretty downtown square, with its galleries and its restored hotel, its fancy eateries and custom-roasted gourmet coffee. Instead, he avoided both the tourists and his fellow locals by resuming his habit of walking his mile-long private driveway, followed by another half-mile along a desolate stretch of Highway 17.

He refused to give up the daily ritual despite the growing backlog of custom orders he’d agreed to fill. Months’ worth, by his reckoning, but few batted an eye when he mentioned the delay, nor had anyone balked when he raised his prices for the first time in many years. Finally, desperate to slow down the avalanche of interest, he had put a new, hand-lettered sign up on his front gate before he locked it.

inventory sold out—no new orders till further notice
.
He’d paused and looked at the words for several minutes, then went back to get his brush and paint and added one word:
sorry
.

Freed of constant interruptions, at least he’d have the peace to finish the huge mouthful of work he’d bitten off—and the leisure to consider whether he was insane to keep living as he had instead of pulling up stakes and lighting out one step ahead of Lady Justice. Safer that way, he knew, with his likeness and his address floating around God only knew where.

But did he really need to? He had studied the photo carefully, memorized every detail, and measured the sum against his recollection of the very young man he’d once been. Was it possible that anyone would recognize him, with his face turned in profile and his body so very different from the still-gangly boy who’d run, shedding everything that should have mattered to him? Would his own mother—and God, how it still hurt to think about the woman who’d raised three sons on her own—know him if she flipped past his photo in her local paper’s travel section? Or had he been locked in the same vault of painful memory—of painful
failure
—as his long-dead father?

As Zeke was walking from the edge of his drive toward The Roost, he stopped dead in his tracks, heart pounding, then shrugged and pulled up his collar as he heard a vehicle’s approach. As a truck laden with hydroponically grown tomatoes rattled past him, he shuddered in the sand-strewn breeze of its wake. Not so much at the chill of it, for the afternoon had warmed up nicely, but at the idea that its driver had come up on him unaware.

Just the way his past might, thanks to the photo Rachel Copeland had had no damned business taking. He swore, an outburst loud enough to send a distant band of pronghorns bounding through the scrub, their gold-and-white hides blending with the yellow grasses.

“Now it’s official,” he said bitterly. “I’m scaring the damned wildlife, too.”

While the shadows of clouds slid across the high desert plain, a trio of vultures soared above, clearly unimpressed by his tirade. A sign, he thought, that the world’s gears turned without him, that his family had gone on turning, too, along with those who wanted him dead or in prison.

No one would recognize him. No one would remember. Because twenty years was a damned long time for a man to disappear.

Let it be long enough
, he prayed,
for her sake if not mine
.

Thirty minutes later, Patsy had just brought him a generous slice of peach pie dotted with whipped cream when the door jingled with her stepdaughter’s arrival. He glanced up at Rachel, then looked away only a split second after she did. In that instant, he decided that she hadn’t been aware of the time, or she would have avoided the awkwardness of this encounter. But to her credit, she didn’t turn around and walk out. Instead, she acted as if he weren’t there.

He’d like to do the same, but attraction coiled like a snake inside him, rattling its tail in warning. Furious as he’d been—and still was—with her, the low buzz cautioned that his body hadn’t gotten the memo on his outrage, that it still had impossible ideas about the woman who had stirred its lust.

“Have they been calling here, too?” she asked Patsy.

“Yes.” Her stepmother looked up from the large, glass bowl she was drying. “Started up this morning, right off.”

“What did you tell them…Oh.”

When Zeke furtively looked up, he saw that the café’s phone was off its hook.

“Damned reporters.” Clean utensils chimed and clattered as Patsy dumped them into drawers. “I’m not about to talk to any of those lying scavengers.”

“Nice to know—” Rachel looked pointedly at him before returning a hard stare at her stepmother “—you’re drawing the line
somewhere
.”

Patsy’s thin lips whitened as she pushed them together. Turning her back to her stepdaughter, she returned to banging dishes so hard that Zeke was almost sure something would crack. He didn’t look forward to the next time Patsy got him alone, when he figured she would lay into him about betraying her confidence to Rachel. It was no more than he deserved for losing his temper and running his mouth like a fool.

All regrets aside, he wondered why reporters would be troubling Rachel now. He didn’t want them poking around here, where maybe one or two would get bored enough to start digging into the background of the newfound “celebrity” created by Rachel’s photo. It wouldn’t take much searching to find out that as far as records were concerned, Zeke Pike had not existed until the day he’d dragged his weary ass into this outpost some fourteen years before.

There had been other identities in the six years prior, and a slew of other towns. But he’d gotten so dog-sick of running, he’d sworn that Marfa would be his last stop. And he hadn’t had cause to question that decision until Rachel Copeland came along.

She stood looking defiant with her hand on her hip before shaking her head and gusting out a sigh. After hanging up the phone, she went to the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic-wrapped chef’s salad with a small container of ranch dressing.

“Thanks for saving this for me,” she said to Patsy’s stiff back, a step toward reconciliation that apparently fell upon deaf ears.

As Patsy continued to ignore her, tension rippled between the two like heat waves rising from hot tar. The silence was so complete that Zeke could make out the whistle of a train as it passed through town, three miles to the south.

Before he could finish his pie and escape, the phone shattered the tense stillness. Patsy turned and reached for it, but Rachel, who was closer, shook her head. “I’ll deal with it. Hello?”

As a second mournful note rose in the distance, Zeke took his empty plate and glass over to the counter. He wanted to say something, maybe offer Patsy a preemptive apology, but no way was he doing it with Rachel standing there. Tomorrow, he decided.

As he turned to leave, he caught sight of Rachel’s widened eyes as she listened to the caller. Zeke froze, unable to look away from where she stood breathing hard, holding the receiver in a death grip.

“Hey, Patsy,” he called quietly, an instinctive warning. Because whatever this was, it looked bad, worse than reporter-bad. Maybe Old Lady Copeland, Walter’s mother—hadn’t Patsy mentioned she’d been ill?

“Wh-where
are
you? Are you—?” Rachel asked the caller. “I’m—I’m calling the authorities. Do you hear that? You come near me and I’m—Don’t you dare hang up.”

But it was clear enough the caller had, for Rachel did the same. Eyes closing, she touched her fingers to her temples and rubbed shaky circles.

“Who was that?” Patsy looked concerned now, her annoyance apparently forgotten. “Was it that crazy woman, Rachel? Thought she’d given up by now—”

Rachel shook her head. “She’s never going to give up. She’ll keep hounding me and hounding me ’til one of us is dead.”

With that, she turned and walked out of the café, her
forgotten lunch still sitting on the counter. Patsy sighed and reached for the door pull, on the verge of following. But at the last, critical moment, she hesitated, then let her hand drop to her side.

“She’s not going to want me.” She frowned, as if the fact grieved her. “She’ll be off to her father, just like always.”

Zeke nodded. “I—uh—I didn’t mean to throw you in the grease with her about what you said. Should’ve kept my mouth shut, but she and I had words, you see, and—”

Patsy waved off his explanation. “When I saw that picture she took, I could’ve told her you’d hate it. Not that she’d have listened. And don’t worry about what you said. It couldn’t have been news to her that I’m upset about the lawsuit.”

“But it was a confidence, and I—I’m sorry.” He glanced through the glassed, top portion of the door, trying to spot Rachel. He didn’t see her in the grassy stretch between the building and the hangars. Had she climbed into her van to leave?

“Apology accepted.”

He should go then, shouldn’t he? Get clear of Copeland family business and refocus on his own. But instead, he lingered, picturing Rachel’s distress. “Somebody threatening her?”

“I don’t know as they’re making threats, exactly. But there’ve been a few calls here and at the house. Crazy people—one lady in particular calling quite a bit. She’d tapered off.” Patsy shrugged. “Must’ve gotten stirred up again about that lawsuit. Story about it just broke. That’s what’s started the reporters calling.”

Zeke shook his head. “That’s bad news, all right.”

And Rachel didn’t deserve it, not after she’d stood her ground and fought the charges, which took a brand of courage he had lacked. Hurt to admit it to himself, but it was true. He’d jackrabbited away from trouble as much for his own sake as his mother’s.

“Work’s waiting,” he reminded himself. “Better get back to it.”

He meant to do just that. Meant to take Patsy’s earlier advice and steer clear of Rachel Copeland and her problems. But when he spotted her sitting on top of an old, forgotten picnic bench behind the café, she looked so pale and shaken, so defeated, that his feet refused to listen to his better judgment.

“You all right?” he ventured as he walked toward her. He half-expected her to demand that he leave her alone, but instead, she looked up, brown eyes shining.

“She told me she was coming for me. She told me and told me. But I never thought she’d really—”

“How many phone calls?” He moved closer.

“Plenty of them, back East. After the acquittal, every station showed his mother sobbing, breaking to pieces on the court house steps. It got a lot of press—she spent her whole career in Philly TV, and she’s incredibly well-liked there. A lot of people thought of her as their best girlfriend or big sister.”

He shook his head. “Never understood that, why people see some talking head on TV and get to think they know the person.”

“The more her breakdown was replayed, the more some of her fans felt like her ‘injustice’ had happened to them personally. Never mind the true facts of the case, which didn’t play as well in sound bites. Too long, too dry, and I was no one famous, just some evil slut—practically a child predator—pretending to teach photography so I could seduce my students.”

“Can’t imagine anyone buying that, even for a moment.”

“Not everybody did, and thank God the jury saw through it, but some nut cases dug up my number—” She shook her head. “Back here, I thought it would finally be over. I thought I could come home and take a second stab at my life. Thought that photo exhibit might be the chance I needed.”

“You can do it,” he said, wanting to believe she had a future. “You will. This suit’ll be dismissed—”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

“And the nuts’ll all get tired of running up their long-distance bills.”

“Not long distance.” She pulled sunglasses from her pocket and slipped them on to hide her misery. “That’s what shook me, in there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that woman’s
here
. In Marfa. The Psycho Bitch who always, always manages to get my number.”

“She told you she’s here?”

Rachel shook her head. “Didn’t have to. I heard the whistle in the background, loud and clear. The same train I could hear from town.”

“Are you sure?” He sat down on the tabletop beside her so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck to look up. The conversation paused as a small plane buzzed up the runway for takeoff.

“I—I think so. I mean, I was sure at first, but maybe…”

“I heard the whistle, too, in town while you were talking. I think you should call the sheriff, like you said. That woman has to be crazy to follow you all the way out here—what’s it take from the East Coast? Two separate flights and a three-hour car ride from El Paso?” Marfa might be popular with tourists, but it was a long way from accessible. Thank God. “If she’d go to all that trouble, she could be nuts enough to do worse.”

“I’ll call Harlan as soon as I finish my solo. Otherwise, I’ll have to wait around for him and screw up everybody’s schedule.”

Instinctively, Zeke glanced up, took in the band of puffy clouds. In the distance, he made out a couple of hawks floating lazily toward heaven. He tried to put himself in their place, tried to envision their domain as they would perceive it. To the south, the quaint clutter of Marfa’s buildings, laid upon the fragile grid of its streets, a town surrounded by vast stretches of dry plain that rolled toward distant mountains. A silence broken only by the wind’s breath through feathered wings….