Alibi Creek (16 page)

34

MONDAY OCTOBER 22, 2007

S
HE ATE HER SANDWICH IN
the courthouse common room and folded the plastic baggie into the pocket of her pants. A three-page request from the Brand volunteer fire department for funds to upgrade their equipment had been placed on her desk. The commissioners' excuses would cause the fire chief to lose his temper and yell insults, which would further ruin his chances of getting what the fire department needed. She set the request aside.

At two o'clock, Lyle made a rare visit to the office and invited Lee Ann to take a walk. Caroline was tallying payroll, Roxanne was entering county statistics into the computer, and Maggie was working in conjunction with the clerk's office to recruit census takers over the phone. Everything seemed in order.

“Let's head toward the fairgrounds,” Lyle said, pushing open the glass doors.

They crossed the street toward Leo's Garage, all the doors open, Leo out to lunch. Yvonne and Sally waved from their windows at the bank, no customers in line. One pedestrian crossed the street to the post office without looking right or left. Larry Corkin's trailer marked the end of town and Lyle took Lee Ann's elbow, quickening his step past three barking dogs straining at their chains behind the fence.

The fairgrounds consisted of a rodeo arena, bleachers, and a long, metal building situated on a thin strip of land
between the highway and mountains. They walked under the Dax County Fairgrounds sign toward two rows of picnic tables under a metal roof. A month ago, vehicles had been parked bumper to bumper clear to the highway. Lamb, cattle, poultry, and rabbits added their aromas and sounds to the noise of excited children. Folks waited in an endless line for hot dogs slathered with mustard and hamburgers smothered with chile, while dust billowed from the arena during the barrel racing and roping competitions.

She took a seat on a picnic bench, in a patch of sun sneaking under the roof. Lyle sat in the shade, fingers folded loosely on the table.

“Lee Ann,” he said, preoccupied with the length of his fingernails.

She said, “I take it you have something to tell me.”

“This is difficult,” he said. “Last Thursday, Owen came into my office complaining that a man named Keith Lampert owns Ross Plank's ranch. Owen is pretty upset, believing he's the rightful heir to his family's property. Keith Lampert claims he paid $880,000.00 cash to Walker for the place and has a quitclaim deed to prove Ross had transferred ownership.”

“Walker?”

“Of course, I checked with Eileen right away and she verified that Keith filed the deed at the courthouse last Tuesday. It's signed by Ross and notarized. I visited with Ted Bowles to check the legality of the signatures and he assured me the deed is legitimate.”

“Explain what this means, exactly.”

“It means Walker pulled a fast one. It means the signatures on the deed are binding, signed by both parties of their own volition, in their right minds, in front of a witness. It means Walker sold Owen's inheritance out from
under him. I found Keith camped out there in the same trailer Walker had parked on the highway. He showed me the receipt for $880,000.00.”

She leaned forward on her elbows and stuck her fingers in her ears. Don't hear. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against them so hard they hurt. Don't look.

“Now, I need to ask you where Walker is.”

She shook her head.

“Lee Ann, look at me. I need you to remember the last time you saw him, the last time anyone in your family saw him.”

Walker. Bigger and badder than ever. Congratulations! Laugh, or cry, or scream. Hit something, throw something, kick something. Punch something. Choke something. And she, a fool. To assume. To trust. Eugene was right. A criminal. He'd said, “Admit it! He's one step away from a hardcore criminal!” And now, Lord, he's taken that step.

She stomped across the field, searching for the appropriate Bible quote on rage. On trickery. On deceit. On disappointment. On shame. Damn Walker. Damn him!
A quick-tempered man does foolish things, and a crafty man is hated.
Proverbs 14:17. Oh, she did hate him. Blood flooded her eardrums, pounded against her temples. A scream stuck in her throat, her jaw too tight to open.

Lyle caught her arm and turned her around, holding steady as she stamped her feet and beat his chest and fell against his sheepskin vest. Tension drained from her neck down her back through her limbs, the ground a sponge, drawing poison.

Lyle said, “Tell me.”

“I last saw him the day of the accident. Two weeks ago Sunday.”

Back at the office, she unlocked the top drawer of her desk and spread out three bids for the construction of a youth center on Main Street. The commissioners had adjusted the figures to ensure the contract would go to Saul Duran's first cousin. The material and labor costs bled together, impossible to tally and compare. Lord, have You heard me? Do You see me? Do You ignore me intentionally? Have I not been faithful? Why have You allowed Walker to fall into his old pattern? Her hands shook. Mother mustn't find out. She jostled the papers, returned them to the drawer and turned the key.

At five o'clock she walked down the street to Art's, pushed open the door, hit a wall of cigarette smoke, yellow haze, and rank odor and moved down the length of the bar.

Jo tilted her head and raised one eyebrow, flicked her ashes as Art set down an amber-colored cocktail on a small square napkin.

“We need to talk,” Lee Ann said.

Jo drew the napkin closer. “Shoot.”

Lee Ann turned her back to Art.

“Lyle came to see me today. Walker's in trouble.”

“What's new?”

“Real trouble.”

“What's new?”

“He's sold Ross Plank's land to some stranger from Arizona. For $880,000.00.”

The smoke Jo exhaled clouded her face.

“Walker's not smart enough to do that.”

Lee Ann fumbled for a Kleenex in her purse. She wiped her eyes.

“You're serious,” Jo said. “Oh, honey, I had no idea. No idea.”

“Don't protect him.”

Jo insisted she knew nothing. He'd been absent from Art's for over a week. She'd figured he was up to something, but didn't know what. Since he got out of prison, he'd borrowed a couple hundred bucks and took her to supper in Show Low. Sure, she'd heard about the accident with Sonny and Dee, the whole town knew. Maybe he'd simply decided to side-step Eugene for a while. She couldn't imagine what he'd do with the money. A bundle that big would be hard to hide, too obvious to squander. Lee Ann left her sitting there, cigarette turning to ash, drink untouched.

The cookie jar was empty, Walker's bed unmade. She fed Mother supper and wheeled her in front of the TV with food still on her chin.

“Mother, God doesn't acknowledge me. I search for reasons why, find none, and still trust in Him. I'm a fool. You would tell me, ‘do not falter, keep the faith,' but I
am
faltering. I
am
in doubt. I need proof, just once.”

Psalms, Proverbs, Song of Solomon. She flipped quickly through Matthew, Luke, Romans. Faster: Galatians, Timothy, 1 Peter, James. Faster, every passage offering advice, counsel, instruction, the promise of deliverance and salvation, faster, faster. A page tore at the binding. She gasped and ran to the kitchen, rummaged through the junk drawer for the Scotch tape. With shaking fingers, she aligned the tear perfectly and attached both sides, but when the Bible was closed, the page stuck out a sixteenth of an inch.

Chicken thighs frying in a cast iron skillet spattered the stove with oil. Eugene, Scott, and Dee dipped chips into salsa and sipped Dos Equis, discussing when to take the pigs off high protein feed and start them on regular. At the first lull in the conversation Lee Ann turned the chicken
and set the tongs on a paper towel. As calmly as possible, she reported Lyle's news about Walker.

Eugene finished his beer and turned the bottle, as if looking for flaws in the glass.

Scott said, “I've never heard of a guy named Keith Lampert. I wonder how Walker got Ross to sign the deed.” He took over cooking the chicken while Lee Ann drained the potatoes. “How did Owen find out? If everything is legal, can Lyle do anything about it?”

She added butter, salt, pepper, and milk to the potatoes and mashed them.

“Those are good questions,” she said. “I don't have the answers.”

Dee laughed. “Uncle Walker! Did it again! You can bet Keith isn't likely to give up property he's paid $880,000.00 for.”

“Quit laughing,” Scott said. “The whole thing speaks to the lawlessness in Dax County. You're just as bad, if you think your uncle ripping off a sick old man and his naive son is funny.”

Eugene got up and pointed his beer bottle at Lee Ann from across the table.

“This is your fault,” he said. “Not a damn person in your family has ever put that son-of-a-bitch in his place.” He glared at Scott and Dee. “You boys included.”

Scott transferred the chicken onto a serving dish.

“Please,” Lee Ann said.

“Don't defend Scott and Dee. And don't preach.”

She lowered her head.

Eugene waved the bottle. “Sure, act humble.” He came around the table. “For once, instead of thinking you're immune to problems because God's on your side, own up to your part in allowing this disaster to happen.”

“I had no idea,” she said.

“Because you refuse to look. You think God takes responsibility for everything you don't have the guts to deal with. You've given your
self
away. And the worst part is, you don't see it.”

“We're not discussing God,” she said. “We're talking about Walker.”

“We shouldn't be discussing either.”

He dropped the bottle in the trash, walked into the dining room and opened the buffet, took out the whiskey saved for weddings and wakes, and clutching the bottle by the neck, slammed the door on his way out.

Lee Ann slumped into a chair and wiped her eyes with a napkin.

Dee stood behind her and held her shoulders. “Those were pretty harsh words. No one can control Walker—God, or any of us.” He touched his chin to the top of her head. “I'll go close up the hen house.”

Scott knelt and rested his hands on her knees. “I know how hard you try, Mom.”

No, no one knew how hard she tried, how she believed in a God who ignored her, how she reached out to a man who didn't touch her, how she defended a brother who didn't regard her, how she obeyed commissioners who used her. She hung her apron. Time to put Mother to bed.

She stayed long after Mother fell asleep and returned to find the fireplace cold, the chicken and potatoes in the fridge, the pots and pans washed and stacked in the rack. Eugene's pickup was parked out front, but he wasn't in the house. She got into bed and clasped her hands under her chin. Lord, what has happened to Eugene and me? Gestures and words at bedtime reveal the condition of a marriage.
Mine is disintegrating. Asking Eugene for an explanation feels like a confrontation. I don't want to hear his excuses. Dutiful kisses goodnight, avoidance of being in the same room together, talk of tasks instead of emotions are signs of declining love. I know your advice on marriage—
Above all, love each other deeply, for love covers a multitude of sins.
1 Peter 4:8. And yet You teach that Yours is the only love I need. Why then, despite my faith, does the loss of Eugene threaten my sense of wellbeing? Why, now that Walker has shamed me completely, do I seek Eugene's support rather than Yours? Forgive the weakness of longing for a hand in mine, a body beside me at night, a smile to sweeten my day, a husband to receive the tenderness I offer. Forgive me for needing Eugene's approval that Walker's crimes do not reflect on me, that I am good, decent, and honorable.

Sometime after midnight his bare feet crossed the floor. He lowered himself on the bed and carefully pulled the covers over his shoulder, lying as far from her as a body could get. She lay perfectly still until his breathing deepened and he began to snore gently. Only then did she sleep.

35

TUESDAY OCTOBER 23, 2007

S
HE WAITED FOR HER MORNING
cup of coffee. Even though the house was quiet, she propped her pillow and stayed under the quilt and waited. The room brightened and the clock ticked past the time she usually showered. She would continue to wait, for hours, until noon, into the night. Waiting was her specialty. At seven o'clock, she threw off the covers. Mother would be needing the bathroom.

He'd left a note on the kitchen table.
I've gone to the cattle auction in Belen. Don't hold dinner.
Odd. He'd attended the auction three weeks ago. He didn't like eating in restaurants and always looked forward to a hearty meal after a day away and the two-hour drive home.

On the way to work, leafless cottonwoods with smooth, gray bark spread their limbs like giant feather dusters against a pale blue sky. One of Pete Herrington's cows was out, grazing on the shoulder of the highway. She'd call him from the office. Lyle had likely informed the deputies of Walker's latest “activities” and by now, Lewis would have confided in his new bride, Loretta. Jeremy would have passed along the information to Leo at the garage and Melba, the dispatcher, would have called her twenty best friends and four sisters. Every table at Vera's would be occupied with folks exaggerating details, exchanging opinions, saying, “I told you so.”

At nine o'clock, she called the second floor clerks into the commissioners' conference room and gathered them
next to the green chalkboard. There were chairs, but everyone stood.

“I want to tell you the facts about my brother as I understand them from Lyle.”

Blank faces stared at her. The latecomers unbuttoned their coats.

“Ross Plank signed a quitclaim deed, giving Walker ownership of his ranch. Walker sold the property to a man from Arizona for a large sum of money. Naturally, Owen is upset, as am I. Since the deed is legal, unless Owen brings charges, nothing can be done. Lyle and I have no idea where Walker is or what Owen intends to do.” Beth Ramirez blew her nose and dabbed her eyes, but it had nothing to do with sympathy. She'd had a cold for a week. “Now, I would like you to return to work. Caroline, please call the commissioners.” She pushed back her shoulders. “Tell them I'll be out of the office today.”

Pastor Fletcher agreed to open the church if she used the side security door upon leaving. When asked if he might offer consolation, she said, “Thank you, I'd like to be alone.”

Along the side aisle, a lopsided poster of Christ had been thumbtacked next to the haphazard collection of donated crosses on the south wall. The chairs formed sloppy lines, some shoved sideways. She knelt on her knees in front of the pulpit and breathed deeply, opening her palms and bowing her head until her chin touched her chest. Oh, God. Help me endure this. Show me what Walker is meant to teach me. I have tried to understand. I have believed You would guide me, as well as him. Has my patience not been tested, my compassion, my trust in You?

She raised her head. The room was cold, the pulpit nothing more than a rectangular box. The cross, two sticks of
wood nailed together. The light harsh. The pine floor scuffed and dull, the white walls in need of paint, the piano dusty. The place that once promised miracles: spiritless. Depleted of pleas, questions, promises or bargains, she turned from the cross and exited through the side door.

At the motel, she asked for Danielle.

Suzette looked up from behind the counter.

“She didn't come in today. She called in sick.”

She found the shovel in the garden and dragged it out front and rammed the blade into the row of red hot pokers, scooped up a clump and heaved it aside. Stabbed the dirt again. Auction in Belen! Danielle sick! Her foot drove the blade, slicing the roots. She dug deeper.
But now you must put them all away; anger, wrath, malice, slander and obscene talk from your mouth.
Colossians 3:8. No longer! Red.
Jeep.
Hot.
Sexy.
Poker.
Well!
She plunged the blade. Red.
Heart.
Hot.
Furious.
Poker.
Cattle prod.
Red.
Blood.
Hot.
Boiling.
Poker.
Stud.
Red.
Alert.
Hot.
Wire.
Poker.
One pair.
She stopped and wiped her neck and face. If one crude, bold flower shot up, she'd gouge it out of the ground. Give her pansies, columbine, and Shasta daisies. The door opened and Grace placed a jug of water and a glass on the step, muttering something about wearing gloves, nothing harder on the skin than dirt.

She finished mid-afternoon, the yard a disaster, and wiped her blistered, cracked hands on her pants and walked into the field, through dried
gaillardia,
sunflowers, and mallow, around gopher mounds and prickly pear cacti turned purple from cold nights. Thistle burrs stuck to her pants. Coneflowers and grama grass supported seed heads on long, graceful stems, cottonwood leaves matted between them. The trees from which the leaves had fallen stood tall, their bare branches cracking the sky. Mullein stalks and prickly
poppy filled bare patches of ground. Beyond the golden-brown foliage a strand of diamonds shimmered—sunlight reflecting off the creek. The trees, weeds, and wildflowers ended at a two-foot drop where floodwaters had eroded the bank. On the other side the land flattened into a rough, sandy beach with tufts of sedge grass sprouting between sand, rock, and boulders. The creek was shallow, its current barely discernable. A fallen cottonwood trunk spanned the water and she crossed, one foot in front of the other, arms outstretched, and plopped down on sun-warmed sand and rested back on her palms. The air was still, everything so quiet silence was almost a sound.

To her right, two arm lengths away, a long and lean snake, perhaps seven feet, stretched out in a sloppy
S,
rubbing its head on a rock. Snake: the lowest of creatures, physically and spiritually the embodiment of Satan. The Bible told us so.
And the Lord said unto the serpent, Because thou has done this thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life.
Genesis 3:14.

Scott would not panic. Don't move. In autumn, or before shedding, a snake can become cranky and aggressive. Breathe.

Its tail was ringed and smooth—a bull snake. The chocolate brown, diamond shaped markings were dull, its eyes cloudy and dark. The snake rubbed its head under the rock and against the sand, occasionally tucking its head to work the area on top of its mouth. Semi-opaque skin had already come loose on the underside of its jaw. Its tongue flicked in and out.

The skin came off the head and collected in a collar below the jaw and the snake opened its mouth wide, as if to yawn. Slowly and effortlessly it crawled out of its skin,
leaving it inside out like a dirty sock, and moved off in the direction of the rocks, its new scales vibrant and lubricated.

She sat for half an hour beside proof of the snake's transformation. Its body would have been warm to the touch and firm, its line elegant as a master artist's stroke, its movement fluid as flowing water, a creature that approached quietly, without footsteps, its only sound a hiss to fend off predators.

From the opposite bank the cottonwoods' shadows reached across the water onto the sand. The creek ran dark, its jewels invisible. Walking back, her feet crunched branches woven into haphazard, thatched designs along the bank. Swallows swooped as swiftly as darts into the grasses, their wings and forked tails silhouetted against the cloudless sky. In the center of the field she threw open her arms and spread her fingers. Open, open, heart! Attach to every living thing, every color, scent, shape, taste, and sound. Stop believing in the Great Mystery. Become part of it.

Grace's car was gone. While Mother dozed in her chair, Lee Ann entered Danielle's room, stepped over slippers and toppled cowboy boots and opened the bureau drawers. She rifled through underwear and nightgowns, filtered through the closet, turned skirt and pant pockets inside out, opened a jewelry box and dumped the contents. Several handbags hung on a peg and she unhooked them and searched every compartment, pricking her finger on a toothpick at the bottom of a shiny black one with a chain strap. A year-old monthly planner stuck out of a side pocket and she leaned against the wall and scanned it, tossed it aside, got on her hands and knees and ran her hand under the bed. More shoes. Still kneeling, she opened the night table drawer. A key lay on top of a slip of paper with a local telephone number on it. She took the note into the kitchen and dialed.

A recorded voice answered. “This is Keith. I'm in Phoenix. Anyone needing to reach me knows the number.”

Mother still slept. Leave her alone, or wait until she wakes? She was done waiting.

It had been years since she'd been to Ross's place, the last time to deliver a casserole after his wife died. Less than a month after Charlotte's passing, he'd suggested Mother might make a good second wife. Lee Ann had never returned.

She climbed the trailer steps, unlocked the door and opened the curtains. Bedroom first. Two shirts, a pair of jeans. A poncho. Empty dresser drawers. In the bathroom, two toothbrushes, a razor, shaving lotion on the sink, an assortment of shampoos and conditioners in the shower. Paper plates and plastic utensils in the kitchen, a small paring knife, a few pots and pans, a spatula and ladle. The phone hung on the kitchen wall above an address book. Her finger trailed the entries, starting with the As. All the listings were in Arizona. Then, under the Ms, a name with a New Mexico address—Pat Merker, Central New Mexico Correctional Facility, Los Lunas.