Alibi Creek (8 page)

13

WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 3, 2007

L
EE
A
NN SAT QUIETLY WHILE
Eugene drove her out to the highway. She pressed against his arm as he unlocked the gate. A wink, pat, or kiss would be nice. Have a good day would be nice. A smile, a bump on the hip. He unlocked the gate. She slipped through and he locked it again.

“Call me if Lyle can't bring you home,” he said.

She straightened her skirt and adjusted her purse over her sweater. Across the road, the sun broke through Red Bull Canyon, splashing yellow on the pines along the south slope, the trees' roots firmly planted, their limbs bathed in warmth. She shivered in the shade, the Lord standing with her, His glow radiating into her body, filling her up. Unfortunately, He emanated light rather than heat. She should have worn a jacket.

Danielle's and Scott's vehicles were parked on the wrong shoulder, leaning into the ditch, the Cherokee's door hanging open. She walked away from the trailer where the newlyweds were likely passed out or hung over. The curtains were open, but nothing moved inside. Lord, do not tempt Walker's imagination with opportunities that will distract him today. Please, provide a home for the trailer. Weaken Eugene's resolve to keep the gate locked.

A red-winged blackbird screeched from somewhere nearby and she imitated its call. The bird answered and she scanned the mesa and sky for red and yellow swatches on
a black wing, perhaps the last sighting before winter. The bird flew from a cottonwood branch and headed south. To the north, she saw Lyle's patrol car curve through the valley, long before she heard it.

The trailer was ugly. No matter how poor, Mother and Dad would never have stooped to living in a trailer, even a doublewide. And Eugene felt the same. The ability to build and maintain a home on a solid foundation set them apart from the riff-raff who hadn't the energy or skills to afford more than a down payment on a pre-fab home. Danielle fit that category. Worse, she probably rented.

Walker wouldn't leave the trailer there in spite, but in thoughtlessness. He understood the difference between borrowing and stealing, honesty and deceit, but the difference didn't mean anything, nor did the consequences. With a baffled expression, he'd exclaim, “Why, I'm just going about my business. Really, I had no idea I'd inconvenienced you. Sorry you're upset. Okey-dokey, I'll get to it right away,” as if apologizing excused the damage, as if the insult hadn't hurt, as if passing out passed as a good night's sleep. At least he'd never done drugs. Jesus had always been her best friend, the bottle his. And Jesus, forgiver of all, would not discriminate against, or fault the weak.

Lyle pulled over and she opened the cruiser door with so much force her arm about left its socket. Yes, chilly morning. The trailer? It belongs to Danielle. Oh, one of the tires blew on the flatbed and it's temporarily out of commission. Walker has plans to haul it to Los Olmos. Of course, it'll be moved today. He's doing fine, helping Eugene and the boys rebuild the corral before roundup, glad to be part of things, a real member of the team.
“Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Up to seven times?” Jesus said to him: “I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times
seven.”
Matthew 18:21-22. Yes, it seems prison has calmed him down, and yes, he intends to stay out of trouble this time.

The meeting convened at eleven, late enough for ranchers to have completed their chores and close enough to lunch for the commissioners' stomachs to call for closure before noon. Lee Ann placed copies of the agenda on the long Formica tabletop and set out Styrofoam cups, Coffee-mate, sugar, and plastic spoons beside the thirty-cup percolator. More knowledgeable about county law, federal regulations, and the business at hand than any of the commissioners, her presence would be required. They would lean back with expressionless faces and defer to her, and she'd pretend all three had done their homework and act as their spokesperson.

She scooped coffee into the basket, forgot the count and started again. She hadn't slept well. Before bed, Eugene had said he and the boys were almost finished rebuilding the corral, changing the shape from rectangular to oval. The work had required tearing down the old fence and chutes, pulling posts, cutting new ones, and repositioning them. The gates had yet to be completed and attached. With roundup a few days away, they could use an extra hand.

“Damn it,” he said. “He's worse than useless. Not only does he not help, he undermines our efforts.”

She went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth, got into bed. He'd always rehash the day's events, discuss plans for tomorrow, affirm the wonderful job she was doing with Mother, reassure her that he wouldn't overwork Edgar, but would assign him the task of overseeing supplies and equipment. Usually he predicted the weather, praised the lasagna, or agreed with her list of their many blessings. He sat on the edge of the mattress, half-turned toward her.

“He's got the boys thinking it's smart to mouth off about anything that bugs them. They got into it today over cutting wood.”

“They always go together,” she said.

“Dee blamed Scott for slowing them down, getting distracted by bug patterns in the bark, something like that. Scott shot back that Dee had a three-track mind—cows, cows, and Ginny Alcott. Smart-ass talk they've learned from their uncle.”

She said, “The boys will not succumb to Walker's ways.” They would not.

He lay down with his back exposed. His neck was sun-burnt above the collar line, the rest of his skin smooth and white. Two small moles huddled close to his spine. Her finger touched them, and when he stayed on his side and his back muscles tightened, her eyes filled and overflowed onto her pillow. Throughout the night his leg hadn't touched hers. She woke early and tiptoed to her private corner of the dining room. Yesterday morning's coffee mug had been left on the Bible, a dribble having run a straight line from the rim down to the cover. She wet a sponge and scrubbed the spot, which left a discolored streak through the
B
in
Holy Bible.

With just enough time to deposit last week's revenue, she returned to the office, removed an envelope from the safe and hurried across the street to the bank. A truck screeched to a halt behind her.

“Peek-a-boo.” Walker grinned.

“The trailer,” she said.

“I'm on it. As we speak.”

14

M
Y DAD DOESN
'
T WANT ANYTHING
to do with you,” Jo said. “He isn't going to let you dump a trailer out at his place.”

“Well, I'll park it behind your house then,” Walker said.

“No.”

“Just until I find a buyer.”

“N. O.”

“No” seemed to be the word of the day. Walt said no, even though he owned thirty-six square miles of useless range over-run with chamisa and tumbleweed. Conrad, chairman of the County Fair board, said no, even though they needed extra storage space for fold-up tables and signage. At the bar, Art said no, even though the garbage-strewn, vacant lot out back provided a home to nothing but a rusted '64 Dodge.

“I don't see what it would hurt,” Walker said. “Give me another Corona. I'll have it sold in two days.”

“It's a piece of shit,” Art said.

“Exactly. Goes right along with every other piece of shit in this town. I promise you, within two days someone will think they've lucked out on the bargain of a lifetime.”

“Trouble with bargains is, there's always a reason. And whoever figures out the reason for this one will be coming after you. And where will you be? Here. I don't want trouble.”

“Jeez, talk about putting a downspin on a venture. There's nothin' wrong with that trailer. Danielle's been living in it for months. Toilet flushes. Thermostat kicks on. Water runs in the taps. A country palace, man!”

Art rested both hands on the bar and leaned forward.

N.O.

At the motel, he found Danielle turning a swivel chair to the right and left with her big toe, reading a fashion magazine.

“Listen, darlin',” he said, pushing two twenties with two fingers across the counter. “Plans for the trailer haven't quite solidified yet. I want you to be comfortable tonight, so book yourself a room.” She kept her head lowered and raised her eyes without closing the magazine. He got the message—a creep was ruining her day spewing a load of bullshit. He understood without a doubt that number 16 would be hers alone, no visitors, no guests, and no roommates.

“I'll stay in the trailer,” he said.

What to do with the damned thing. Driving out Forest Road 47 in search of an out-of-the-way spot with easy access to stash it, clouds popped up over the mesa in puffy, puppy-like formations. Woof. Here comes an elephant. Galoomp. Galoomp. Man, don't let it rain. There ain't one thing in life guaranteed, but whoever directs the weather, let that sun break through for the next few days. Let it shine and shine and shine, elevate the spirits, make the world sparkle!

The road climbed and leveled out high above the valley. He got out to take a leak, wilderness around and below; in the distance the two round hills on Plank's place and the parallel tree lines along the creek, their gold leaves beginning to fade from brilliant to bronze. He opened the glove box and took out the quitclaim deed and held it over his heart, ran his tongue over his lips and kissed it. Smack.
Tomorrow evening Keith Lampert would arrive. The following morning they'd meet, come up here and sniff the air, bask in the silence, spot some wildlife, sigh with the splendor of the vista and descend to where the big, blazing cottonwood marked Ross Plank's homestead, right there.

15

Y
OU SAID HE WAS ON
it,” Eugene said. “Not staying in it.”

Lee Ann pulled the wool blanket over Mother, tucked the satin edge around her shoulders and pecked her forehead goodnight.

“Shhhhhh…we can discuss this after she's settled.”

“I'm no longer your taxi service to the gate. Drive yourself and leave your car in the turn-around.”

“Maybe you can talk to him.”

“It'll result in a fist fight and you know who'll come out on top. You want that? You want him beaten to a heap of slop? Believe me, there's nothing I'd like better than to bounce his scrawny hide off the walls of that trailer.” He nodded at Mother. “For her sake, it's best I keep my distance.”

In the kitchen, Lee Ann collected Mother's supper dishes off the table and ran the water.

Eugene said, “Can't burn that trailer, bury it or sink it. What I'd like to do is plow into it, but I'd wreck my pickup. Moving it to a repo lot would take time and effort and you can be damn sure I'm not about to do his dirty work for him.”

“You don't need to swear. And please, keep your voice down.”

He slammed his hand on the counter, rattling the plates.

She turned off the water and sat down. The air buzzed with a high, nerve-shattering frequency sending vibrations from her scalp to her toes.

“I'll ask Lyle to have the road crew move it to the county yard,” she said.

“They'll have to slap a warning on it first, give him three days.”

“In that case, I'm sure Walker will have moved it by then.”

“You're always sure. One thing
I'm
sure of is that nothing you're sure of with Walker ever comes to pass. Your certainty is a means of avoiding the inevitable.”

“Eugene, sit down. I'm not trying to make things worse.”

He stayed put. “Well, you do. When the happy carpenter whistles, he's estimated wrong. That's you, whistling away, ignoring a nightmare about to happen, denying how much you hate Walker, refusing to take a stand. You're stuck in your faith, thinking it makes you strong, but it's like quick-sand, pulling you under.”

The clock said 8:20. Saul Duran had tampered with a paving bid for the road to second mesa. This week she'd obeyed Harley's request and “adjusted” the budget for the Supplemental Food Program for Needy Women, Infants, and Children. Her job might well be re-titled Commissioners' Flunky.

She scraped a dab of crusty lasagna off the edge of the table, scratching the spot after it flaked off. Lord, Eugene doesn't understand the power of prayer. Faulting my faith is unfair! He doesn't see that forgiveness is the way, that changing Walker is Your job.

She rose to take his hand, but he shook her off and left. Years ago, they'd taken a picnic lunch to San Marcos Lake. After lunch, she'd fallen asleep and woke to find
herself alone. The day was warm and she set up a camping chair and passed the afternoon reading
No Life For a Lady,
recommended by Scott, about a woman's country life in the last century. Eugene returned in the late afternoon with a bouquet of wild asters, his first of many gifts from nature. During the winter months the gifts continued—mistletoe, a pine bough for the fireplace, a heart-shaped rock, arrowheads, and turquoise beads he discovered when cutting wood. When asked what inspired such offerings, he said, “Pops always treated Mama that way.” She kept a dried flower from each arrangement in a glass bowl on her bureau and the smaller tokens in a cookie tin on her night table, close to her dreams, first reminder of his affection each morning.

There would be no such offering tonight. She rose and walked to the sink, turned on the tap and moved the sponge over a plate's surface, round and around, the water getting hotter and hotter. I do feel mired down, Lord.

16

THURSDAY OCTOBER 4, 2007

T
HE DUDE STOOD
6' 4”, weighed maybe 220. Walker shook Keith Lampert's hand, asked if he'd spent a pleasant night, and without waiting for an answer, waved him to a table, apologizing for the lumpy upholstery and Vera's décor—chicken salt and peppershakers on soiled tablecloths printed with Barred Rocks strutting around fairytale barnyards. Walker faced him away from the Rhode Island Red plaque above the order window that read, “What is Superman's real identity? Cluck Kent,” and the ticket holder plastered with chicken decals that twirled next to shelves of poultry bric-a-brac.

Walker studied Keith's face. If he covered the left side with the menu, the right side would look like a cartoon of the Handsome Man with chiseled lips, smooth skin and a direct, open gaze. Covering that side, the left half would appear tight and mean, as though a cord ran through Keith's lip and nostril, pulling them up, cutting deep lines across his cheek and over his cheekbone. A heavy brow pressed down over a squinted eye. The right side suggested he might be fifty-five, the left maybe sixty-five. Smiles seemed to be missing from his repertoire of expressions.

Walker asked for
chorizo
and eggs smothered in green chile. Keith ordered
huevos,
scrambled, red on the side.

“I got a big mouth,” Walker said. “And lots to say. I'll
dominate this conversation in two minutes if I don't give you a chance to tell me about yourself. Go ahead.”

Keith picked up a knife, ran his thumb along the serrated edge.

“Not much to tell,” he said. “My dad and I operated a slaughterhouse on the outskirts of Phoenix. When he died last year, I sold the business and a piece of adjacent property.” He raised his eyes. “I'm wanting out of Phoenix. Too many people. Too much traffic.”

“A butcher! Man, you'll make a killing around here come hunting season. The county has no regulations on game processing. Anybody can do it. With your skills and reputation, you'll have all the business you can handle. Work a few months a year, bring in a bundle. As for getting out of Phoenix, I'm hearing that more and more. We're trying to keep this part of the world a secret, but some of you Arizonans have discovered the cheap prices and low taxes in the spectacular state to your east.”

Vera set their plates down.

“I'm not sure about continuing that line of work,” Keith said. He reached for the salt.

“Sure, you want to retire. Throw your feet up. Get a few chickens, plant some tomatoes and cucumbers, a dozen rows of corn. Once you experience the P and Q, there'll be no turning back. This is hidden treasure, man. I'm going to drive you around today, introduce you to the country and let me tell you, you're going to feel privileged to get a piece of it. Because, to tell the truth, there's not much land available. Less than twenty-five percent of Dax County is privately owned. The rest is public land, managed by the BLM and US Forest Service.” He picked up his fork. Shut. Up. The guy's stingy with words. Give him an opportunity to relax, ease up, and spill a few details.

Vera poured more coffee.

Walker shoved his eggs around his plate, stifling the urge for a cigarette in case Keith agreed with the rest of the world that smoking in restaurants was offensive.

“I've lived here all my life,” Walker said. “A
ranchero
for all of it. Tried to enlist in my twenties but they wouldn't take me. Got thrown off a bull when I was sixteen and busted my right eardrum. I guess my left ear is super sharp, 'cause I hear the slightest sounds, even some I'm not supposed to, like two gals whispering about a man's talents, a mouse in the cat food, thunder a county away.” He shoved his plate aside. “I sure do admire any man that served.”

Keith swallowed his eggs and gulped his coffee.

“Nam,” he said.

So, that was it. The word dated the guy, implied life-altering experiences that worked on a man's face, forever changing it. The blunt way he stated the word, like a nut cracked against a tabletop, explained one side of his face battling the other. Walker watched him chew, the tight cheek doing the work, doubting the two halves ever lived in harmony.

They hiked up the mesa through cedar and ponderosa pine and stood above the valley on a flat ledge of granite. Walker pointed.

“To the south there, that's Solitaire Peak. Those are aspens setting fire to the eastern slope.” He set his boot heel into the rock and turned a full circle, arms outstretched, palms up. “All this is your playground. That sandstone cliff's your slide. Your feet'll roll on fine gravel and you'll be flat on your ass in a split second, zooming down the slope fast as a rollercoaster with nothin' to grab onto to break the ride. In the spring, you can play hide and seek along that rim
rock, searching for elk antlers disguised as fallen tree limbs. You can dress like Davy Crocket and cut you a stack of firewood, pretend you're sixteen and poke your girl in that open meadow over there, claim you're King of the World and hear your voice echo off the walls in Salida Canyon.”

Keith locked his hands behind his back and inhaled.

“Yeah, take a breath. Nothing cleaner.” Walker tore a small branch off a juniper tree, crushed it in his hand. “Now, that's perfume, man. Revlon can't bottle this. It's God's concoction. He ain't givin' out the formula, but you can sniff all you want for free all year round. And look down there, between the mesas. See the road crossing the creek as it curves west? That there's your property. Let's go.”

Walker lit a Winston and let it dangle out the window. The wind blew through the cab and beside him Keith took in the land and sky. Lordy, the sun did shine, not a cloud in sight. He gave a few hits on the horn as they passed Shelley sweeping leaves off the store's porch. That open bottle of JD she kept under the register called out to him, but he whizzed right on by.

He drove across the creek at Plank's place super slow.

“You just missed the red Indian paintbrush, orange
yerba negrita,
and red and yellow
gaillardia
that color these fields all summer. Next year you'll be in for a treat. Sometimes, purple bee weed takes over unused pasture and every year sunflowers damn near blind a person.”

They parked under the big cottonwood.

“Tomorrow I'll loan you my ATV and you can follow the creek, ride the arroyos, and cover most of the territory. If you're into hunting arrowheads, there's a big Indian ruin on the southern rim of the west mesa. Now, the house is solid. No one's lived here for twelve years, so you got to imagine the walls patched and painted. Ross stayed on quite a while
after Charlotte died and let things slide. You know how it takes a woman's touch to warm a place, gingham curtains and the like. I been trapping skunks under the crawl space. That smell should disappear pretty quick. Me, I'd tear the place down and start from scratch, but some folks like the feel of an older home, take comfort in the evidence of family history.”

The sun had climbed almost overhead. He took the flask from his back pocket. “Might be a little early for you,” he said, unscrewing the lid and extending his hand.

“I usually wait until four,” Keith said, but took it.

They walked around back, crunching weeds. The old fence had toppled and any semblance of a tended garden had long vanished. Walker's ladder leaned against an apple tree still laden with fruit.

“Pick yourself some.”

“I'd like to stay on the land a couple of days, if you've got a tent I can borrow.”

“No tent,” Walker said, returning the flask to his pocket. He adjusted the ladder against the tree trunk. “But, I got just the trailer.”