Trickster's Point (23 page)

Jubal drew himself up, huge and angry, and said, “Let’s hear it.”

*   *   *

At dusk Cork and Jubal went to the store in Furlough. They left Willie behind because he didn’t want to take a chance on being recognized in town. They bought cold cuts, cheese, bread, and soft drinks. They also bought a big thermos and filled it with
hot coffee. When they came back, Willie directed them to a jumble of rocks a mile from the orchards, but still high in the hills above the valley. They parked the Jeep where it couldn’t be seen from the road and hunkered down to wait for morning.

The sky was clear and the night was cold. The moon rose late, full and ice white over the valley. Cork slept fitfully in the front passenger seat of the Jeep. Willie dozed behind the wheel, and Jubal took up the whole of the backseat. Cork woke often and several times heard the cry of coyotes in the hills around them. Near morning, he woke again and couldn’t go back to sleep. He took the thermos, slipped away, and climbed up to the flat top of one of the rocks that hid the Jeep. Below him, the orchards formed an irregular darkness against the moonlit wild grass that filled the valley. It reminded him of a huge bruise on a patch of pale skin. The white house, iridescent in the brilliant moonlight, dominated the middle of all that darkness. Somewhere inside, Winona slept. He poured coffee into the thermos cup and, while he sipped the tepid brew, tried to imagine what she was like now after all she’d been through. He thought about Stockholm syndrome, and wondered if, despite all they would be risking for her, Winona would actually agree to let them take her away. If she refused, what could they do?

He heard the scrape of a belt buckle across the rock at his back. Jubal crawled up beside him and stared a long time into the valley, saying not a word.

“You ever want to go back, Cork?”

“Back?”

“To when everything wasn’t so complicated.”

“Moot issue, Jubal. You can’t go back. As far as I know, in life there’s only forward.”

Jubal was silent again. In the hills above them and to the left, a coyote howled. It seemed a forlorn sound, although Cork knew that under other circumstances he might have heard it differently.

“Back in Chicago, is there anyone special?” Jubal asked.

“Yeah. A woman named Jo.”

“Is it serious?”

“It’s headed that way.”

“Me, I’ve had more women than I can remember. They all kind of blend together.” Jubal’s eyes fixed on the white house at the center of the darkness. “Except for one.” He turned back and glanced at the Jeep. “That Willie. Man, he’s amazing.”

“He always has been,” Cork said.

“He’s getting famous. And you, you’re doing exactly what you always wanted to do. It’s funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I always figured I was the one most likely to succeed.”

“You’ve failed?”

“Hell,” Jubal said. “I’m a washed-up football player. I’ve got no prospects at all on the horizon. That stuff I told you about, talking to the Dallas Cowboys, that’s bullshit. Nobody’s interested in me. You want to know the truth? Right now, I’m just a construction worker. A big, dumb ladder monkey.”

Cork didn’t know what to say to that, so he just looked at the moon. Jubal looked there, too.

“Winona had a vision once,” he said. “She saw me on a mountaintop, holding the moon and the sun in my hands, the stars singing around my head. She told me I was destined for greatness.” Jubal stood and reached skyward as if to take all the heavens in his hands. Then he held them out, empty, and shook his head. “So much for visions.”

They heard the Jeep door close, and in another minute, Willie joined them atop the rock.

“Sun’s up in an hour,” he said.
Sunsupinour.

“Any coffee left in that thermos, Cork?” Jubal asked.

They shared coffee from the same cup and listened to the birds that had begun to chatter, and watched the eastern sky above the distant mountains turn amethyst then amber, and waited for signs of life to come from the ranch house in the valley so that Willie’s plan could be set in motion.

This was what Willie had proposed.

Every morning the McMurphys rose around six. They had breakfast. Then the three brothers headed south down the valley to tend to their marijuana grows. They would come back around noon, have lunch, and work the orchards the rest of the day. When the McMurphy brothers left after breakfast, Beckett, who was a freshman in high school, would ride an ATV to the main road, where a bus picked him up and took him to school in John Day. Which left only the two women at the house. And that, Willie had suggested, was when they would make their move.

Lights began to wink on in the house a few minutes after six. The sun was still below the mountains to the east, and the valley lay in the blue of their shadow. Cork took turns with his companions, staring through a pair of field glasses that Willie had brought, watching the fruit ranch for activity.

By seven, the sun was above the mountains and the valley was beginning to warm. Willie had the field glasses, and he said, “They’re leaving.”

Cork squinted and could just barely make out small figures moving in the yard between the house and what looked to be the barn. They went to a brown pickup, got in, and a moment later, across the mile of dry, high desert that separated them, Cork heard the distant sound of an engine growling to life. The pickup pulled out of the yard and down a lane that ran between the trees of the orchard. Outside the orchard, where the lane met the dirt road that came in over the hills from the main highway, they turned south. The pickup kicked up a little rooster tail of dust as it went, and Cork finally lost sight of it as it disappeared behind the broad chest of the hills where he and the others lay watching.

“How long before the kid takes off?” Jubal asked.

“Beckett should be leaving any time now,” Willie replied.

But Beckett didn’t leave. They waited nearly an hour, and there was no more movement at the fruit ranch below.

“What the hell’s going on?” Jubal finally asked, tense and impatient. “Where’s the kid?”

Cork said, “Sick maybe. Or maybe it’s spring break for schools in Oregon. Or maybe he’s just playing hooky. Whatever it is, we need to rethink our plan.”

“Hell,” Jubal said. “It’s just the kid and his mother with Winona now. We can’t handle a kid and a woman, we’re in trouble.”

Cork said, “If there’s a rifle in that house and he’s been taught how to use it, he can give us plenty of trouble. I don’t want any blood shed over this.”

Willie said, “What should we do?”

“If we drive down, they’ll see us coming for sure. I’d rather catch them by surprise.” Cork looked at Willie. “Can you handle the Jeep?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then Jubal and I are going to hoof it down there, sneak through the orchards to the house. When you reconnoitered here last week, Willie, did you see a dog?”

“Yes, but he always went with the men.”

“Let’s hope he went with them today.”

“We get down there, then what?” Jubal said.

“We find Winona and talk to her. And then we bring her out. Willie, you keep those field glasses glued to your eyes. When you see us leave the house with Winona, you come down there fast.”

“And if that kid goes for a rifle?” Jubal said.

“We talk to him.”

“You got a lot of faith in talk.”

“Talk doesn’t kill people, Jubal.”

Jubal eyed him a long moment, then laughed. “Shoot, we got nothing to lose. Let’s find Winona.”

C
ork and Jubal left the rocks and followed the road, which dropped into the valley in a series of lazy switchbacks. All those curves worried Cork. He hoped Willie’s assurance that he could handle the Jeep hadn’t been just cavalier or wishful thinking.

There was a white rail fence around the orchards, badly in need of whitewash, rotted in many places, completely collapsed in others. Cork and Jubal stepped over a fallen section and slipped among the rows of fruit trees. There were buds but no blossoms yet, and Cork couldn’t tell what kind of fruit they might bear. He and Jubal moved quickly until they came to the place where the trees gave way to the yard. They paused, and Cork studied the house. It was a classic, old ranch house, two stories, with a long front porch and a widow’s walk. White curtains framed the windows, but beyond that, the interior was invisible. Cork thought it would be best to slip in through the back door. He tapped Jubal’s arm and signaled that way, but Jubal’s eyes weren’t on Cork. They were riveted to the front of the house. When Cork looked there, he saw what had captured his friend’s attention. Winona was crossing the porch and descending the front steps.

There was no mistaking her. Her hair was shorter, and she seemed thinner, but even from fifty yards away, it was easy to see that she was every bit as graceful and lovely as Cork remembered.

She crossed the yard and entered the barn.

Without waiting for Cork, Jubal began to lope among the trees, following a course that would circle to the back of the barn. Cork was right on his heels. When the barn was between them and the house, they broke from cover. They raced to a back door, which had an old latch. Jubal lifted the latch, and when he swung the door wide, a bright corridor of sunlight cut through the dark of the barn’s interior. Jubal stepped into that sunlit corridor, and his shadow, huge and black and menacing, fell on the dirt before him.

“Oh!” came a small cry from inside.

And then Cork was in the barn, too, standing next to Jubal and looking into the beautiful, stupefied face of Winona Crane.

Even after all the years, Cork found himself responding much as he had when he was a kid. Something melted in him, then formed into a solid longing. Winona Crane was the first girl he’d ever really loved, and although what he felt now was different, shaped by his age and experience, it was also very familiar.

But Winona wasn’t even looking at Cork. She stared at Jubal, stared with an open mouth, stared as if she were seeing a ghost, or a dream, something that had to be unreal. Her eyes were almond-colored with a glint of fire from the sun. Her hair was black, but dull-looking, in need of a wash. She wore an old flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and jeans so faded they were colored with only the memory of blue, and she had on dirty tennis shoes.

What was most noticeable to Cork, however, was a discoloration along her left jawline just below her ear, the pale yellow of an old bruise.

Jubal spoke first. “Hello, Winona.” There was something like reverence in his voice.

“It . . . how . . . you . . .” she stammered.

Jubal took a tentative step toward her, but she retreated and looked away. “You can’t be here,” she said.

“I am here.” Jubal took another step. “And I’m not leaving without you.”

“If they come back . . .” she began.

Cork said, “We’ll be gone before they come back.”

Winona finally seemed to notice him. “How did you find me?”

“Willie,” Cork said.

“Willie? He’s here?”

“He’s waiting for us in the hills. Winona, we have to go.”

But she didn’t move. Her eyes settled again on Jubal, and a sad smile crossed her lips. “I’ve thought about you every day.”

Jubal walked to her carefully, as if approaching a skittish wild animal, and slowly reached out and took her hand. “Nothing’s felt right since you left me. Nothing’s worked out the way I thought it would. I need you, Winona. And you need me. Remember what Henry Meloux said about us?”

“Two halves of a broken stone,” she answered.

Jubal put his arms around her, huge arms bulked by pressing iron, and held her gently.

“We need to go,” Cork said.

Winona eased from Jubal’s embrace. “I can’t.”

“You’re coming,” Jubal said.

“My life’s . . . different, Jubal. You don’t know me.”

“My life’s different, too, Winona. No moon, no stars like you promised. No mountaintop. Just emptiness. Just wanting.”

“Look at me.” There were tears in her eyes. “I wouldn’t be any good for you now.”

“Without you, I won’t be good for anything. Please, Winona. Come with me.”

The barn door opened at Winona’s back, and two figures stepped inside, a woman and the kid Cork figured was Beckett. Beckett held the rifle Cork had hoped would not come into play.

“What’s going on?” It was the woman who spoke. “Who are these men, Nona?”

Winona turned. “Friends, Petra. Just old friends.”

The woman was tall and painfully thin, with blond hair full of wild curls. She wore an old print dress, the kind people then called a “granny.” Her feet were bare. She was, Cork guessed, in her late thirties. Beckett, a boy nearly as tall as she, with hair
that was the color of wet creek sand and that hung nearly to his shoulders, stood beside her. He held the rifle with the barrel pointed in the direction of Jubal and Winona. He worried Cork, not because he looked menacing but because he looked scared. A scared kid with a loaded rifle was pretty much the circumstance Cork had feared most.

“What are they doing here?” Petra demanded.