Vineyard Fear (23 page)

“Actually, you can. I want to talk to you. I take it that you got this number from Wilma Skye.”

“Yes. I told her that I was calling from the Durango Police Department and that we had some news that we wanted to get to John Skye. She said that you were trying to get in touch with this fellow they think is named Orwell and that we should give the information to you. I take it that Mrs. Skye is not a fool, that she realized that I am no policeman, and that she gave me a message you wished to give the man you call Orwell. What is it that you want to tell him?”

I didn't think I had much time to make my case. “It's simple enough. I've known John Skye for many years. I will swear to you on the sacred book of your choice that he had nothing to do with either the life or the death of Bernadette Orwell. He was one of her professors for one semester and nothing more. He was never her lover or anything like it. If she killed herself out of love, it was not out of love for John Skye.”

There was a silence before the voice spoke. When it did, it was cool and detached. “Your friend has deceived you. The girl's diary tells a different tale. It says that she loved him and that John Skye used her and abandoned her and she could not bear it. In the modern liberal world, perhaps the idea of professors seducing their students is
meaningless, the notion of abandonment hopelessly gauche, the idea of the girl afterward committing suicide laughable. Perhaps at Weststock College a professor so exploiting a young woman student is such a commonplace event that it means nothing to either the woman or the man. But in the world where some others live, it means a great deal. Those others believe that men such as Skye owe a debt, and they mean to collect it.”

“Someone may owe you a debt, but it's not John Skye. John has been married to a woman he loves since before Bernadette was his student. He doesn't seduce students. You're after the wrong man.”

“No sir, you are wrong. And now I fear I have no more time for this conversation. I only telephoned you in the first place because someone nearly killed you by mistake. For that he apologizes. He thought that you were Skye. You should count yourself lucky that he was thrice careless. He usually is not.”

“You were wrong about me, and you're still wrong about Skye.”

“You haven't seen the girl's journal. It's very clear.” A note of fury entered his voice. “These Eastern colleges, these leftist dilettantes! So sophisticated, so liberal! They corrupt whatever they touch.” Then the fury was gone as fast as it had come. The voice was cool once more. “Orwell women traditionally have gone south to college, Mr. Jackson, but Bernadette would have none of it. Weststock, only Weststock would do. Such irony. See what came of her attending that school. Drugs, loveless sex, betrayal!”

I wondered about the almost instantaneous changes in vocal tone. Did the anger come from conviction or from some other, deeper malaise? I was aware of an anger inside myself.

“I did see the journal,” I said. “I found it on Martha's Vineyard and mailed it to New Jersey.”

“And being an honorable man, you apparently did not read it first.” I could see the twist in his lip. His voice
rose. “John Skye was first her professor. A year later, he was her lover! ‘Dear Jonathan,' ‘sweet Jonathan.' Names of endearment. She was so happy . . . so trusting! Then . . . abandonment! Some other woman . . . !”

I had a growing certainty of my own. “I don't believe it. I've known John for years . . .” My voice sounded different to me.

His ear was sharp. “You're not telling me what you really believe.”

True. “That's not so,” I said.

“You know where he is. Someone wants to find him.”

I thought of tomorrow. “John Skye is innocent. Besides, his wife and children are with him!”

“He has betrayed them just as he betrayed Bernadette Orwell. How many other women has he seduced and abandoned? How many more will there be? Where is he?”

“I'm his friend . . .”

“He does not merit your friendship. Where is he?”

“He's in the mountains.”

“Take a certain person to him.”

“I won't do that.”

The voice became gentle. “Don't be afraid. The person only wants to talk. Perhaps John Skye can persuade him. Perhaps there is some explanation for the writings in the journal. If John Skye is indeed innocent, as he claims to be and you think he is, the person will walk away and that will be the end of it.”

“He is innocent.”

“Someone will listen to him,” said the voice. “If you are concerned about his family, you need not be. His family is of no interest to this person.”

There was a silence. My mind was racing. As long as Orwell was after him, John could know no peace. He could never know when the moment would come. If not here, then back in Weststock, or on the island, or abroad, should John travel there. Orwell would find him.

“I'll talk to him,” I said. “I'll tell him you want to
speak to him, to listen to him. I want this matter settled without any more trouble.”

“Good. You're his friend. Arrange a meeting, if you can.”

“No. No meeting. Walkie-talkies. There's a Radio Shack downtown. I can get them there. You can be in one place, and John will be in another. You won't see each other.”

“You're a careful fellow.”

“I don't want any violence.”

“You don't want violence. What of the violence that Weststock professors impose upon the minds and bodies of the young women who are their students? Pah!” He paused. “Very well. Make the arrangements. Shall we say for the day after tomorrow? I'll be in touch.”

The phone clicked and buzzed in my ear. I put it down. The half can of Coors was warming in my hand. I drank it. I did not like my anticipation of what was to come and tried to come up with alternatives. None of them seemed any better. I sat on the bed and thought about everything I knew having to do with the case. Then I called the desk and told them when to wake me up in the morning, brushed my teeth, and went to an uneasy bed. I was awake a long time and up early.

In the morning I shaved. Why? I wondered. It was a curious habit. If hair grew on your face, why not leave it there? Why did we shave some hair and not other? Women shaved armpits and legs; men shaved faces. Why not chests? Why not crotches? Certain exotic dancers did shave crotches, I knew. Why?

My level of intellectual activity was obviously not too high. I went out for a Colorado breakfast, then drove downtown to the Sheriff's Department. The sheriff wasn't in. I left him a message: call the Jackson, Wyoming, police and have them check automobile rental agencies to see if Gordon Orwell had rented a car, probably a four-by-four. If he had, get its make and number and put out a local APB for it.

Then I went to Radio Shack and bought two walkie-talkies and put them in my small backpack. I was waiting for Billy Jo when she stopped her pickup and horse trailer. She looked a little puffy around the eyes. My glands did a little dance anyway. I decided not to comment upon either eyes or glands. She had doughnuts and coffee, so she didn't intend for us to starve, however put out she might be about last night. I told her about my visit to the Sheriff's Department.

“Why did you ask them to do that?”

“Orwell set up an alibi for himself back east when he pretended to go into the Maine woods. He made sure there were plenty of witnesses to say he'd gone there, but he was actually down in Massachusetts having a couple of whacks at me. Last week, when he found out John Skye was out here, he told his mother he was going to hike in the Tetons. So I figure he did it for the same reason—to prove he was somewhere else when he was actually going to be down here. I think he probably went to Jackson, right where he told her he was going, and rented a car using his own credit card, probably a Jeep or some such machine, and told a lot of people that he was going to hike in the Tetons, and bought some camping gear and paid for it with the same credit card, then didn't go to the Tetons, but drove as fast as he could down here to Durango. He could have gotten here in less than a day.”

“I never thought of that,” she said.

There were rearview mirrors on both sides of the truck. I leaned forward and looked in mine. There were cars coming up behind us. I said, “Neither did I until last night, which may explain why I'm not head of the FBI.” The cars passed us and went on ahead. I looked in the mirror again. More cars.

After a while, Billy Jo said, “What are you going to tell John? He can't stay up there forever. Sooner or later he has to come down, and this Orwell will be waiting for him.”

“Maybe the cops will have Orwell by then.”

“Or maybe Orwell will be back on duty. But even if he is, he'll get leave sometime, or retire. He can wait.”

True. Revenge was not always an impetuous act. I thought of the old Beacon Hill political ethic: don't get mad, get even. It was a code that required action, but not immediate action.

“I'll tell John that Orwell wants to talk to him,” I said. “He'll have to decide what to do. You and I can't solve his problem for him.”

“I hate this!” she said in sudden anger. “I hate not being able to do anything!”

The sages have observed that to live is to suffer. Still, it is a bitter discovery when we make it ourselves, as most of us do sooner or later.

“Don't worry,” I said. “It's going to work out. The bad guys don't always win these things, you know.”

She thought about that for a while, then flashed me a wan smile. “I guess you're right.”

All the way up the valley, I looked in the rearview mirror, wondering if any of the cars behind us were following us. When we turned off the highway at the foot of the cliffs, all of the cars drove right on toward the north. That was encouraging. On the other hand, if I'd been following us, I'd have gone right past too. And come back later.

Before noon we had topped the towering cliffs and were riding north toward John Skye's camp. Our horses had made a trail that only a blind man could miss, so I'd spent a good deal of time looking over my shoulder. I had seen nothing. That meant that Orwell either wasn't there or was there and was very good at his work.

There were a half-dozen white-faced cows grazing on the first meadow we came to. Two healthy spring calves were with them.

“You're a cowgirl,” I said to Billy Jo. “Can you round up these cattle, or whatever it is you do, and drive them back down the trail we just rode up?”

“Sure. Why?” Then her eyebrows lifted. “Oh, I see. Wipe out our trail.” She frowned. “Do you really think we might have been followed up here?”

“No, but I'd like to be sure.”

“I'll take care of it. You stay right there and don't try to help.”

I stayed put, and she swiftly had the bunch of cows and calves headed back along the trail. She and her mount seemed a single creature, graceful and lovely, sensual and efficient. I watched her and her little herd go out of sight into the trees.

After a while I saw her coming through the trees a considerable distance from the trail. She had ridden back where her horse's hoofprints wouldn't be easily spotted.

“No problem,” she said, as she came up to me. “I booed them back to the drift fence gate. This Orwell guy would need a crystal ball to know where we went from there.” She smiled. There was a glow in her face that made her look wildly beautiful. She liked the idea of danger. She would give some man fits, I thought. More than one man, probably. Me, maybe.

“Good work,” I said. “I've been thinking. Too many
people know that John's up here on the cliffs somewhere. I'd like to talk him into moving somewhere else. Not down out of the mountains yet; that's too dangerous. Somewhere else up here. Where?”

The games we were playing interested her, and her mind was quick. “Clear Creek. It's down on the other side of the Hermosa. You have to ford the river to get to it. Good camping ground, good water, good grass, good fishing. That's the place.”

She rode ahead of me, her annoyance of last night washed away by her sense of adventure. My rump and legs hurt, but the sight of Billy Jo's graceful body swaying so easily atop her mare took my thoughts away from my discomfort.

When we rode into John Skye's camp, we found no one home.

“Fishing,” said Billy Jo, after dismounting and having a quick look around. “Rods and creels are gone.” She looked at the sun, then at her watch. “Probably down Dutch Creek. Be back in a couple of hours, most likely. Loosen the saddles and take off the bridles, and I'll get the fire going.” She looked inside the black gallon coffee-pot that sat on the grill. “Camp coffee. Best in the West. You never empty the grounds; just add more now and then. Eggshells to keep them down. More water when you need it.”

“Terrific.”

It was, too. Black as a politician's soul, but with a lot more character. I tasted it all the way down.

Billy Jo sat on her heels and looked at me sitting on mine. She had excited eyes. They flicked toward the big tent, then back at me.

“Is the rifle there?” I asked. I didn't really care, but I needed a distraction.

“What?”

“Is the rifle there? Your 30-30?”

“Oh. No. I guess he took it with him.”

“Good. That means he took us seriously. I want him to take us seriously.” She looked impossibly attractive. I seemed to be staring at her.

She flowed up onto her feet. “Let's go for a walk. It's too nice to just sit here.” She put out her hands and I put up mine and she pulled me up. Pain. I gave a mighty, only partially feigned, groan.

“You just need some exercise,” she said. “Come on.” Hand in hand we walked out of camp onto the nearest meadow. The afternoon wind made waves in the meadow grass. It looked like a green sea. The sun was warm. Around the meadow, the spruce and quaking aspen moved in the wind. I felt about fifteen years old. I was excited and uneasy. Her hand in mine felt electric.