Death at the Black Bull (13 page)

Virgil had never heard him complain. He looked at him in profile and saw little visible change, but knew beyond the stiffness which comes with age, the weathered skin covered a multitude of injuries.

The sun had slipped below the horizon leaving one more burst of color in its wake.

“Maybe we better get inside while there's still some light to see.”

Virgil stood up and reached out. He felt the grip on his arm still strong and he pulled his grandfather to his feet with unexpected ease.

“Getting up is harder than getting down.”

Virgil remembered similar words from Clara in her garden.

“Let's get something to eat.”

“I brought supper. Your favorite. We just have to pop it in the oven for a few minutes.”

A wide smile followed. “With pepperoni?”

“You got it, half with pepperoni and half with sausage and peppers.”

“You are a good grandson.”

“As long as I keep bringing you pizza.” Together, they glanced once more at the western sky then headed for the trailer.

*   *   *

“Well, how was it?”

He didn't really have to ask. He sat back from the table and took a sip from the cold can, enjoying watching his grandfather relish one of the wings he had brought with the pizza.

“They call those wings Mexican Hot. What do you think?”

“Good name. Very hot.”

Virgil saw him strip the wing right down to the bone. Then, like Virgil, he took a cold drink.

“Mexican Hot. I'll tell Billy to get me some. You know I used to know a little Mexican.”

“This sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.”

“No. I'm serious. I spoke Mexican pretty good.”

“I never heard you,” Virgil said.

“Yes.” After his comment the old man sat back, lingering a little with recollection. “I learned from a little Mexican girl many years ago. Before you were born. She was nice. Made good tortillas.”

“Are you telling me that maybe I have some Mexican cousins somewhere?”

“No,” he said, a distant look coming into his eyes. “No, she died before that could happen. A rattlesnake found her up on the mesa. She had gone to pick chokecherries. I was too late.”

*   *   *

The new day had flooded the trailer with light when Virgil stepped outside with his second cup of coffee. His grandfather soon joined him. A dozen or so ewes with lambs at their side were wandering around, making their way gradually up the ridge and heading toward easier grazing.

“The sheep look good.”

“Yes. We are late with the shearing. Maybe at the end of the week. Billy's been busy.”

“Yep, wearing a badge can get a little crazy sometimes. I don't suppose being the law on the rez is too much different from being the law in Hayward.”

“Billy told me a little of what you've been up to lately. Do you think you're going to find out who put that boy in the tank?”

“I'm working on it.”

“Be careful. A person who would do that would do just about anything. It seems to me the world has become a more dangerous place. Even here, on the rez. It used to be just alcohol, but now it's drugs and all that comes with them. Nobody killed to get a drink, but they kill to get drugs. Make sure there is always a friend at your back.”

“That's good advice.”

Virgil finished the last of what was in his cup, then handed the cup to his grandfather.

“If I can,” Virgil said, “I'll try to get back to help you with those sheep.”

“Don't worry, Billy and his son will help.”

“By the way, maybe you should think about easing up on the driving.”

“I guess Billy's been talking to you. I know my eyes are as old as the rest of me. We'll see.”

“Billy's just looking out for you. He's here and I'm not. Maybe you could get somebody to drive you when you need to get off this mesa. You shouldn't be all alone up here anyhow.”

“I've been thinking about Mrs. Hoya. I met her at the Senior Center last month.”

Virgil couldn't hide his smile.

“What, you think I'm too old? A man likes company and someone to keep him warm on a cold night. She is alone and I think she would be nice and soft. She drives everywhere, too, and doesn't talk too much. It would not be a bad idea for you to get someone to keep you warm.”

“More good advice. You know I always listen to you, Grandfather. Ever since you gave me the eagle feather from your vision quest because I couldn't make one of my own. Whenever I feel unsure or need a little bit of courage, I remember when you gave me the feather and you told me it would give me some of the strength it had given you. Thank you for all you've taught me.”

Virgil reached over and hugged the old man. Then the two walked to Virgil's truck. After he had settled inside and started the engine, he rolled down the window.

“I'll see you soon. Good luck with Mrs. Hoya.”

“Thank you.” His grandfather leaned forward, resting his hands on the rolled-down window. “I am glad you listen, but you do not need a feather for courage. You are not a little boy anymore. Besides, I should probably tell you now that that feather is not from an eagle I saw. It's from a hawk I found dead on the side of the road. I figured it would sound better to you with that whole vision quest story if you thought it came from an eagle. Your mother got mad at me for telling you that story.”

“Son of a bitch,” Virgil said, smiling. “All these years I've been getting inspiration from roadkill.”

He laughed until his grandfather's laughter mixed with his. Then he gave a wave and drove off the tabletop.

I
n his entire life, Jimmy had never set foot on Hayward Ranch. He had seen it, passed by, and wondered, but had never been inside the main gate. To him it had always represented something far beyond his world. Now here he was driving through the gate in an official capacity, in an official car, wearing a uniform that by itself placed him in a role of authority. The weight of this thought had his stomach in a knot.

He drove slowly toward the main house, past row upon row of pecan trees. The groves which stretched as far as he could see in every direction did nothing to lessen his anxiety.

Reaching the top, he saw that the drive split, a short leg branching to the left and leading to the mammoth house, the much longer stretching toward an extensive complex of barns, corrals, and what he judged to be tenant housing. He could see also that beyond the barns the roadway continued until it disappeared over a distant rise. Without hesitation and with a measure of relief, he turned toward the right and headed toward the barns.

He didn't see the elderly woman on the second floor of the house watching him make his turn.

There was no sign of life around the complex, so he passed by and followed the road until it reached the top of the rise. Once there, he could see more clusters of low-lying single-story buildings, which he assumed were more housing for the seasonal pickers. He drove slowly downhill until he reached the first building. He parked the cruiser alongside, shut off the engine, and got out. He was still feeling a little anxious in the unfamiliar environment but when he got to the front door he knocked loudly to disguise any nervousness. He was about to knock again when the door slowly opened and a woman he took to be in her midforties greeted him.

“Hola.”

Jimmy picked up on her slight reaction when she saw the uniform and the car in back of him. “English,” he said.
“Por favor.”

“
Sí.
Come in.”

He stepped inside and realized right away that the building was a kind of community dining hall. After introducing himself, he asked where everyone was. She seemed surprised at the question.

“They are at work,” she said, sweeping her hand as if gesturing to the fields in every direction. “In the orchards.”

“I'm looking for a girl named Sarita. Do you know her?”

It hadn't taken a lot of spadework for Jimmy to find out that was the name of the girl Buddy had been seeing. “Sarita,” he said again. “She is one of the workers.”

“No, no,” the woman said, scanning the room.

Jimmy followed her gaze. It was a large room with at least ten rectangular tables, each comfortably seating eight people. At the far end of the room on either end of the wall were two doors, one marked
IN
, the other
OUT
. In the center of the wall was a large cutout serving area through which Jimmy could see kitchen appliances. He thought he heard someone back there, and he was sure one of the doors was moving slightly, as if someone had just looked out. He realized that this woman and whoever was back there were more than likely the cooks and servers for the dining hall. He was also sure that if that was the case, she would know all of the workers. When he glanced back at the woman, he saw that the expression on her face when he had mentioned the girl's name was still there.

“Don't worry,” he said, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “There is nothing to fear. No one will know that we have spoken. Where is Sarita?”

“Gone,” she said. “
Se fue.
Her brother and her. Gone.”

“How long ago?”

“Tres semanas,”
she said, so softly he could barely hear her.

“Do you know where they went?”

“Quién sabe. No más.”
She backed away a couple of steps. Just then a man appeared in one of the doorways, and Jimmy knew from her reaction that the interview was over.

“Thank you,” he said, in a voice loud enough for the man in the doorway to hear. “Sorry I don't speak Spanish. I'll go up to the big house. Maybe someone up there will know where Mr. Hayward is. Thanks anyway.”

He nodded slightly and stepped back toward the door. As he was getting into the car, he could see the woman through a window. She was talking to the man who had appeared in the doorway, gesturing with her hands as if to indicate she didn't tell Jimmy anything.

He got into the cruiser and turned it around to head back in the direction he had come from, aware all the time that the man from the kitchen stood watching him from the doorway of the building.

*   *   *

“Micah, there was a visitor from the sheriff's office today,” Audrey Hayward said. “What's that all about?”

“I assume it has something to do with the ongoing investigation into the death of Buddy Hinton,” her son said, “but maybe it's something else entirely.”

“Well, that situation has nothing to do with us. And it wouldn't look good if—”

“Wouldn't look good? I don't really think the sheriff is interested in whether or not something looks good concerning us, Mother.”

“Well, maybe I should make a call. It might change his attitude if he got a call from a senator.”

“I don't think you know Virgil Dalton very well if you think that would make a difference. But then, I guess you made the same mistake with his father.”

“Who do you think you're talking to?” Her voice barely concealed her anger. “You're just like your father.”

“I'm sure you mean that as a compliment,” he said as he turned to leave the room.

“Yes, just like him. Run away. If you want to stay true to form, your next stop will be the liquor cabinet.”

Micah's hand was on the doorknob. He was about to leave, as he always did. But he stopped and turned back to his mother.

“Even after all these years,” he said, “you're still in denial. Did you ever think that your constant nagging and disapproval drove him to the liquor cabinet?”

“That was just an excuse for his weakness. Just as it was for that wife of yours. They were both weak. Unable to cope with the real world.”

The knuckles on Micah's hand, still gripping the doorknob, turned white.

“People and their problems don't mean much to you, do they, only insofar as your . . . your status is concerned. Marrying Father was just a way for you to elevate yourself. To do what, to get back at the people who had snubbed you?”

“Nobody snubs me now. You have no idea how it was. When my mother was buried, there were two people there, me and the undertaker. She was invisible to everyone in this town. So was I. Well, I'm not invisible now.”

“So, that's what's driven you all these years,” he said, letting go of the door and approaching her. “That's why you were always at Dad, then Caleb. It was never enough, was it?”

“Your father just didn't have it in him, but Caleb . . .”

“Ah, yes, Caleb. The favored firstborn. The promise of greater things. Then he didn't come back from Vietnam and you were left with a twelve-year-old and Rusty, a five-year-old, and you had to start all over.”

“Things would have been different if Caleb had lived.”

“Only in your own mind. Caleb wanted no part of your grand plan.”

“That's a lie. He would have taken charge.”

“He wasn't coming back. He told me the night before he left. He said he was glad to go. To escape. For Father there was no escape except into a bottle. My wife never had a chance in this toxic place.”

“I was not the reason she committed suicide. That was you. You should have paid more attention to her.”

The rebuke hit home. Micah started to reply, then stopped. They stared across the room at each other. The silence was palpable. Sounds from the farthest reaches of the huge house could be heard. When at last he responded, the tenor of Micah's voice had changed. The anger was gone, replaced by something cold and drained of emotion.

“You're right,” he said. “Much of what I've said applies equally to me. I've allowed myself to become someone I hardly know. I stood by, silently watching your manipulation, knowing the damage that was being done, and said nothing. Worse, I even became complicit. With Father and more so with Rusty and now . . .”

He stopped. Then he turned once again to the door. In a voice that could barely be heard, he said, “We reap what we sow.” Then he opened the door and left the room.

*   *   *

By the time Jimmy got back to the office after making his usual rounds, it was almost dark. He had noticed a watery mist on the horizon as the sun was setting and wondered if it was a hint of a change in the weather. It was not unusual in this part of the country to have long stretches of dry heat, but he was hoping for a change. The land and the people were beginning to take on that drained look that he'd seen before. He knew that frayed nerves could lead to explosive situations.

He was surprised to see Virgil's pickup in back of the office when he pulled into the parking lot.

“Hey, cowboy.” Virgil was sitting at his desk. The small lamp on his desk cast a soft glow on a couple of folders and something Virgil was holding in his hands.

“What are you doing here this late?”

“I came into town for something and I figured I'd stop by and find out how you made out at Hayward Ranch.”

“Well, that was pretty much a bust. That girl Sarita and her brother are in the wind. Seems like they took off right about the time you found Buddy floating in that stock tank.”

“Any idea where they've got to?”

“None at all. I was lucky to get that much. The señora I spoke to wasn't exactly eager to give out information. Matter of fact, I kinda had a feeling she was scared. I know for a fact that there were a pair of eyes on me till I left. Maybe it was the uniform. Sometimes it works for you, sometimes not.”

“Well, you can take one thing for sure, that pair of eyes you felt probably wouldn't have even noticed you if you weren't wearing it.”

Jimmy pulled up a chair next to Virgil's desk. “What you got there, Virgil?”

“Just another piece of the puzzle, Jimmy. How close were you to Buddy?”

“On and off. Back in school we played ball together. He was one of the few that had my back. The last year we didn't see that much of one another. He'd gotten pretty involved with Wade and his posse. Most of them gave me a hard time growing up, so we kinda got away from one another. But I always liked Buddy.”

“Did Buddy do drugs?”

Jimmy leaned forward in his chair. “Drugs,” he said with obvious discomfort. “Well, back in high school, he did a little wacky weed, but . . .”

“Look, Jimmy. I'm not trying to put you on the spot. I know kids in high school experiment with all manner of stuff. If you didn't, you'd be as unusual as tits on a bull. That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking hard drugs. A habit. Did Buddy fall into that category?”

“No, not Buddy. He was real careful about stuff. Remember what I told you about his allergies? We all did a little pot, but he was real scary after that reaction he had to them peanuts. He told me they was going to give him some kind of shot right in his heart. Scared the shit out of him. I don't see him doing hard drugs and I never heard anything from anybody about that.”

“Okay.” Virgil sat back in his chair and glanced up at the ceiling. Then he threw what he'd been fingering in his hand onto the desk.

Jimmy saw that it was the small empty pecan pouch that he'd found in Buddy's truck. “Why you asking about drugs, Sheriff?”

“Well, I'm trying to get a handle on why Buddy had this bag. I thought maybe drugs, so I had this bag tested at the hospital. Dr. Sam told me there were no traces that they could find. So if Buddy didn't use that stuff, the question becomes, what was he doing with that bag, since he couldn't tolerate pecans? Where did he get it? Who gave it to him and why did he have it?”