Authors: Bill Pronzini
The ache, or his awareness of the ache, intensified the restlessness, drove him away from the trailer, over past the stable and holding pens into open desert along one of the low hills. Above him the sky was immense. He walked at a retarded pace, peering up, occupying his mind by trying to pick out star clusters and individual stars. Milky Way, Orion’s Belt, Big Dipper, Little Dipper. Rigel, Betelgeuse, Arcturus. Sirius, the dog star—
A distant ululating howl broke the silence. Coyote’s hunting song. The coincidence of the coyote starting up just as he located the dog star made him smile. But the smile didn’t linger. The predator’s song only added to the night’s loneliness and deepened his own.
He walked on a short way. Other coyotes joined the first one in a yapping, trilling chorus that woke Buster and started him barking inside the house. Dacy had taken to keeping the rottweiler inside at night—not for protection, she’d told Messenger, smiling, but because he tended to go off into barking and chain-rattling fits when he was left out at night.
The coyote chorus tapered off and finally ceased; so did Buster’s responses. The new quiet had an oppressive edge. Messenger turned and started back in longer strides. He’d sit in the car for a while, listen to one of the tapes with the volume turned down low. Jazz, the soft, soothing variety—Teagarden, maybe, or the King Cole Trio—sometimes helped him get to sleep at home.
As he passed the stable he could hear the horses stirring around. Coyotes must have woken them, too. He wondered if Buster had disturbed Dacy’s sleep; if so, she hadn’t put on a light. He went around the side of the trailer, over toward where the Subaru was parked.
He smelled cigarette smoke just before Dacy’s voice said his name.
He swung around. She was sitting on the trailer’s steps, a blob of white in the silvery darkness. The glowing end of her Marlboro made a red slash pattern as she moved it down from her mouth.
“How long have you been sitting there?”
“Few minutes. Saw you out prowling.”
“I couldn’t sleep. Restless for some reason.”
“It’s that kind of night.”
He didn’t have to ask her what she meant. “Feel like talking a while? Or do you just want to sit?”
“Both.”
He sat down next to her. His hip touched hers; she didn’t move away, and he was conscious of the taut warmth of her body under the cotton nightdress and loose wrapper she wore. She smelt of soap and toothpaste, bed and cigarette smoke. He felt a stirring in his loins, the first since the episode with Molene in San Francisco.
Don’t get ideas. Boss and hired hand, remember?
But he didn’t shift his leg. And she didn’t move hers, either.
When she finished her cigarette and dropped the butt into the dirt, he said, “Dacy, I’d like to know something. But if it’s too personal, just say so.”
“Go ahead.”
“What happened with your husband?”
She didn’t answer. She sat hunched forward, forearms on her drawn-up knees.
“None of my business, right?”
“Probably not. But what the hell, it’s all water under the bridge anyhow. I don’t know where Howard is these days or what he’s doing. Don’t much care. Last I heard he was working on a ranch over near Ely, but that was four years ago.”
“I meant what happened to the marriage. What broke the two of you up.”
“I did. Like Popeye says, you can stands so much and you can’t stands no more.”
“No more of what?”
Dacy lit another cigarette. “Howard’s a good old cowboy. You know what that means?”
“Not exactly.”
“Two things he likes to do best is drink and fight. Work his ass off all week, ten-, twelve-hour days, and come the weekend—off to the nearest bar to get shitfaced with his buddies and raise some hell. At least once a month I’d get a call from the sheriffs office to come bail him out of the drunk tank.”
“And you got tired of it.”
“I got real tired of it after nine years. Tired of bailing him out, tired of nursing his hangovers and his cuts and bruises. Tired of being left alone with Lonnie. Tired of sleeping with a man who had nothing much to say to me except, ‘Well, how about a little tonight, woman?’”
Messenger said, “That’s a pretty sad story.”
“Living it was a lot sadder than telling it.”
“Was he always like that? Even in the beginning?”
“Not so bad at first. Just kept getting worse until it killed all the love either of us ever had.”
“What did he say when you asked him for a divorce?”
“Didn’t ask him, I told him.”
“And?”
“Hardly a word. Drove off to town and got drunk and got in a fight that busted three of his ribs and ended up in jail. I bailed him out for the last time. Next day he loaded all his belongings into his pickup and left without saying good-bye to me or Lonnie. He stopped in town long enough to clean out our bank account—eight hundred dollars. I never saw or heard from him again.”
“He didn’t contest the divorce?”
“Didn’t contest it, didn’t hire a lawyer—nothing. I guess he figured the eight hundred was enough of a buyout. Judge gave Lonnie and me the ranch free and clear.”
“When did all of that happen?”
“Seven years ago.”
“There must’ve been someone else for you since then.”
Dacy made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “You trying to find out if I’ve been celibate for seven years, Jim?”
“I didn’t mean it that way—”
“Oh, hell, I know you didn’t.” She drew deeply on her cigarette; in the glow of the burning tobacco, her face had a masklike allure. The unruly topknot that always seemed to spring up when her hair was tousled made her even more attractive. “I’ve had relationships. One was with a doctor in Tonopah—the one who told me about catathymic crisis—that lasted a year and could’ve been permanent. He offered me a ring; I turned him down. That ended it between us.”
“Why did you turn him down?”
“He wanted me to sell this place and move to Tonopah and live in his house in town. Be a mother to his two kids. I wouldn’t have lasted six months in that kind of arrangement. I like running my own life, not three other people’s. And I like living right here where I am.”
“Alone.”
“I’m not alone. I’ve got Lonnie.”
“You know what I mean, Dacy. What happens when Lonnie gets older, moves out on his own?”
“Cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Do you miss being married? Want that kind of relationship again some day?”
“Sometimes. Most days, no.”
“Because you’re afraid of another failure? Or just of being hurt again?”
No response for five or six beats. Then, “Back off, Jim.”
“If I touched a nerve, I’m sorry.”
“Maybe you missed your calling,” she said sardonically. “Kind of questions you ask, you’d’ve made a good head doctor.”
He laughed, even though what she’d said wasn’t funny. “Head doctor, heal thyself.”
“Uh-huh. So what about you? You ever been married?”
“Once. A long time ago, in college.”
“Divorced?”
“Yes.”
“What busted yours up?”
He told her. All about Doris and their time together, Doris and the prelaw track star. He even found himself telling her an edited version of the incident at Candlestick Park, of what Doris had said to him on the ride home and how he’d only recently come to realize how right she’d been.
Dacy said, “That’s a sad story, too. Almost as sad as mine.”
“I know it.”
“Well, we’re a pair, aren’t we? Birds of a feather.”
“Ostriches. But I don’t want to be that way anymore,” Messenger said. “That’s part of the reason I came here to Beulah, why I’m still here.”
“Trying to find yourself?”
“No, a new self. The old one … well, Popeye applies there, too. You can stands so much, you can’t stands no more.”
“What’s this new self gonna do when you get home?”
“I don’t know yet. Cross that bridge when I come to it.”
“You’re a funny one, Jim. You really are.”
“Sure.
Loco la cabeza
.”
“Not hardly. Just a guy having himself a midlife crisis. You think?”
“I think,” he said, “I don’t want to think anymore right now.”
Again she was silent. A breeze had begun to blow, warmish at first, now suddenly cool. Carried by it, the pungent creosote odor of grease-wood overpowered the night’s subtler scents.
Dacy moved beside him. She said, “Chill coming on. We’d better get to bed.”
“All right.”
They stood up together, and when she turned toward him she was still close—close enough for him to feel the full warmth of her body and the softness of her breath against his chin. The loin stir began again, more urgent than before. His mouth was dry.
“Dacy …”
“I know,” she said.
“If you don’t leave right now …”
“Who said anything about leaving? I didn’t mean we should go to bed separately.” She took his hand. “It’s that kind of night, too,” she said.
SHE MADE LOVE
with more intensity than any woman he’d been with, Doris included. She held him fiercely with arms and legs and body, straining, pulling, clutching, as if she sought a fusion greater and more complete than the sexual. And she talked nonstop the whole time, urgings and entreaties, the words and her breath hot in his ear, now and then making little moaning sounds deep in her throat—all in a kind of desperate frenzy. It was over for both of them too quickly, even though he struggled to make it last. When her climax came it was in a series of shuddering spasms, as if she were being electrically shocked; and she pressed her mouth tight against his throat to muffle sounds that were almost like cries of pain.
It took a minute or so for her body to grow still afterward, her hands on him to relax. Panting, she whispered, “Oh Lord! Been so long I’d about forgotten how good it can feel.”
“Best, the best …”
“Now don’t pat yourself on the back, Jim.”
“I wasn’t. Other way around.”
“Look at us, half off this damn bed. Wonder we didn’t end up on the floor.”
“Wouldn’t have noticed if we had.”
They disentangled and lay close, letting their breathing settle. Then Dacy laughed softly and said, “Funny.”
“What is?”
“A week ago I didn’t even know you existed. Then here you come out of nowhere and half turn my life upside down. Next thing I know I’ve got you working and living here. And now I’ve let you screw me. Maybe I’m the crazy one. You think?”
“Is that all it was for you?”
“All what was?”
“Just screwing.”
“What was it for you?”
“Making love.”
“Come on, Jim, you don’t love me.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“I don’t love you.”
“All right,” he said.
“Two lonely people with itches to scratch, that’s all.”
“I don’t think that’s all. I don’t think you do, either.”
“Well, you’re wrong. Isn’t this enough for you? Being together like this?”
“For now.”
“Now’s all there is,” Dacy said. “Now’s all there ever is.”
Outside the wind rattled something. A coyote yipped querulously in the far distance and then was still. Messenger shifted position, half turning so he could take one of her breasts in his hand.
Dacy said, “You like that saggy old tit?”
“It’s not saggy. Not old, either.”
“Maybe not quite. Pretty soon though.”
“How old are you, Dacy?”
“Not supposed to ask a woman that question.”
“I don’t really care. I’m just curious.”
“Well, it’s no secret. Thirty-four, next birthday.”
“Thirty-four’s young.”
“Not when you live in this desert, it isn’t.”
“Young,” he insisted. “Young and beautiful.”
“Shit.”
“Don’t say that word when you’re in bed with me.”
“Why not? It’s just a word.”
“I want to keep things clean between us.”
“Clean,” she said. “Whoo. No man’s ever said
that
to me before.”
“I’m serious, Dacy.”
“All right.” She yawned, stretched. “You should’ve seen them when I was eighteen. My boobs. So firm they hardly even bounced when I walked around naked. Skin so soft it was like satin.”
“Still like satin.”
She heard or sensed the change in his voice, the faint catch in the breath he took. “All this talk making you horny again?”
“Yes.”
“No surprise. Men are easy.”
“We don’t have to make love again’ …”
“Did I say I didn’t want to?” She turned on her side, felt for him, and took hold of him gently. “So damn easy,” she said.
SOMEONE WAS SHAKING
him, roughly and urgently. Saying his name and telling him to wake up. “Wake up, Jim! Wake up!”
He struggled through sticky layers of sleep. The tugging hands lifted him; he sat up groggily. His eyelids felt glued together from sleep-grit. He couldn’t seem to blink them open, had to use his fingers to get them unstuck.
The bedside lamp was on. He squinted against its glare.
Dacy.
She was fully dressed, her hair a wild tangle, her face dark with controlled fury. One clear look at her and he was completely awake.
“What is it?” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Anna’s ranch,” she said. “It’s burning. Some son of a bitch set the whole damn place on fire.”
D
ACY DROVE THE
Jeep at better than sixty over the washboard road, its front end bobbing, hurling darts of yellow-white through the darkness with each bone rattling bump. Messenger sprawled next to her, his feet braced, holding on to both seat support and dash. In the rear, Lonnie sat hunched and jut-necked like a pointing hound. The boy hadn’t said a word before they left the ranch, had barely acknowledged Messenger’s presence. He wondered again now, as he had when they piled into the Jeep, if Lonnie knew or suspected his mother had spent part of the night in the trailer with the new hired hand. And if he did know or suspect, what he thought about it.
Ahead and to the north, the sky above the low hills radiated a smoky orange glow. The smoke rose in thickening billows; he could smell it, harsh and wood-flavored, on the fitful night breeze. The whole damn place, Dacy had said, and that was how it looked from down here. No way a blaze of that size could have kindled and spread naturally on a clear night like this. (It had been after 1:00
A.M
. when she woke him; he’d checked the time as he pulled on his clothing.) Deliberately set … but who would torch a ghost ranch in the middle of the night? For what reason?