Colonel Rutherford's Colt (15 page)

 

I have followed you / along a trail of obsession / to the edge of my life / where a solitary star broods / above a blood-dark sea / spilling into a void / into which furniture / galleons and diamonds / centuries and horses / are also falling endlessly / and there you hover / beyond the last firm ground / daring me to leap . . .

 

This particular passage, from one of his final poems, reminded her how greatly her indecisiveness had contributed to his death, and that was sufficient to shift her attention away from love and inspire her to contemplate the products of hate.

The colonel had cut back on his traveling, and thus claimed his husbandly rights with increasing frequency. She would lie in bed, in the dark, pretending to sleep, dreading the peremptory sound of his knock, and when he entered, conceding that she had lost the right to deny him by virtue of her failure to take the Colt from his hand, she would feign a sleepy acceptance, her thoughts clenched like a fist, trying not to notice his heaviness, the antiseptically perfumed flavor of his mouth, his fumbling caresses, his grunting mastery, how even in his lust he conveyed a mechanical style. But notice these things she did. She could no longer, as once she had, pretend that the colonel was Luis—it was too monstrous a pretense now. Her only refuge lay in denial. After he left she would wash his stink from her skin and sit staring blindly out into the shadowy confusion of the grounds, hopeless and uncaring. At times she felt an unraveling within her, a loss of cohesion, and worse, she also felt the urge to surrender to this dissolution. Madness could be no more cruel than her current existence, which seemed a colorless nightmare by day, and by night a vivid one. Her life, she believed, was over.

Four months after the murder she received a letter from her cousin Aaron. She did not bother to open it immediately. They corresponded regularly now, but she was past needing a confidante. At any rate, Aaron had proved a disappointment in the role. He lectured too much, his advice was always the same—“Leave!”—and lately a distinct note of ardor had been creeping into his writing. She had yet to tell him of the circumstances surrounding Luis' death, because she knew his response would have little value.

Eventually, for want of any more compelling pastime, she opened Aaron's letter. The first few paragraphs were as expected—news of his business, projections of growth, plans for expansion. But on the second page, the tone of the letter changed:

 

 . . . I can no longer refrain from speaking what is in my heart. When we began this correspondence, I informed you that I was not certain whether some portion of the feelings I once expressed to you still remained. I believed, however, that if they did, it would be in the form of a dark residue, a shadow of what was. But your letters, dear Susan, and the memories they conjure have proved the lie of this. What I perceived to be a shadow was merely an accumulation of dark time and darker shame, a covering I contrived to hide an emotion that even I, to whom it seems natural and true, know is wrong, and it is as strong in me now as ever it was. I fully expect that you will wish to end our correspondence after hearing this news, and I will not seek to influence you to the contrary. Perhaps that is for the best. I cannot think that this renewal of an emotion I assumed to be moribund, if not dead, can have any benefit for either of us . . .

 

Susan let the letter fall listlessly from her hand. She had grown weary of Aaron's self-absorption and she did not have the patience to read through what looked to be several more pages of confession and analysis. Only Aaron, she thought, could make an incestuous passion seem boring. Even when they were young and lively in their play, he had always exhibited a mature sense of incaution, carefully balancing the joys of every mischief against the potentials of the woodshed, as if already studying for his career in accounting. Thus it had amazed her all the more when he had initially announced his love—how had a man so frightened of her father's hand dared such iniquity? He must, she told herself, have truly loved her. And, by his own declaration, he still did. If she had known that evening in the garden what she knew now, offered a choice between contemptible perversion and a future with Colonel Rutherford, she believed she would have opted for the former . . . This sentiment, though it came as whimsy, lingered in her thoughts, as if begging for her notice, and when, upon examining it more closely, she realized its implications, she was inclined to reject out of hand the scenario it engendered—yet it was so perfect a design, so potent a deceit, she could not completely dismiss it. She sought to peer inside herself, trying to find the spiritual lesion that she knew must exist or else she would never have come to reflect upon this evil machination. She seemed in all particulars herself, every portion of her psyche in, if not good then at least working, order. Yet she was unable to accept this self-judgment. Something must have changed, some vial of glandular poison spilled, subtly affecting the heart of her nature; otherwise she could never have entertained that serpent of an idea slithering joyfully about her brain, infecting every cell with its flicking kiss.

She deliberated for more than an hour before deciding that the idea was a gift from the Serpent Himself, the Prince of Betrayals. Not that God was incapable of such a gift. Had He not given her over to the ministrations of an unctuous, murderous devil . . . and for no meet purpose? But this idea had scales, fangs, and a flexible spine that permitted it to coil up in her heart and nest—it was the Devil's tongue inside her, moving her to act, and though she feared for her soul, she had lost the necessary resolve to resist the Serpent's incessant stimulation. She plucked her silver pen from its holder and began to write, telling Aaron how Luis had died, embellishing the tale with every possible flourish, and when she had done with that, she inscribed the following line:

 

 . . . As to the greater substance of your letter, dear cousin, and I speak here of your newly confessed emotion, it both shames and delights me to tell you that I, too, have a confession to make, one long overdue, of feelings kept in secret, unexpressed, yet still vital to my heart's progress . . .

 

She filled three pages with her lie, confabulating a history of yearning and frustration, feeling shame in the act, yet exulting in its commission. When she finished, she felt oddly aloof and uncaring, as if by taking this step she had taken herself beyond the reach of conscience. She knew that, ultimately, guilt would find her again, but she had sealed a bargain with a power compared to which guilt was a mere shadow.

 

 . . . In October, as is his habit each year, Hawes will travel with a manservant to the mountains of Matanzas where he keeps a lodge, and there, in a frenzy of bloodletting, will gun down every wild pig in the vicinity, an act that to my mind seems verging on self-slaughter. He will be gone ten days, longer if the sport is good. Would it be importune of me to ask that you visit Havana during this time, so I might then sway whatever doubts you harbor of me by the most persuasive of my means . . . ?

 

 

* * *

 

On Monday, Rita manned the tables most of the day. Jimmy was in a state, sitting in a folding chair with his back turned to the show, legs stretched out, unmoving and unspeaking, as if rigor had set in. He stirred himself once to deal with a gun question from a customer, and at noon he ambled off to fetch her a sandwich and returned an hour and a half later with a corn dog and vague answers as to where he had been. She was used to him being worthless from time to time, and she wasn't that concerned. Between the Colt and the Beretta and, fingers crossed, the Thompson, by tonight they would be in better shape than they'd been in for a long while. And then there was Yakima coming up—they always did well in Yakima, and she loved going to McGallagher's and getting the dick of every white boy in the place twirling like a propeller on a toy plane, luring them away from their pale, flabby female counterparts.

The crowd was thin but all business. The long-haired kids dreaming of death were off partying, as were the souvenir-hunters and the NRA moms and pops. Dealers were shaving their profit margins, big checks were changing hands, smiles everywhere. Around three-thirty, a guy from the armory offices brought her a fax from Professor Alex Howle, offering eleven thousand for the Colt and the shakily authenticated but intriguing pistol he had displayed interest in when he had seen them in Spokane—he could wire cash if they wished. Rita had no clue which pistol he meant. She crumpled up an empty styrofoam cup and tossed it at Jimmy's head. Not a twitch. “Jimmy!” she said, turning the name into a flinty grunt. “Fucking wake up!” He drew in his legs, scrunched about in the chair, said, “Huh?”

“I need you. Clear your fucking head!”

He scraped his chair around a quarter-turn, managing it sluggishly. Then another quarter-turn, so he was facing the aisle. She passed him the fax. He studied the paper for longer than necessary.

“Any day now,” Rita said.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I mean, I was wanting more for the pistol—here he's getting it for 'bout two-thirds what I figured on. But it's cash money, and we won't have to pay taxes on none of it.”

“What pistol he's talking 'bout?”

“Nineteen-thirty-two Smith and Wesson. The Klan gun.”

“It don't have to be we getting eight-five for the Colt. We could shave that down a little. Loretta would still come out fine.”

“Naw,” he said, staring her down. “That wouldn't be fine.”

Fuck you, she thought. You and your little white-ass chicken.

“I'm gonna go fax the professor,” she said. “Then I'm gonna take a shower, get me some food, and party. You can handle the last hour.”

His face showed he was readying a complaint.

“You got time to work on the damn story after closing,” she said. “Don't pack nothing. I'll take care of it in the morning.” She stood and wedged herself out between tables. “You better call Borchard. Tell him whatever you gonna.”

“Already talked to him.”

“Yeah, but you didn't have this fax when you did.”

“Don't matter. He said he wanted me to come see him after his meeting one way or another.” He hesitated. “Guess I can just call him, though.”

“You go on up and see the man. He might have something interesting to say.”

Jimmy fiddled with the corner of a leaflet someone had left on the table. “Where you gonna be?”

From the faded quality of his voice, she realized he was about to go drifting again. They'd be lucky if somebody didn't steal them blind. But she was suddenly fed up with faxes and money and guns and dipshits in need of home protection.

“You gonna hafta find me tonight,” she said, “ 'cause I plan to get myself lost.”

He looked so forlorn, she relented a bit.

“I ain't guaranteeing nothing,” she said. “But I'll be starting out at Gainer's.”

 

* * *

 

A band name of Mister Right was laying waste to Gainer's, a roadhouse ten minutes from Issaquah, shaking dust down from the ceiling of that chunk of pale blue cement block with neon Red Hook displays in the windows and everything from pick-ups to SUVs to a brand-new Mercedes in the jammed-up lot. By the time Rita arrived, just past ten, a drizzle was pocking the dusty lanes between the parked cars, and half-a-dozen fools too drunk to get in were pushing and shoving and falling down laughing out front of the door. They sobered some when they saw Rita step out of her cab. She knew she looked good, wearing her black mesh see-thru blouse over a black bra, and she acted like she knew it, rolling her hips to the monstrous 4/4 leaking from the inside. She didn't know yet what part she would play, but nonetheless she was starting to get a feeling for the role. One of the fools, a hairless baby bear with a shaved head and a purple Huskies jersey, grabbed at her ass, but she danced out of reach and tossed him a mocking look as she passed into the noise and darkness.

She worked her way through the crowd at the bar, pushed up against the rail of the waitress station by shifting bodies. She could just make out the heads of the band above the crowd on the dance floor, hot white stage lights behind them. The dancing was for shit. People lumbering, lurching about like cave folk round a gutted elk. Boys in Dockers and polo shirts shaking their fists; girls in short tight dresses making fishlike motions with their hips. Her eyes began to adjust to the dimness. Glowing wreaths of cigarette smoke floated in the air. There were tables at the center and back of the place; sticking out from the walls were little counters, each one ranged by four or five stools. Men groping compliant women. Women leaning their heads together and laughing hysterically, saying shit like, “Do you believe it?” and calling each other “girlfriend.” Womanless men sharking among the tables or trying to look blasé as they sat nursing a beer. She remembered a line from an old story of Jimmy's: “ . . . a zooful of brown passions.” That's what Gainer's was tonight. Nothing much could happen there. A fistfight, a break-up, some meaningless hook-ups, a carload of drunks crashing on the way home. Rita figured to tune the intensity a notch higher.

Mister Right crunched into a heavy groove rendition of an old Massive Attack song, and Rita danced along with it, holding onto the rail, lowering her head and letting her hair curtain her face, doing a step that was ninety-percent ass-shaking and the rest sliding her feet as if she were tired and hanging onto a slow-moving treadmill. A bedraggled-looking waitress elbowed her way up to the station, scribbled an order on her tray. “Hey!” Rita shouted. The waitress offered her an ear and Rita passed her a twenty and shouted again, “Double shot Cuervo Gold and a draft!” When the drinks came she threw down half the tequila and had a swallow of beer. A guy at the bar was scoping her, but she didn't want him. She sipped her beer, eyes roaming the room. Close to the edge of the dance floor, one of the counters was empty; the stools that had ringed it appropriated by the seven people gathered about the adjoining counter. Four women, three men. Twenty-somethings. Promising, she thought. She weaved her way through the tables, holding the drinks above her shoulders to avoid spillage, and when she reached the empty counter, she made it her home and leaned against the wall. Three of the twenty-something women were sitting with their backs to her. Two brunettes sandwiching a blond with a double-wide butt. The brunette farthest away sneaked a glance at Rita. She was coarsely pretty, shiny hair pulled back from her face, a blood-red, too-full mouth, and make-up caking the acne blemishes on her cheeks. She had on a skintight hoochie dress, and as she talked she used her body freely, throwing up her arms, shimmying her breasts and her shoulders, putting on a show. But there was a hint of tight-ass in the eyes. Rita tagged her as a blow-job queen. BJ.