Heartwood (17 page)

“Boiling out there, huh?” I said.

He touched at his forehead with his shirtsleeve and ignored the question.

“The casts from the crime scene are of prison work shoes, the same kind we issue at the jail. Doolittle and Stump were both wearing them when they broke loose from the bus. They both wear size eleven, same size as the casts,” he said.

“Doolittle’s not a killer, Marvin,” I said.

“That was an eighty-pound bow. Doolittle has the strength to pull it. Stump doesn’t.”

“Stump’s a meth-brain. He destroyed his brother-in-law’s house by running back and forth through the walls. He stuffed a Mexican’s head in a drainpipe at Snooker’s Big Eight.”

But I could see Marvin’s attention already starting to wander.

“A paramedic over at County says you brought a little half-breed boy into emergency receiving. You wanted his lungs checked out so he didn’t develop pneumonia from a near drowning,” Marvin said.

“That’s right.”

He got up from his chair and stood at the window and looked down at the street. “It happened around New Braunfels? At a swimming party for an orphans group or something?” he asked.

“This is why you came over here?”

“Peggy Jean and Earl Deitrich have a cottage down there. They sponsor a swim party for orphans once or twice a year.”

“What’s your point, Marvin?”

“You have three clients—Wilbur and Kippy Jo Pickett and Skyler Doolittle—involved in an adversarial relationship with Earl Deitrich. You’re getting in his wife’s bread and you ask me what’s the point?”

“I don’t care for your language,” I said.

Marvin turned from the window and bunched my sleeve in his fist, his eyes full of pity and disappointment.

“You could be disbarred for stuff like this. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re an honest man. If you let me down, Billy Bob, I’m going to bust your jaw,” he said.

•   •   •

That evening Kippy Jo Pickett hauled five buckets of water from the horse tank and started a fire of slat wood under an iron pot set on stones in the lee of the barn. She sat in the shade, upwind of the fire, and felt the heat begin to crawl through the iron and rise from the water’s surface. The ground was littered with the chickens Wilbur had butchered on the stump before driving off to a temporary job at a rig out in the hills, their headless bodies flopping in the dirt, their feathers powdering with dust. When the first steam bubbles chained to the pot’s surface, she lifted two chickens by the feet and dipped them into the water, then sat back down in her chair and began ripping sheaths of wet feathers from their skins and dropping them into a paper bag. That’s when she heard the car turn into the drive and stop, the twin exhausts echoing off the side of the house.

She wiped her hands on a cloth and wrapped her fingers around the handle of the hatchet Wilbur had used to butcher the chickens and listened to a man’s footsteps come up the drive and into the backyard.

She looked into the purple haze and the dust blowing from the hoof-smoothed area around the horse tank, and inside her mind saw a squat, brow-furrowed man with the thick neck of a hog watching her. The wind blew out of the north and swept her hair back over her shoulders and lifted her dress around her knees. The man approached her, guardedly, his feet splayed, his gaze sweeping the yard, the pasture where the horses nickered, the sun’s fire on the western hills, his nostrils dilating like an animal emerging from a cave.

He paused when he saw the hatchet behind the calf of her leg. Her sightless eyes seemed to burrow into his face and probe thoughts and feelings that he himself did not understand. He swallowed and felt foolish and cowardly
and wiped his mouth with his hand. Then she did something he didn’t expect. She rested the head of the hatchet by her foot and released the handle and let it fall sideways into the dust.

“I’m looking for Wilbur Pickett,” he said.

“He’s at work. On the oil rig. He won’t be home till morning,” she answered.

He waved one hand back and forth in front of her eyes, his soiled palm only ten inches from her face.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

He stepped back, frightened again. He tried to think clearly before he spoke again. His tongue made a clicking sound inside his mouth. “How you know I did anything? How come a blind woman will tell a stranger she’s all alone? That ain’t smart,” he said.

“You might be a violent man. But it’s because others have hurt you,” she said.

His face flinched as though flies were buzzing in it. He opened and closed his palms at his sides and could hear himself breathing. He studied the flecks of whiteness in her blue eyes, the redness of her mouth, the way her black hair whipped around her cheeks in the wind. She pressed her dress down over her knees and waited for him to speak.

“I know stuff about Earl Deitrich don’t nobody else know. I can bring him down,” he said.

“We don’t care what you can do,” she replied.

“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m here to help. We got a, what do you call it, we got a mutual interest.”

“No,” she said.

“Listen, lady, y’all got something he wants or he wouldn’t be trying to send your old man to the pen. Your husband wildcatted in Mexico. It’s got something to do with oil, ain’t it?”

“It’s not your business. There’s fried rabbit and potato salad on the kitchen table. Bring it out,” she said.

“Bring food out? I didn’t come out here to eat. Look, lady—”

“You hate Earl Deitrich because he treats you and someone close to you with disrespect. He’s obligated to you but makes you feel worthless. You fight with him in your mind and he always wins.”

He stepped back from her, his mouth opening to speak. Her words were like cobweb that he wanted to wipe out of his face. She rose from her chair and spread newspaper on the stump that was grained with dried blood and bits of chicken feathers. She set a stone on each side of the newspaper so the wind wouldn’t blow it away.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Cholo Ramirez.”

“You’re part Indian, Cholo. The spirits of all your people watch over you. Don’t be frightened. Go get the food,” she said.

He walked away from her toward the house, his head twisted back toward her, his close-set eyes like those of a wolf circling a steel trap. He stepped inside the kitchen door and pressed the heel of each hand hard into his temples, opening and closing his mouth until the whirring of blood ceased in his ears. The interior of the kitchen was painted with fire from the glow of sun through the west windows. He struck the heels of his hands repeatedly against the sides of his skull but his head would not clear. For a moment he felt he was deep under the earth, inside a box of flame that had been created especially for him and that he would never escape.

•   •   •

Rain was falling across the sunset when Pete and I entered the stucco Catholic church where he and I attended Mass. It was cool from the electric fans that oscillated on the walls and the air smelled of stone and the water in the rain ditch outside. I lighted a candle for L.Q. Navarro in the rack of burning candle vases in front of a statue of Jesus’ mother, then entered the confessional.

The priest was ten years younger than I, a thin, Mexican Franciscan named Father Paul who had once been a labor organizer for the United Farm Workers. He listened while I told him of my behavior at Peggy Jean Deitrich’s cottage, the self-delusion that had put me there, the possible compromise of my clients’ interest.

Then I relived the moment that had burned inside me like a hot coal. “A little boy I should have been watching almost drowned. In another minute he would have been gone,” I said.

“I see,” the priest said. Through the screen I could see his profile, his jaw propped on two fingers, his eyes staring into the gloom. “Is there more?”

“No.”

“I have the sense there’s something you haven’t mentioned. I think it has to do with anger.”

“I don’t see the connection, Father.”

“You don’t have to answer this question if you don’t want to. But do you regret the injury done the third party, the husband?”

I could hear the rain running off the tile roof outside the confessional, the sound of someone kneeling in a pew, a car passing on the wetness of the street.

“He’s an evil man,” I said.

Father Paul’s profile turned toward me for just a moment, then he looked straight ahead again, as though
resigning himself to an old knowledge about human behavior.

“By whatever power is vested in me, I absolve you of your sins. The peace of the Lord be with you, Billy Bob,” he said.

The light in the sky was green when Pete and I walked outside and the rain was dripping into the shadows under the pines on the lawn. Pete wore his straw hat low over his eyes and breathed in the dampness of the air as though he were taking the world’s measure.

“We still gonna get them buffalo burger steaks?” he asked.

“You bet,” I said.

“That’s Temple Carrol’s car in front of the cafe,” he said.

“It sure is.”

“Why you stopping?”

“No reason.”

“You sure tell a mess of fibs, Billy Bob. Soon as I figure out one angle of yours, you come up with another.”

“Do me a favor, Pete.”

“What’s that?”

“Stay out of my head.”

“I knew you was gonna say that.”

The inside of the cafe was brightly lit, the front window beaded with rainwater, the fans ruffling the oilcloths on the tables. I hadn’t seen Temple since the incident at Peggy Jean’s cottage on the Comal and my voice felt thick in my throat when we sat down at her table. The side of her face was pink from the sunset and rippled with the shadows of raindrops running down the window. She kept looking inquisitively into my eyes.

“Y’all go to church on weeknights?” she said.

“Billy Bob went to confession,” Pete said.

“Oh? Did we do something we shouldn’t?” she said, looking at me strangely.

“I got pulled in a whirlpool. Billy Bob saved my life. But he blames himself ’cause I was in the whirlpool. That ain’t no reason to go to confession,” Pete said, and began chewing on a breadstick.

“You were in the river? It’s pretty high this time of year for swimming, Pete,” she said.

“We was at Ms. Deitrich’s place in New Braunfels. That’s what I was saying. Billy Bob and Ms. Deitrich was up changing at the cottage when I got pulled into the whirlpool,” Pete said.

“Oh, at Ms. Deitrich’s. South Texas’s angel of charity. I should have known. Did you have a good time, Billy Bob?” Temple said, her eyes peeling the skin off my face.

“It wasn’t a good day. It was also the last one I’ll have like it,” I said.

“Why is it I don’t believe you? Why is that, please tell me?” she said. She set down her coffee cup in the saucer, picked up her check, and rose from the table.

“What ch’all talking about?” Pete asked, his face filled with confusion.

Early Wednesday morning I got the milk delivery off the porch and picked up a half dozen eggs around the chicken run and under the tractor and put them in an apple basket and began beating an omelette in the kitchen. Beau was drinking out of an aluminum tank just inside the rails of the horse lot and I saw his head lift at the sound of a car in my drive.

Marvin Pomroy came around back and tapped on the screen door to the porch. He wore a seersucker suit and
narrow brown suspenders with his white shirt. I thought he had come to the house to apologize for threatening to break my jaw. Wrong. He sat down at the kitchen table without being invited and began smacking one fist erratically into his palm.

“Yes?” I said.

“I think Wilbur and Kippy Jo Pickett and Skyler Doolittle are all guilty of various crimes. I think guilty people come to you as a matter of course, primarily because you’re a sucker for daytime TV watchers who model their lives on soap operas. So my being here has nothing to do with a change of attitude about your clients,” he said.

“Thanks for the feedback on that, Marvin.”

“But because your clients are dirty doesn’t mean that Earl Deitrich isn’t.”

“You’ve got a problem of conscience?” I asked.

“No. What I’ve got is this character Fletcher Grinnel, Deitrich’s chauffeur. A week ago he was staring at me in the courthouse with this smirk on his face. I said, ‘Can I help you with something?’

“He says, ‘I was just admiring your suspenders. I served with a man, an ex-banker, actually, who always wore suspenders like that when we were on leave. He was a ferocious fighter. You’d never believe it from his appearance.’

“So I said, ‘You were in the military?’

“He goes, ‘Here and there. Mostly with a private group. Ex-Legionnaires, South African mercs, guys who were drummed out of the British army, that sort of thing. But we saved a lot of Europeans from the wogs and the bush bunnies.’ ”

Marvin paused, his eyes blinking.

“What does this have to do with my clients?” I asked.

“Several political pissants in Austin keep calling me up about Wilbur and Kippy Jo Pickett, like somehow I’m not fully committed to the situation. Then I have this encounter with Fletcher Grinnel, who seems to think he can use racist language with me as though we’re in the same white brotherhood. So I called in a favor from a federal agent in Washington and had him run this guy.

“Grinnel is a naturalized U.S. citizen from New Zealand. He’s also worked for some very nasty people in South Africa and the Belgian Congo. He thinks cutting off body parts is quite a joke.”

“That’s on his sheet?”

“No. Grinnel told me his friend, the ex-banker who wore suspenders like mine, made necklaces of human ears and fingers that he traded for ivory and rhino horn. Grinnel said his friend put a burning tire around a man and made his family watch.”

Marvin sat very still in the chair, his face bemused at the strangeness of his own words, one strand of hair hanging in the middle of his glasses.

“I think once in a while we’re allowed to look into someone’s eyes, somebody who a moment earlier seemed perfectly normal, and see right to the bottom of the Abyss,” he said. “But maybe that’s just my fundamentalist upbringing.”

His eyes lifted earnestly into mine, as though waiting for an opinion.