The Matriarch (17 page)

Georgie’s metal shoes hit the wood of the bridge, and Shelly opens her eyes. “Are we going to the tree?”

“I’ll just walk you to the rise, and then we can ride back together.”

“But that fig tree is just over the rise, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you want to see that thing.”

“Oh but Lester, I do!” She knows it’s making everyone nervous lately, and she wants to see the reason.

“No. That’s not a good idea.”

“Lester-Lee, please!” She leans forward and puts a hand on his shoulder. He jumps at her touch, then takes her hand quickly in his and turns to face her. He brings her hand to his mouth. Shelly feels his lips on her palm. “Lester …”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, dropping her hand. He starts walking again.

“Oh don’t be!” she cries. “Please don’t be sorry.” Shelly has never in her life felt anything as blatantly sensual as Lester’s hot, parted lips at the center of her open palm. She leans forward again and puts her hand on the back of his neck.

“I guess we could see that tree if you like,” he says in a voice so soft she can hardly hear him. He slows his pace and comes a little nearer so she doesn’t have to lean as much—so she’s able to leave her hand on his neck. “But we won’t go close,” he says.

They see it more clearly at the top of the rise, and the horse presses forward eagerly.

“Georgie wants to see it too,” she says as Lester shortens up on the lead rope to keep the horse under control.

About a hundred yards from the tree, Lester brings them to a stop. Shelly is amazed at the size of the thing, but from where they are, she can’t make out much detail. There’s something moving, she sees; something is near the tree.

“Let’s go a little closer, Lester, okay?”

As if Georgie understands what she wants, he steps forward.

“Whoa there, boy,” Lester says and pulls back on the rope. “No way.” He seems unnerved, and that surprises her.

“A little bit nearer won’t hurt, will it, Lester? There’s something moving around that tree; can you see it?”

“Looks like horses,” he says. “They’re eating the fallen fruit under it.”

They move a few steps forward with Georgie straining at the rope that Lester holds firmly. To Shelly the sun becomes almost white in the pale sky, and the landscape seems to be bathed in a harsh glare. She feels Georgie’s excitement and Lester’s fear and finds them both thrilling. As they draw closer, she sees movement under the tree’s branches.

“What is that Lester? There’s something there with the horses. See, under the … It’s people! See them? They’re gathering up the figs on the ground.” There are two of them, she sees. Women.

Georgie comes to a stop, and Lester puts up his hand to shade his eyes. He peers at the women.

“I don’t like this,” he says.

“Well, I guess there’s no harm in it,” Shelly says. “It’s not like there’s a shortage of figs.” She sees the ground underneath the tree is covered with a colorful abundance of figs. Then she notices the women have quit their gathering and are staring at them.

One says something to the other, and the two laugh—it’s not a pleasant sound.

“Hey, Georgie,” one of the women calls in a high, keening voice, and Shelly feels the horse shudder beneath her. She sees his ears flatten themselves against the sides of his head and feels his body tighten.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” cries the other, “Come on over here.”

Georgie thrusts his head down, snorts, and begins to back up. Shelly tries to bring his head up with the reins, but he keeps his head down and continues his stubborn steps backward.

“He’s scared,” Lester says. He makes soothing sounds, trying to calm the frightened horse. Shelly sees his shirt is dark with sweat. He looks back at the tree.

“Oh fuck,” he says as the women begin walking toward them. They both wear black ankle-length skirts.

Even from a distance Shelly can see their grins. Georgie yanks his head and pulls the rope from Lester’s grasp. He turns away from the tree and the women, and Shelly presses her knees hard against the horse to keep from falling off. She feels Georgie’s muscles bunch up under her and knows he’s about to run like hell for the rise.

I’ll never make it!

Georgie makes it easy for her. As if she’s an annoying fly on his back, he bucks and unseats her. Shelly falls hard onto the grassy turf, sprawled and breathless. Everything stops including—it seems—her heart. She waits to see her life pass by, but all she sees are blades of grass so close to her eyes, they’re slender pillars of greenish yellow.

“Up, Shelly—NOW!”

She raises her head and sees the women—on horseback now—coming toward her, one well ahead of the other. The woman nearest has her mouth hanging open in a cartoon-like rictus. Shelly feels as if she’s being sucked into a horror movie.

“Up, Chrissake Shelly—now!”

She sees Lester then, astride a sweat-frothed Georgie who’s prancing near her like a young show horse. Lester leans down toward her. “Grab my hand! C’mon!”

Shelly raises a leaden hand to his, and he jerks her to her feet. She hears hooves on the turf and turns to see a woman bearing down on her. She’s leaning down from her horse and spewing rank, sugary breath as she reaches for Shelly’s arm with a claw-like hand. But it’s Lester’s strong arm she feels encircle her waist and sweep her up onto Georgie in front of him. He whoops as Georgie whirls and sprints for the rise.

Shelly looks back and sees that the women have stopped. One raises her fist and shakes it at them.

“I don’t get it,” Shelly says, scared witless yet somehow exhilarated. “What are they so pissed about?”

And what are we so frightened of? They’re just a couple of women.

After Frank’s fainting spell, I don’t want to leave him alone, at least not for a while. I decide that a short walk won’t hurt him—might even be good for him—so Louie and I take him outside for a stroll.

Not interested in quake damage at the moment, he wants to skip the walk and pace off the area he thinks will be ideal for a new training arena he wants to build.

Why? Why a new horse arena? He’s only got one horse! But what the hell; with any luck at all I’ll soon be on my way out of here. Yeah, but to where? Doing what? I know I’m considering flight again, just as Lauren says I always do. But life here is too complicated, what with my uncle flipping out and those Goddamned figs!

Watching Frank now, I remember my idyllic days on this ranch when it was twice as big. It was a working ranch then where Frank grew a few different types of grain, and boarded horses along with his own. His joy was birthing foals and teaching them the lead, bridle, and saddle.

About a year before my exodus along with my dad to Oregon, Frank took a spill off a filly he was training. Though he suffered no real physical damage, he changed. His easy competence and rapport with the horses he boarded left him, and he began to say things like, “I’m not getting any younger, you know” and to talk of “cutting back.”

Six months later, Frank accepted a generous offer and sold off half his land. This helped him retire in fair financial shape while retaining the few ranch buildings and ten acres of pasture.

And that’s how the old guy should leave it!

“I need to tell you again, Uncle Frank, I can’t stay a long time. I figure to help you out with the quake damage—just a couple weeks or so.”

I don’t know where I’m going, but I have to go somewhere.

Frank stops his pacing and scowls down at the pad of paper he’s holding.

“I mentioned that to you when I arrived, remember?”

“That’s just like you, Cassidy,” he says, glaring at me. “Takin’ off when things get rough. I had hopes you’d be gettin’ over that habit.”

Shit! Is my failing that obvious?

A sound from the road draws our attention. A sheriff’s patrol car approaches, kicking up a cloud of golden dust.

“I’ll bet that’s Manny,” Frank says. “Maybe he’s got some news about these crazy deaths.”

But it’s Deputy Albert D. Schmidt who pulls up. He slides out of his vehicle and strolls casually over to us.

Man’s got the swagger of a bully.

“Gentlemen,” he says, a hand at the brim of his hat in a slight salute.

“Deputy,” I say.

“Manny’s still out,” he says. Then he flashes me a stern look. “And I’m still the acting sheriff. I’d like a word with you, Cassidy, if you don’t mind.”

What’s this asshole want with me now? Registration again?

“Sure, Al.” I shove my hands into my pockets and wait.

“You might want it private.”

“That’s okay. Fire away,” I say, and Frank nods his agreement.

Al thrusts his pelvis forward in a casual slouch and hooks his thumbs into his belt. “The name Marilyn Connor mean anything to you, Cassidy?”

“Yeah, it does,” I answer and a wave of adrenaline comes into me. “She was murdered about a year ago, in Eugene. I looked like a suspect, so I was hauled in and questioned. But you know all that don’t you, Al? You also know I was nowhere near the woman at the time of her murder, and I was released. No charges.”

“Shit sakes, man,” Frank says. “What’re you askin’ him this crap for?”

Louie comes up to Frank’s side, his liquid brown eyes on Schmidt.

I see red come into my uncle’s face, and I surely do hope the old man can handle this nonsense.

Al has some color in his face as well. “As acting sheriff, and with these two murders here, I have a duty—”

“You’re off your head, Schmidt.” Frank takes a step toward the lawman. “What in hell does Cassidy here have to do with those poor boys gettin’ killed?”

Al’s eyes go to Frank’s gun belt, which he seems to notice for the first time. I put one hand on Louie’s collar and the other on Frank’s arm. “Easy there, Frank. Al’s just doing his job.”

I need to get these two away from each other.

“That dog got a license? What kind of dog—”

“Yes sir, he does,” I say with a rush of guilt. And I hope to God I can get Louie a license real fast. “And I’ll come down to the station later today and answer any questions about him, or me, that you might have. How about that?”

“I said you might want this private.”

“Yeah, you did. I should have taken you up on that.” I turn to Uncle Frank. “He’s got to ask questions, Frank. That’s what depu—that’s what sheriffs do. I have no problem with that.” I smile at Schmidt.

“All right, you come on down to the station later on,” Al says. “And while we’re at it, what about those guns you gents are wearing?”

Frank is about to fire off a reply when we all notice we have company. Dott Pringle pulls up in her Land Rover, hops out, and starts toward us. She’s holding the hand of a young girl. I recognize the Hammond kid. She hangs back politely while I assure Al I’ll see him later and answer any questions he may have about anything that’s bothering him. I’m able to send the man off in a fairly mollified state of mind, though Frank still breathes fire.

“I need to talk with you folks,” Dott says, as we all walk to the ranch house. I persuade Frank to cool his irritation with Schmidt and make us all a pot of coffee. I pour some soda for the girl, and we sit down at the kitchen table. Molly says nothing, just sips at her drink. She looks tired. Tired as in out on her feet.

“Frank,” Dott says. “Could Molly lie down here for a little while? She’s had a rough day.”

The old man looks bewildered. “It isn’t even noon yet.”

“She can use my bed,” I say. Louie and I take Molly down the hall into my room. Molly takes off her shoes and climbs into bed. “You need anything? You want Louie to stay here with you?”

Molly shakes her head. On her back, she folds her hands across her chest and closes her eyes. I look down at the girl. As pale as she is, she looks like a corpse—as if she’s just laid herself out for burial.

I return to the kitchen to find that Frank has poured himself and Dott healthy shots of Bushmill’s Irish. He and Dott sit at the kitchen table, and the half-filled bottle of whiskey rests on the table at Frank’s right hand.

Just what he needs! The time-honored aid to thinking men everywhere—especially the elderly.

I sit down and tell Dott the shocking news about Arty Banyon. She shakes her head, stunned. She helps herself to another Bushmill’s and then relates an equally shocking story. She says Molly told her that she killed her stepfather last night with a hatchet. I think immediately of Molly at the funeral reception eating several figs as fast as she could.

Those Goddamned figs.

“You don’t believe her, do you?” Frank asks. He’s almost yelling. “You’re takin’ the word of a kid,” he goes on. “That’s just plain crazy! She’s tellin’ you a story.”

“This morning she showed me the grave,” Dott says. “The place Molly says she and her mother buried Victor Hammond. They did it last night. By flashlight.”

“You dig him up?” This reasonable question comes from Frank. “You actually
see
the body?”

“No. That’s a job for the sheriff’s department. Before we report this, I think you should know that Molly said she and her mother had both been eating a lot of figs. From your tree, Frank.”