The Serpent's Bite (31 page)

“Maybe we should stop for a while,” Scott called to Tomas, who looked back and shook his head in disgust.

Scott's shout alerted his father, who straightened in the saddle but said nothing.

“Are you okay, Dad?” Courtney asked, noting his declining condition as a good sign.

“Fair to middlin',” her father said, offering a thin smile.

“I really think we should stop,” Scott said. Then addressing himself to his father, “Maybe if we ate something.”

“Good idea,” their father said, pulling on the reins of his horse, the effort an obvious trial.

“A few miles more we get to Eagle Pass,” Tomas said.

“No, Tomas. We rest now, if you don't mind,” Scott demanded.

Tomas started to protest, then shrugged, and dismounted. He continued to keep the rifle slung over his shoulder. Scott and Tomas helped Temple to dismount. His legs were obviously shaky, and he had to be helped to a nearby tree, where he slumped to the ground, using the tree as support. Scott offered water and unwrapped the food in his father's cantle, mostly candy bars and crackers. He gave them to his father.

“Eat up, Dad. You'll feel better.”

Their father took a sip of the water and unwrapped one of the candy bars. He bit off a piece and chewed with little appetite. Tomas squatted nearby, eyeing them with narrowed hostile eyes. He had unslung his rifle and laid it across his legs. He did not eat.

Courtney motioned to Scott, and they moved out of earshot of Tomas, who watched them with obvious suspicion.

“I'm really worried about him,” Scott said. “He seems to be going downhill fast. It's just too much for him. ”

“The excitement probably,” Courtney said, hoping he would see her response as sincere. “Poor guy.”

She had moved toward a realization that Scott needed to observe her concern. She knew now that she was moving forward on her, as yet, unfocused plan. Observing her father's condition, she speculated that, with luck, any action on her part would be avoidable. Perhaps, she thought, nature would take its course.

“And we have to contend with that crazy Mexican,” Scott said, between clenched teeth. “You think he would have shot Dad?”

“Or me.”

“He's not that stupid. He's too shrewd for that. His only chance for filthy lucre is to get Dad back in one piece.”

Their father's head lay back against the tree trunk, his eyes closed. Opening them briefly, he observed them, smiled, and closed his eyes again.

“He'll be fine, Scott.”

“You think so?”

She noted a touch of belligerency in his voice, which disturbed her. Was he reading her thoughts?

“Remember, Scott,” she said archly, deliberately testing the waters. “It was his idea. Not ours. He can't blame us.”

“Who said anything about blame?”

“I mean if something happened to him up here.”

“Like what?”

“You know what I'm saying,” she said.

She watched his reaction, knowing that she had sent a clear message. He shook his head and spat on the ground.

“You are one fucking cold-blooded bitch,” he sneered.

“Cold-blooded? I'm being a realist, Scottie.”

No alliance there, she thought. He was too sentimental, too weak.

She turned away, her anger rising, and shifted her gaze to where her father was sitting. The old man's eyes were closed. His mouth was open, and he seemed to be sinking into a deep sleep.

“Don't be so self-righteous. I'm merely stating the obvious, whether you want to hear it or not.”

“If you must know, I don't want to hear it.”

“Your choice, brother mine. But this I'll tell you. If it does happen, you will better understand the risk/reward reality.”

“You're off the wall, Courtney. Considering all he's done for us, for you, you should kiss the ground he walks on.”

“And so I did. Other places as well.”

“You sure turned out to be one scummy bitch,” he sighed, turning away.

“Sticks and stones, Scottie boy,” she muttered. It was time to write him off. So much for family solidarity. For a moment their eyes met. She wondered if his much-professed love for her had disappeared. But then, she acknowledged, she had never quite understood it and the power it held over him.

“Now we go,” Tomas said, rising, cutting short her speculation.

At the sound of his voice, their father opened his eyes. He started to rise, using the tree for balance. Scott and Courtney helped him up.

“Feeling better, Dad?” Courtney asked. Scott looked at her with obvious contempt but said nothing.

Their father nodded, forcing himself to rise with the assistance of the tree for support. They helped him to his horse, and Tomas joined them to get him mounted. He gave them a thin smile when he was seated.

“Hi ho, Silver,” he murmured, but without much force. “Where's Kemosabe?” He looked at Tomas. “Ah, there he is.” The stoic and humorless Tomas looked at him briefly with indifference.

They mounted their own horses again, but this time Courtney managed to change the order of the string, maneuver her horse behind Tomas, and put her father's horse behind her and in front of Scott's. Tomas looked back but made no move to change the order. He looked at her and nodded his approval, perhaps thinking it would speed up the string.

They began to move up the trail. It was past noon, and the heat from the sun was relentless. In the distance, they could see black rain clouds gathering.

What she needed here, Courtney decided, was a twofer. If both her father and brother were…well…eliminated, she would be the sole heir, unchallenged. Easier said than done. Her father, as anyone could see, teetered on the brink. Her brother's demise would take some ingenuity.

What she needed now was a new beginning, free of all tangible entanglements, a clean slate. In the end we are all alone,
she told herself with philosophical authority, as if such a thought might justify any future action. Courage, girl! God helps those who help themselves. She felt her resolve morph into a sworn commitment.

Ideas of method jumped into her mind, but she had not yet focused on a single course of action. The only thing she had determined thus far was venue. The narrow switchbacks made ideal possibilities for a contrived accident. They were narrow and hazardous paths over high canyons, a perfect recipe for creating a disaster. The tiniest disruption of concentration could send a slow-witted horse over the edge. Of one thing she was dead certain: she would never have this opportunity again.

Such speculation did not deter her from contemplating the aftermath. After all, to take such drastic action required justification and a plan. Hell, she thought, she was an actress. She could play her part as bereaved daughter and sister with ease. She knew all the contrived ticks and moves of a distressed witness. Piece of cake, she decided.

She speculated on the career-enhancing projects that she would be able to fund. She would option books, commission screenplays, hire staff. She had been educated by her failures and mistakes. She would no longer be a supplicant. She would pay her multimillion-dollar entrance fee into the Hollywoodinsiders club. This meant that she would have the means and the contacts to do whatever was required to move a project to the next level. She would invest in herself.

Money would automatically empower her. After what she intended here, no act would be too difficult, too offensive, too cruel. She would dispense mental anguish to those who opposed her or offer rewards to sycophants and enablers.

If she had to humiliate people as she had been, torture people as she had been, lead people on as she had been, she would not hesitate. She would demand favors for career moves, manipulate wannabes to serve her cause. She would use any means to achieve her goal of stardom. Money would make her bulletproof. She told herself she was having a kind of
All About Eve
epiphany. Old movie and theater plots buzzed in her head. She became Barbara Stanwyck in
Double Indemnity
, albeit in a new ending.

Lines from her Shakespeare performances echoed in her head. Lady Macbeth, Goneril, Regan. She could get into their mindsets. People told her she was great, believable. She knew these roles.

First things first, she urged herself, trying to recall how it had been the first time they traversed Eagle Pass. She remembered numerous switchbacks, narrow winding ribbons of dirt that wound round and round the mountain, some barely two feet wide. Her mother, she remembered, was paralyzed with fear. They had had to dismount and lead the horse by its reins for fear a misstep might send the horse and rider careening into the air in a sheer and killing descent.

At some point, she speculated, a mistaken heavy pull on the reins or some variation of the gesture might spur the deed, the idea being to use the drop as the weapon of choice. Her task, she acknowledged, was to come up with the means, exactly the right action to accomplish her purpose without making it obvious to the prying eyes of investigators.

They moved through the forest on a rough up-and-down path lined on either side with grass. Occasionally, her horse would lower his long neck and stop to munch, and she would
pull on the reins to get him focused again and continue to follow the lead horse on which Tomas was mounted.

When the gap between horses became too wide, the horses would canter to catch up. This meant a sudden burst of speed to narrow the gap. For inexperienced riders like them, this was a strenuous physical annoyance. Such antics would certainly have a negative effect on her father, who was having trouble enough to keep upright at the most plodding pace.

From time to time, she would deliberately lead her horse off trail and allow him to eat the grass, causing a copycat effort by her father's horse and Scott's. This would catch the attention of Tomas, who would call out for them to catch up and get the horses back in formation. The resultant effort of starts and stops might accomplish the hoped-for effect on her father.

After nearly an hour of this, she was pleased to see her father slump exhausted in his saddle, listing further and further to the right. Noting this, Scott called for Tomas to halt the train. The Mexican looked back in disgust, dismounted, and walked back to where Scott was helping his father down from the horse.

“Sorry I'm such a bother,” their father said weakly as he was helped to a log, where he lay down using it as a headrest.

“Let him rest,” Courtney said, noting that her plan seemed to be bearing fruit. Perhaps, she speculated, she would not have to devise the accident she had been contemplating.

“All that bouncing around,” Scott said, his tone edged with anger as he addressed her. “Can't you keep that horse of yours moving?”

“He's hungry. I can't stop him,” Courtney replied, studying her father. She bent down and gave him water from her canteen. He barely wet his lips.

“We'll rest here for a while, Dad,” Scott said. “We still have to go over that damned mountain.”

Courtney looked toward the mountain and Eagle Pass. It was afternoon now, and the sun was angling toward the west. She calculated that if they stalled enough, there might be a chance that darkness would descend when they were on Eagle Pass. Although she hadn't come up with a plan as yet, she was certain that darkness could be an ally.

“Yes, I'll just close my eyes for a bit,” their father said.

“I no like,” Tomas said. He studied the sky. “Bad rain come soon.”

“He needs the rest,” Scott said, shifting his eyes from Tomas to Courtney.

“Apparently,” she echoed, looking at her brother with clear contempt.

Scott squatted down beside his father.

Seeing them together, Courtney felt, for the first time in her life, a sense of jealousy, of sibling rivalry. Wasn't it she who had always occupied the favored spot in her parents' admiration? Wasn't she the apple of their eye, certainly their father's favorite, his little girl?

Together, the two men seemed inordinately intimate. She felt shut out, marginalized. They were talking, whispering, which further inflamed her. She moved away, still observing them. Why had they locked her out? Her father, looking pale and exhausted, lay with his head on a log. His lips were moving slowly. Scott had his ear cocked against his father's mouth, listening, concentrating, his face oddly troubled. Occasionally, he looked toward where Courtney stood, his eyes narrowing then turning away.

She felt infuriated by being left out of this conversation. What were they saying? Were they talking about her? She looked toward Tomas who squatted beside his horse, watching them with obvious annoyance. Rather than just stand by and observe, she walked into the adjacent stand of trees, dropped her pants and urinated, thinking of the act as a statement, her mind focusing instead on her deadly mission.

The idea expanded in her mind. She decided she needed that concept to keep her focused. She fully understood her objective, although the means was still uncertain.

She pulled up her pants and walked back to the trail. Her father's eyes were closed, but his lips were still moving. Something conspiratorial seemed to be going on, stoking her anger. She moved forward but when she had reached them, her father stopped talking and closed his eyes.

“Let him sleep for a bit,” Scott said.

“What were you two talking about?”

Scott shrugged. She detected a kind of whimsical smile as he lay back, brim over his eyes, offering a farewell motion with his hand.

The gesture stoked her anger, and she moved toward where Tomas squatted. A new idea had begun to hatch in her mind. Tomas watched her as she came forward. She bent down beside him.

“My father looks bad,” she said.

Tomas nodded.

“He may not have the stamina to make it,” she continued cautiously, watching the Mexican's bronzed flat features to assess his understanding of the prospect.

“Means no money, Tomas. Face it. He dies, you have no hold on us. You catch my meaning?”