NABBED. MERK THE JERK TURNED Pat the Rat. A thousand bucks amounted to a nice piece of change for Jimmy, but Pat wouldn’t have accepted such a puny bribe with almost a half million coming his way in a matter of weeks. She’d got to Pat some other way and he’d swallowed whatever she’d doled out. Screw you, buddy.
These damned, overcast days had turned his mind around, anyway. That receptionist had said the swarms of black flies and mosquitoes around Lake Superior were worse than in Alaska and he’d heard Alaska mosquitoes were big as ice cubes. She said fishermen slathered mud all over their arms and faces against getting bit. She said Lake Superior was so vast it seemed like an ocean and that gales blew up out of nowhere. In fact, they called it an inland sea. She said in parts of northern Michigan houses had doors on the second floor that seemed to open to nowhere, but folks had to use them to get outside in the winter, the snow could get that deep.
If he could just exit this goddamn plane and set his feet on solid ground he might come up with a plan. He unscrewed the tiny bottle of scotch. Lee Ann sipped coffee, her foot resting on the black leather suitcase stashed under the seat in front of her. He offered her his bag of peanuts.
“Nuts for the nutty,” he said. She was anything but nutty.
He couldn’t stretch his legs. A cramped body couldn’t think. Clouds beneath a body didn’t compute because the formula for daydreaming demanded lying face up looking into the great beyond, not being in it. Being propelled inside a speeding bullet at thirty-five thousand feet turned his stomach upside down. No sense talking to her. She’d made her mind up about things. He might slip away when they changed planes in Dallas, duck into the men’s room, hang around there for a couple hours and take off on the next available flight to somewhere in Idaho, Montana, or Oregon. Did mosquitoes and black flies buzz around in those states?
He adjusted his seat as far back as it would go, which wasn’t much, and downed the scotch in two gulps. They hardly used the northern half of the ranch. The valley narrowed quickly, as if cinched by a belt, and high mesas began their rise close to the creek. Mornings stayed darker longer and evenings arrived earlier. Bald eagles lived there. Willow thickets thrived on either side of the water, overtaking the grasses. From a source atop the east mesa, Widow Creek cut a route downward, carrying rocks that collected where it joined Alibi Creek. The combined flow spilled south where the land eventually leveled out, but even then, the area wasn’t suitable for cattle. Dad had raised hogs there, once. There was a small, crude log cabin with a leaky roof, a good well, and a barn with more cracks than boards for walls. Across the north fence line the Rossmans had fixed up an old, rock house on thirty-five acres, then changed their minds and decided not to live there after all. Let’s see. He might figure a way to get them to part with that piece of property. Hell, they lived in Albuquerque and only visited a few times a year. Had to rid the place of mice every time they showed up…the upkeep and taxes must be a burden…they might want a quick, easy way out…
In Dallas, Lee Ann marched toward their connecting flight at Gate 43. Walker tagged along at her heels, sniffing fast food, ignoring the bar on the left, eyes forward, away from the list of departing flights to places unknown. Children’s voices and flight announcements faded. In his mind, hawks screeched and crows squabbled. Small ground animals—lizards, toads, gophers, squirrels, and snakes—called him back to Alibi Creek. And ants, army ants that built those graceful mounds he’d destroyed with his boot until Dad taught him to quit kicking and start looking. Over the years he’d discovered turquoise, coral, and stone beads in those piles of sand. Got bit more than a few times while poking around their houses, disturbing their work. One time he discovered two beads on the same hill.
The Albuquerque airport kiosks displayed chile products, New Mexican cookbooks, turquoise jewelry, Native American fetishes, weavings, and pottery. Folks waited for their flights on padded chairs from the 1950s. Walker’s feet tread on tile floors laid like brick. He heard Spanish spoken.
“Come on, Lannie.” He ran ahead and faced her, walking backwards. “Here we are! Give me a smile.”
She continued straight toward him.
“Look,” he said. “I’ve agreed to give Owen the money. So help me, I’ll never step foot on your property. I won’t bug the boys, ever. I swear. And I will wait until after the ranch is legally divided to divorce Danielle, so she won’t have any claim to your half. I promise, every square inch of your share will be protected.” Oh, she was done talking, he could see that. Maybe forever. For sure forever. He fell in step beside her. “I’m going to build me a one-room adobe house with a kitchen in the corner and a bathroom off to one side. I saw a picture of a house with a garden growing smack in the middle, lettuce and sunflowers and tomatoes all packed together reaching for a skylight. I’m going to try that. The plants might attract bugs, but they’ve got sprays.” He cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll pass on that. Just the thought’s makin’ me cough. But, there’s other ideas for one-room living, like built-in storage under the bed and a table that folds out from the wall. See, when you’re in the kitchen, the whole house is the kitchen, and when you’re in bed, the whole house is the bedroom and when you’re in the living room, the whole place is the living room. Get it?”
The three-hour drive from the airport took an extra hour at night, the half-moon creating crazy shadows between chamisa and Apache plume, fooling the eye into thinking coyotes, elk, and antelope were moving across the plains. He drank the rest of the six-pack and was half asleep when they drove past Highway 34 and on to Brand, arriving at Jo’s at three a.m.
Referring to the suitcase on the back seat, she said, “I’ll keep that. Find me at the courthouse tomorrow.”
He stood on the road holding the plastic bag of dirty laundry and blinked at her taillights disappearing down the hill. Shit. He snuck around the side of the house to Jo’s bedroom and pressed his ear against the cold windowpane. At the front door, he raised his hand, but didn’t knock. She wouldn’t hesitate to pop a hole in an intruder’s chest with the Sig Sauer .380 in her nightstand. He carried his laundry down the hill and traipsed along Main Street. A couple of strays followed at a safe distance and worked up enough courage to close the gap. He stopped and opened his palms.
“Ain’t got nothin’ for you.”
The only light in town shone from the courthouse entrance onto the gravel parking lot. They should’ve put the front door facing the street, like the state capitol building in Des Moines. This was the courthouse, in the county seat, with a conference room for legislating, where file cabinets and computers in the clerk’s office, treasurer’s office, assessor’s office, and Department of Motor Vehicles stored important facts and figures. The jail windows were black. He quickened his step to Art’s trailer and climbed the creaking steps onto the flimsy porch. That little yapping mutt of Art’s barked and the strays retreated back down the street.
A lamp turned on. Art cracked the door.
“Hey, man, it’s Walker. Put your gun down and your pants on.”