CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Father, the root of this little dead flower
Among the stones has the taste of blood. And
Our hungry world feeds on itself. Ssssh. Can
You hear it? A sweet sound; the sound of things
To come. But do not run away, because—why,
Because then you shall miss all the fun.

HE DIDN’T KNOW WHERE HE WAS, RON DECIDED, BUT WHEREVER it was, he did not like it.

The back of his head materialized first. A sharp ache. One quick stab of pain that passed quickly into the back of his neck. Then suddenly it vanished, and his jaw came to life. For a while nothing existed except his jaw. He pointed it in the direction of the ceiling and tried to open his mouth. His lips were dry and cracked. He opened one eye just enough to discover the dim outline of black shapes, long and thin, and closed it again.

For a while he was satisfied to lie there and suffer. Then it began to come back to him. Something vague about someone carrying him—he couldn’t recall who—down a narrow hallway, and the banging of steel. Something equally vague, the terrible sensation of being lost in a maze of stone that twisted and turned and confused him. There his memory stopped.

Suddenly the air seemed more smoke than oxygen. He opened his eyes and saw Sheriff Nash’s smug face, cigar stuffed into the corner of his mouth, peering at him. The sheriff was wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Don’t worry,” Nash said. “You’re not dead.”

Ron shut his eyes again. “Then how come I feel dead?”

Nash let a chuckle roll from his lips. “Are you hungry?”

Ron experienced another sharp pain in the center of his forehead and an odd queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. He decided he was too sick to be dead, and opened his eyes again. “What time is it?”

“A little after ten.”

Ron did not respond for a second. Ten? It hadn’t reached him yet. Hadn’t connected. He sat up with a blinding, crashing headache that effectively stampeded any consecutive thought. The only reality was dry thirst and pain and the queasiness rumbling in the pit of his stomach, and until they were relieved, he could think of nothing in concrete terms.

He managed to lower his legs to the floor by degrees. He glanced around miserably.

The sheriff went on chattering animatedly as if nothing untoward had happened, smoking his cigar, casually drifting from topic to topic, until finally he unlocked the door and stepped inside the cell.

Suddenly it dawned on Ron. He was in jail for Chrissakes. “What... what am I doing here?”

“You look sick,” the sheriff chuckled. “The john’s through that door.”

Ron’s bare feet smacked the cool slab floor as he stumbled forward. The bathroom stank of cheap soap and urine. He held onto the sink and drew a glass of water. The water made a U-turn in his stomach and came back up. He retched violently. Body still shaking, he gazed at his image in the mirror.

“You all right in there?” the sheriff hollered in.

“Yeah.”

His face looked sunken and in need of a shave. His shirt and trousers were dirty and disheveled. It wasn’t until he leaned closer to the mirror that he discovered his jaw was swollen and bruised. He shook his head. Someone had removed his jacket, shoes and socks. They had also taken his wallet, the loose change from his pocket, and his wristwatch.

The door opened and Sheriff Nash appeared behind him in the mirror. He snorted. “Well,” he said in a tight voice, “how does all this strike you?”

“How did I get here?”

“I brought you, naturally.”

“Why?”

“Well,” he said noncommittally. He paused, watching him. “Drunk and disorderly.”

Ron stared, his full brows drawn down against his eyes; he leaned against the sink, one hand straying to his jaw.

“Go ahead,” the sheriff went on quickly, “say your piece. I mean it. Say anything that comes into your head, the first thing that hits you. Go ahead.”

Ron started to speak, checked himself. In bewilderment he glanced at the door, the walls, the sheriffs face grinning, his lips partly open.

“Come on,” the sheriff said. “I’ll fix coffee.” His voice trailed off.

In the little low-ceilinged room out front he snapped on the bulb suspended from the ceiling, seized it to keep it from swinging, then turned to Ron and pointed to his desk. “Your belongings are in the envelope.”

“Where’s my shoes and jacket?”

“Over there.”

Ron’s jacket was hanging neatly over a chair, his shoes with socks in them were placed just as neatly below. He sat and put them on.

“Do you remember what happened?” the sheriff asked.

He shook his head dumbly.

“Well—” Nash laughed. “It’ll come to you. It always takes a while.” He fingered his newly shaven chin and faced the crouched, intent figure near him. “You know what it is I hate about being sheriff?” he asked. Sunlight, vicious yellow, poured into the room through angular steel bars the instant he had reached out and snapped up the front shade. “Making coffee. I just don’t like making coffee.”

Ron could not get hold of it yet. Morning. It was ten o’clock in the morning. What day? he thought.

“What day is this?” he asked.

“Friday.” The man’s eyes drifted to the calendar which hung on the wall, between numerous plaques and citations, and the gun rack whose mahogany frame held a large display of vicious-looking weapons. “Last Friday,” he added with a sigh.

“I’ve been here all night?”

“All night.”

“And I never woke up?”

“Guess you needed the rest,” he said. He fumbled around for a while, pouring water over instant coffee, dropping sugar cubes and instant cream into his cup. “How do you take yours?”

“Black. One sugar. Does my wife know I’m here?”

“Had to tell her. She didn’t seem too upset.”

Ron went to the desk, ripped open the envelope, and looked at his wristwatch. It had stopped at six minutes to seven. He shoved loose change into his pocket, his wallet into his jacket, and peered into the envelope. “I don’t see the keys to my car anywhere.”

“That’s cause they aren’t there. Matt Todd drove your car back to Mrs. Taylor’s house last night. It’s against the law to park on the streets of Brackston after dark.” He paused. “You want me to drive you home?”

“No.”

“I don’t mind—”

“I need the air.”

“Probably do you some good. Here’s your coffee.”

“Thanks.”

“You hungry? I can order something.”

“No,” Ron said and felt the first comforting drops of coffee pass his lips. He was starting to feel a little better, but not much.

“It’s no trouble.”

Ron shook his head, glanced around anxious to leave, stepped back, then said: “What exactly happened last night?”

“It seems you caused quite a disturbance in the tavern. You had a run-in with Frank Hadley.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You’d been drinking pretty heavy for almost four hours.”

“Frank Hadley—he wasn’t even there. He’d left with his brother.”

“Came back, he said. To apologize.”

“For what?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Did he say what started the fight?”

“The truth is, Mr. Talon, he hadn’t the vaguest idea why you struck him that way. Nobody else did either. It’s a knotty problem, I’ll tell you.”

Ron rubbed his jaw. “Is that how I got this?”

“Frank said he had to protect himself. You got pretty mean. I figured it was best to let you sleep it off.”

Ron stood perfectly still for some moments. There was a numbness inside him as if someone had anesthetized him, dulling his senses. Yet he knew that this man, this soft-lipped hick standing in front of him was a lying son of a bitch. That he was as false as the chunks of instant cream that floated in his coffee.

“Am I free to go?” Ron asked.

“Sure. Hell, we got no complaint. Just wanted to keep peace in the town last night, that’s all.”

Ron put his blue porcelain cup down on the desk; a few drops of coffee spilled on the floor. “You really must think I’m a child,” he murmured. “A frigging child. Handing me that bullshit about last night. What do you take me for? You’re lying. All of you are a pack of goddamn liars!”

“I think,” said Nash, unperturbed by the outburst, “that you should go home now.”

Ron jerked his jacket from off the back of the chair, his face red with rage. “If you had the balls you were born with, you’d tell me the real reason for locking me up last night.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know.” Ron stared at him. “I really don’t know. But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m sure as hell going to find out.”

“What is it?” the sheriff said matter-of-factly. “What are you afraid of? Is it me? Are you afraid of me?”

Ron did not answer.

He laughed. “Hell, I don’t mean you any harm. You say I lied to you. That I locked you up for other reasons. What other reason could there be?”

“Well, for one thing,” Ron said flatly, “I’m still in town, aren’t I? I’m still here.” He turned away. The door slammed behind him on the way out like an exclamation mark.

The sun was high and a warm breeze swept the sky clean of clouds. There was a freshness, a buoyancy in the town; a surge of festivity. Shopkeepers stood in doorways shouting to passersby—soon all businesses in Brackston would be closed for the Sabbath. The excitement spread quickly through the town.

Sabbath, Ron wondered and watched crowds gathering in the square. Women in head scarves with arms folded, swarms of children tugging at their skirts, teenage boys dressed in tee shirts and dungarees, teenage girls in halter tops, short skirts and thick platform shoes assembled at the corners or near the mouth of the carnival grounds. More children dressed in ragged clothing hurried through the streets with handfuls of stones and rushed to be the first up the mountain.

A snatch of dialogue here, a whisper there. Old men with long unkempt hair and whiskers exchanging pieces of information about crops, the bewildering idiocies of the younger generation and fond memories of previous Last Fridays. They talked and nodded their heads; stopped suddenly to peer at Ron as he passed.

“We have gathered to witness,” a voice murmured, but halted in midsentence.

Ron had been warned. Now, he realized, there would be no more warnings. No authority to appeal to; this was Brackston, where the only authority was the Ruling Elders. They, he knew, would administer their own justice.

As he moved awkwardly through the square, he saw new faces he had never seen before. Families of them, all chattering about Last Friday. All gleefully discussing the new queen. The new queen. The phrase ran through Ron’s mind, leaving him sickened.

On the far side of town, smoke from the chimneys of the houses trailed across the dilapidated rooftops, marring the clear sky that stretched like a green sac over endless mountain ranges. Fires? Ron mused. On a hot day like this?

A woman came to her gate as he passed. She leaned over and said in a low voice, “Your daughter is lovely. A queen.”

Ron did not stop but, glancing at her briefly, walked slower up the road. Some of the woman’s neighbors came to their doors and windows. Eyes moved from side to side. Mouths open, laughing, whispering. His steps were heavy; his face weary with fatigue. He opened his mouth a little to make breathing easier. It didn’t help.

Short of breath, he trudged on, until at last he’d reached the house. The steeple bell began striking the hour. He entered the front door as the final stroke rang.