Hour of the Hunter (37 page)

Ron Mallory made his way into the warden's well-lit office feeling distinctly queasy. Obviously, he should have paid more attention to the guy on the phone, the one who had been looking for Andrew Carlisle earlier, because whoever was looking for him now had a whole lot more horses behind him.

"What seems to be the problem?" Mallory asked, putting on as good a front as possible.

"Carlisle's the problem," Warden Dixon growled.

"Where the hell is he?"

"Tucson, as far as I know, sir," Mallory answered quickly. "We put him on the bus to Tucson."

"Where in Tucson?"

"He had rented an apartment, down off Twenty-second Street somewhere, but that fell through the day of his release. The landlord called me while I was waiting for a guard to bring in the prisoner. The guy told me Carlisle couldn't have the apartment he wanted after all. Since he was already half signed out, there wasn't much I could do but let him go. He said he'd check in as soon as he found some other place to stay."

"Has he?"

"Not so far as I know, sir. I glanced at my messages on the way in. I didn't see anything from him, although I'll be glad to go back and check."

"You do that," Warden Dixon said. "You go check, and if you don't find it, you might consider cleaning out your desk. Come tomorrow morning, you're going to find yourself back on the line, mister. I kid you not."

In the cell-blocks? Mallory's jaw dropped. "I don't understand.

What's going on?"

"I'll tell you what's going on. This detective here thinks Carlisle went on a rampage within minutes of checking out of this facility. Do you hear me? Within minutes! We've got one woman dead so far, a dame over by Picacho Peak with her tit bitten in two. Does that ring any bells with you, Mr. Mallory? Because if it doesn't, it by God should!"

Mallory took a backward step, edging toward the door.

"Furthermore," Dixon added ominously, "you shake up whatever clerks there are on duty around here and you start them looking through every goddamned record we have for any name or address that might give this detective a lead.

You're in charge, Mallory. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. Perfectly."

"Get moving then."

Mallory bolted from the room. As he panted toward his soon-to-be-former office, he swore under his breath. If he ever got his hands around Andrew Carlisle's neck, Assistant Superintendent Ron Mallory would kill the bastard himself. Personally.

Diana fell asleep at last and dreamed about Gina's funeral, except it wasn't Gina's at all, it was her mother's.

The two were all mixed up somehow. Instead of being in the mean funeral home in La Grande where Max had held the funeral in real life, with half the mourners having to stand outside the doors because there was no more room, it was in the mission church at Topawa. Even the graveside part was in Topawa.

And that, too, was like Gina's. Instead of a mortuary's canopy, four men from Joseph had stood as corner-posts holding up a sheet to provide shade while someone else, she couldn't tell who, intoned a prayer.

Although he hadn't attended Iona's real funeral, one of the four sheet-holders i" was George Deeson, her rodeo-queen mentor, another was Ed Gentry from the First National Bank. There was Tad Morrison from Pay-and-Tote grocery, and George Howell from Tru-Value Hardware.

At Gina's graveside, an old blind man in Levi's and cowboy boots had offered a long series of interminable Papago prayers that, out of deference to Diana, the only Anglo in attendance, were translated into English by someone else. This was true in her dream as well, except instead of a blind man in cowboy boots, the main speaker was a priest praying in what seemed to be Latin. After that, they moved on to the feast.

Like the rest, this, too, was a strangely muddled mixture of Topawa and Joseph, of near past and far past, of Anglo and Indian. Instead of traditional Indian fare, the food was like the food at the Chief Joseph Days barbecue, with grilled steaks and corn on the cob, homemade rolls and fresh-fruit pies. People were dressed in their Chief Joseph Days finery, including Diana in her rhinestone boots and her coronation Stetson with its rhinestone tiara.

Diana was visiting with someone, an old lady, when her father came striding over to her, grabbed her hat, and held it just out of reach while she tried desperately to reclaim it.

"Couldn't you find something better than this to wear? he sneered down at her, shaking the hat but still holding it well beyond her fingertips. "Did you have to come to your mother's funeral all tarted out in your hussy clothes?"

"I'm not," she said. "I'm not a hussy. I'm the queen. I get to wear these clothes. You can't stop me."

"You're not the queen," he leered back at her. "Not really. You cheated. You cheated. You cheated."

Diana woke up drenched in sweat with the hateful words still ringing in her ears. Her father had shouted those words at her in real life and left them echoing forever in her memory, but not then, not at her mother's funeral. When was it? When had it been?

"It would sure as hell be nice if I had a little help with the chores around here of a Saturday morning," Max Cooper had grumbled. "I'm sick and goddamned tired of you getting all tarted up and taking off every goddamned weekend."

"Dad," she said, "I'm the queen, remember. I have to go. I signed an agreement saying that I'd represent Joseph in all the rodeo parades around here."

"I'm the queen," he mocked, imitating her. "My aching ass you're the queen! Like hell you are! You're no more the queen than I am. You cheated."

"Max," Iona cautioned.

"Don't you 'Max' me. How long are you going to go on letting her believe she's Little Miss Highness, God's gift to everyone? How long?"

"Max."

He turned on her then. Diana knew he wouldn't hit her.

Not anymore. He'd only really come after her once after George Deeson-that "goddamned coffee-drinking Jack Mormon," as Max called him-appeared on the scene.

It happened early on in the course of Waldo and Diana's training.

George was just coming up the outside steps that led to the kitchen to collect his morning coffee and biscuits when all hell broke loose.

Diana never remembered what that particular fight was about and it didn't matter really. She said something to her father, and Max hit her hard across the mouth with the back of his hand, sending her spinning into the corner of the kitchen. She waited, head down, expecting the next blow, which never came. When she finally dared look, George Deeson had a choke hold around her father's collar, holding him at arm's length with a knot of fist twisted into her father's protruding Adam's apple.

"Don't you ever do that again, Max Cooper, or so help me God, I'll kill you!" George was old enough to be Max's father, and he didn't raise his voice when he said it, but Max went stomping out of the house like a whipped dog, while George calmly sat down to butter his biscuits and drink his coffee.

Evidently, Max Cooper took George at his word. He never struck Diana again, not once. Not ever, although he tried the night she came home with her clothes torn to pieces.

Later, much later, in the hospital in La Grande when her mother was dying, Diana had asked Iona about it. Why had her father called her a cheater?

"Because of George," Iona said.

"George? What did he do?"

"He bought two hundred dollars' worth of rodeo tickets the last day of the contest," Iona said. "He gave them away to a bunch of poor kids here in La Grande who couldn't have gone otherwise."

"He didn't buy them from me," Diana said. She had sold tickets until she was blue in the face, but she didn't remember selling more than one to George Deeson.

"I gave him the tickets and took the money, but they were from your ticket allocation. Even though you didn't sell them yourself, that batch of tickets put you over the top.

Remember, there was only a quarter of a point difference between you and Charlene Davis."

"So Dad was right," Diana said, feeling her one moment of triumph, her rodeo-queen victory, slip through her fingers in retrospect. "I did cheat after all."

"No, Diana," Iona had said firmly, squeezing her daughter's hand despite the pain it caused her. "You've earned every damn thing you've ever gotten."

It was the only time Diana ever remembered hearing her mother use the word damn. As years went by, she was beginning to understand it a little. Her name, not Charlene's, had been the name on the scholarship at the registrar's office at the university in Eugene. Her name.

Diana's name, was what it said on the two degrees, one from the University of Oregon and now a master's from the University of Arizona.

She had earned it all, with the timely help of both George Deeson and her mother.

Lying in bed at her home in Gates Pass, Diana's eyes misted over. What would have happened to her if George Deeson hadn't driven into her life, bringing Waldo with him? Where would she be now? Married to some drunken logger in Joseph Re Charlene was, or else still living in the house by the garbage dump. Would her life have been worse or better?

There was no way to tell.

Her grief for George Deeson, dead now these four years, spilled over into grief for Waldo, who had broken a leg during her first semester in Eugene and had to be put down.

While she was at it, she shed a tear for her mother, and finally a few for herself as well. What if Brandon Walker was right? What if she didn't have guts enough to pull the trigger? What if Andrew Carlisle killed her? What kind of legacy would she leave for her child?

Still wide awake, she thought of all those boxes sitting in the root cellar, waiting for someone to sort through them-her mother's boxes and, more than that, her husband's. Whose job was that? Who was the person whose responsibility it was to go through them, to sort the wheat from the chaff so Davy or someone else wouldn't have to do it later? There were things in those boxes that should be kept and saved for him and others that should be thrown away and never again see the light of day.

It was weeks before she could face returning to Gary's office, weeks before she could approach the desk again with its stilled typewriter and haunting stack of blank paper She started with the bottom drawer, thinking that would be the least painful but of course, she was wrong.

Had Gary been smart enough, he would have got rid of it, would have destroyed it, but she found the damning envelope with its University of Arizona return address almost immediately.

Curious, she pulled out the sheaf of loose papers and scanned through them, recognizing at once the clumsy effort of one of her own early short stories, the one she had submitted as part of her application to the Creative Writing program.

At first she noticed only the stilted phrases, the graceless prose that flows at tedious length from the minds and hearts of beginning writers, but then her eyes were drawn to the handwritten comment at the end.

"Gary," it said, "Your work here is, naturally, a beginning effort, but it shows a good deal of promise. We'll discuss the possibilities for this manuscript in greater detail once you're enrolled in the program and fully underway." it was signed, "A. Carlisle."

For a full minute, she stared down at the paper, trying to make sense of it all. Then the full weight of Gary's betrayal thundered over her, burying her in a landslide of emotion.

Gary had gained admission to Andrew Carlisle's program using her story, not his own. Not that she would have wanted to be in it after all, she thought bitterly, but the rejection had caused her to doubt her own ability, to retreat into teaching, to settle for second best rather than following her own aspirations.

Up to that very moment, in spite of everything else, Diana Ladd had grieved for her dead husband. Now she exploded in a raging fit of anger.

"Damn you!" she screamed in fury at Gary Ladd's unconcerned Smith-Corona. "Damn you, damn you, damn you!"

Having once allowed herself to succumb to anger, it never once left her.

It functioned as a whip and a prod, goading her to succeed at writing no matter what obstacles might fall in her path.

Diana dropped the papers, scattering them like leaves across the desk and floor. She fled Gary's office and never returned. Only as she left for the hospital to have Davy, with the arrival of the movers barely minutes away, did she give Rita permission to go into Gary's abandoned office and pack up whatever she found there.

With the exception of appropriating the typewriter for her own, in the intervening years, Diana had never examined any of the boxes, but Rita was nothing if not thorough.

Therefore, that purloined short story must still be there, carefully packed away among all of Gary Ladd's other books and papers. That story was one of the things that demanded both attention and destruction, although there were probably plenty of others. Only Diana could tell the difference. It was her job, her responsibility, and nobody else's.

"Mom?" a small voice asked from the doorway. "Are you awake yet?"

"I'm awake, Davy."

"I'm hungry. Are we going to have breakfast? We're still out of tortillas."

"We're going to have breakfast," she said determinedly, getting out of bed. "I'm going to fix it."

While Myrna Louise was making breakfast, Andrew Carlisle made a quick survey of her room. He found her extra checkbooks and the savings-account book in the bottom of her lingerie drawer, the same place where she'd always kept it, along with a fistful of twenties in hard, cold cash. The balance in both accounts was pitifully small in terms of lifetime savings for someone of her age. It was just as well she wouldn't be around to get much older, Carlisle thought. He was actually doing her a favor. Maybe she was planning to land on his doorstep when the time came, expecting her son to support her in her old age. Fat chance.

Out in the garage, he eased Jake's partially opened bag of lime into the trunk, careful not to spill any of it on Johnny Rivkin's Hartmann bag.

Garden-variety lime probably wouldn't be enough to strip all the meat off the bones, but it would help kill the odor.