Milk and Honey (14 page)

Darlene’s mouth fell open.

Byron’s eyes beseeched Decker’s. “Please, mister. I won’t get in your way.”

Decker paused a second, then nodded for him to come along.

“Let’s go,” Marge repeated.

“Ten minutes, Darlene,” Byron said. “I swear it. Just ten minutes.”

Decker pulled the
unmarked onto Sagebrush Canyon Road. Byron Howard sat shotgun, Marge stretched out in the back. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Howard staring at the Plymouth’s in-dash computer, the radio transmitter and mike, all the little lights and dials. To him, it probably looked like NASA control.

They rode a half-mile without speaking. Finally, Marge asked Byron about the biker bar down the road.

The beekeeper waved his hand in the air. “Bunch of lazy bums over there. But they leave us in peace and keep out the niggers.”

“Who owns the place?” Decker asked.

“Kid named Chip,” Byron answered.

“Chip what?” Marge asked.

“Just Chip,” Byron said.

Decker knew conversation was going to be one-way, but he tried anyway. “I hear your brother likes the pizza over there.”

Byron answered yep, the pizza was good, and stared out the windshield.

The road bisected grainfields. Thousands of yellow stalks bowing in the wind, reflecting the fire of the sun. A stone grinding mill slowly came into view, sitting like an island in
a golden sea. The sky was freckled with blackbirds sliding through perfumed air.

Straight out of a Wyeth painting, Marge thought. She asked, “What’re they growing here?”

“Looks like rape,” Decker said.

Byron looked up from his lap. “It is rape.”

“Rape?” Marge asked.

“It’s a kind of corn—grain,” Decker said. “My brother’s first wife—no, his second—yeah, it was the second one. She was from Kansas, so that’s where the wedding took place. Grain markets are big out there. Wheat, oats, rape, rye—”

“Just how many wives does your brother have?” Byron asked.

“Only one at the moment,” Decker said. “She happens to be number three. Speaking of family, how many people live over at the Darcy farm?”

It took Byron a long time to respond. When he did, he spoke slowly, clicking off his fingers every time he mentioned a name. There was Pappy and Granny, Luke and Linda. Then there was Sue Beth and B.B., her husband.

Byron said, “Sue Beth is Luke’s older sister.”

He stopped talking. Decker asked if that was the entire family. Byron shook his head no.

“Who else?” Marge asked. She hoped she kept the frustrated tone out of her voice.

Well, there was Luke’s younger sister, Carla, Byron went on to explain. And Earl, the youngest.

“He’s not right in the head,” Byron announced.

“In what way?” Decker asked.

“Just that,” Byron said. “He’s a retard. Nice boy, though. Does his chores without a complaint. Wish my boys were as polite as Earl.”

“How old is he?” Decker asked.

“’Bout twenty-five,” Byron answered.

Decker asked if there were any more people in the household, and Byron answered just the kids. Sue Beth had two, Linda had Katie. Decker added up the total mentally. Twelve people, but
nine
adults under one roof. And according to Annette Howard, tension between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. Nine adults—nine opinions. A potential keg of dynamite.

“Know which of the Darcys went to the bee meeting in Fall Springs?” Marge asked.

Decker raised his eyebrows. Darlene must have told Marge about the Western Beekeepers Association. Margie had done a fine job of extracting information from Darlene. They’d compare notes later.

“I know Pappy and Granny D went down,” Byron said. “And they musta took Earl, ’cause they don’t leave him. I think everyone went except Luke, Linda, and Katie—and Carla. She don’t go nowhere for the business. Girl has no sense of family.”

Marge cleared her throat. A signal to Decker saying that statement could be significant, remember it because we can’t write it at the moment. Decker coughed, and Marge sat back in her seat.

She asked, “What about Sue Beth’s children? They go with the parents?”

“I reckon they would,” Byron said. “I don’t talk too much to the Darcys.”

Decker sneaked a sidelong glance at Byron. His expression remained flat.

“Turn right there,” Byron said, pointing to a dirt road.

Decker steered the Plymouth onto the path. It was lined with red-flowering bottlebrush trees and terminated at the entrance to a three-story whitewashed, wood-frame house. Next to the house was a red silo, the door open, grain spilling out like melted butter. The Darcys’ residence, like the Howards’, was located amid acres of blooming clover-
field. In the distance, behind the house, cows were grazing. The car had traveled about halfway to the residence when Byron told Decker to stop.

“What is it?” Marge asked.

Byron said, “Something’s wrong.”

“How can you tell, Mr. Howard?” asked Marge.

Byron swallowed hard. “Back up two trees, Mister Detective.”

Decker put the car into reverse.

“Look to the right,” Byron said. “The back branch of that bottlebrush tree.”

Through the car window, Decker saw that the rear bough was coated with bees—like insulation around a duct.

“Ain’t no way any of the Darcys would let a swarm like that just sit there on a tree,” Byron said. “It’s at least a day old, judging by the size of the comb.” Byron looked at Marge. “Something’s badly wrong.”

“Sure you want to go in with us?” Decker asked.

“Yes, sir, I do,” Byron answered. He dropped his voice a notch. “I do.”

Decker shifted the transmission back to drive. He parked outside the house. As soon as he stepped out, the stench hit his nostrils. Something decaying. Bees were flying about his face, not nearly as heavy as the first swarm he’d experienced, but there were enough insects to create that ominous, low-pitched hum. He traded a wary glance with Marge.

Byron took a quick walk around the house. He came back and said, “All the cars are gone.”

“What kind of cars do they drive?” Decker asked.

“Pappy D has a two-tone fifties Plymouth. B.B. has a full-sized Ford pickup,” Byron answered. He covered his mouth. “Lord, it stinks.”

“I’ll get the gloves,” she said.

“Gloves?” Byron asked.

“We don’t want to destroy any evidence,” Marge said. “Mr. Howard, I think it would be best if you waited outside.”

“Well, I disagree.”

Decker said, “Mr. Howard, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to insist that you wait outside.”

Byron bit his lip, held back a mixture of anger and fear.

“I know you’re concerned,” Decker said. “I don’t like what I’m smelling, either. But them’s the rules, sir.”

Byron turned away and muttered an obscenity.

Decker nodded to Marge, then turned the handle to the front door. As soon as it opened, a waft of hot, putrefying air blasted their faces.

“Jesus!” cried Decker, holding down a dry heave.

“Here,” Marge said, handing him a jar of VapoRub. “Plug up.”

Decker coated each nostril with the salve, then took out a handkerchief and placed it over his nose and mouth. Marge covered her face with her hands. The layout was similar to the Howards’ place. A quaint country living room, but this one smelled as ripe as a slaughterhouse. Bees flitted through the air like confetti. The floors were peg-and-groove pine, and streaked with trails of red-brown crust. A path of footprints, stained the same color, led from the kitchen to the front door. Big feet—around a size eleven, followed by a smaller size—maybe seven or eight. Decker pointed it out to Marge, and she nodded and pulled out a notebook.

Decker took a good look around the room. Nothing overturned or uprooted. The furniture was upholstered in bright red and yellow florals, the material intact without rips or tears, the pillows decorator-arranged. The matching curtains were whole as well, the pleats hanging straight. Nothing yanked apart or pulled down. No overt signs of struggle here. Marge tapped him on the shoulder. She pointed to a dark, fuzzy line on the floor. The line moved, wriggled about like glitter, a queue of bees piled atop each other.

Decker cautiously stepped over the bees and neared the kitchen. The stench was unbearable, the air dense with bees droning out a requiem. Decker added more VapoRub to his nostrils and put the handkerchief back over his face. Marge coughed behind her hands.

The kitchen proved to be as large as the Howards’ and equally as modern. Decker took a swift look around the room, forcing himself to study detail. The shiny sunlit steel appliances were splattered with caked blood. Puddles of curdled milk had collected on the countertops, and empty cans of formula were strewn about—on the stove, on the counters, on the floor. An open gallon jar of honey lay sideways, its contents now a plasmic glob on the floor. Hundreds of bees were wading in the cloudy brown pool, their forelegs and tongues eagerly gathering the pickings.

Finally, he allowed his eyes to rest on the center of the floor. First a quick peek, then he focused on the grisly sight.

In the middle were three bodies—one male and two females—all of them covered with a sticky coat of blood and honey, a nappy blanket of bees and flies, and rice-size maggots. The skin was bloated, the underlying fascia had been partially eaten away by bugs and decomposition. Though the insects were crawling over most of the flesh, it was possible to make out the remnants of faces—a light blue eye, a lip, a cleft chin. One female had a hand resting on her open bowel, the male had his right leg blown off. To the right, slumped against the metal door of a walk-in refrigerator, lay another male. His face had been a meal ticket for the bugs, and most of his innards had been exploded. His legs were nearly severed from his body. His body was attached to his limbs by only thin strings of tendons. A human marionette. Shotgun blasts all around. Decker shook his head.

As he stared at the piles of blood and infected meat, he felt a sudden, sharp pain on the back of his neck. Damn. One of the suckers had finally got him. He felt a warm swelling rise on his neck and looked around for Marge.

She’d left, but another had come to take her place. In the corner of the room stood Byron Howard, his eyes fixed upon the carnage. His shoulders sagged forward, his eyes and cheeks were wet with tears. His lips uttered one word over and over.
Linda, Linda, Linda
…

Rina squeezed the
Porsche into the garage and breathed a sigh of relief. She and the car were whole. Her head and neck ached from the tension of driving—God forbid she’d come home with a mark on the metal. Why were men like that about cars? To her, an automobile was nothing more than a way to get from one place to another. From now on, either she’d drive the Jeep or rent an old Volvo. Besides, she felt strange behind the wheel of a German car. Though it never bothered her parents—they’d driven Mercedes for years, and both of them were camp survivors—it bothered her. Carl Benz had been a war criminal, Ferdinand Porsche a star member of the SS.

She locked the car, closed the garage door, and heard banging coming from the backyard. Although the unmarked wasn’t parked out front, Peter must be home. Maybe Marge had taken the Plymouth and dropped him off.

“Peter?” Rina shouted as she walked toward the barn. “Peter, I’m back. And the Porsche’s still in one piece.”

Rina entered the barn, then stopped suddenly. Her heart started pounding in her chest. A strange man. This one kneeling, bare-chested, wearing only corduroy shorts and sandals—one sandal, rather. His left leg was a prosthesis.
The handicap calmed her slightly—no doubt she could outrun him. Still, she reflexively pulled a .38 from her purse and gripped it in her hand.

“Who are you?” she asked.

The man eyed the pistol, then the woman.

“My name’s Abel Atwater,” he drawled. “I’m a friend of Sergeant Decker. I’m fixin’ up his barn.”

“Sergeant Decker never told me about any man he hired to fix up his barn,” Rina said.

Abel kept staring at the gun. “Well, I don’t think Pete wanted me here while you were here, ma’am. I just came back to get my tools, and I saw this warped board here. No one was around, so I thought I’d do a quick repair before I went home.” Abel started to rise, then saw the woman’s hand tighten around the butt of the revolver. “If you want to go into the house, lock the doors, and call him, I’ll wait until he gets here. Or I’ll just leave.” He chuckled nervously. “Hey, I’ll do anything you want.”

Rina regarded him. Painfully thin, as if he had cancer…like Yitzchack in his final days. Only this one had normal coloring, wasn’t ashen….

She asked, “Where do you know Yitz—Where do you know Peter from?”

“We were in the army together—”

“Peter was in the army?” Rina interrupted.

“Yes, ma’am, he was.”

Rina stared at him.

Abel said, “We did basic together—Fort Jackson, Polk for advanced training. Then overseas to Fulda and Nam—B Company, third squad. Later, they switched Pete from an A-gunner to a medic. He was too tall for footwork….”

Rina said nothing.

Abel asked, “None of this sounds familiar?”

“No.”

“Pete never talks about Nam, huh?”

Rina shook her head.

“That’s old Doc for you—tight-lipped.” Abel patted his prosthesis. “Uncle Sam’s souvenir.”

“I’m sorry,” Rina said.

“Can I stand up, ma’am?” Abel said. “I’m frozen in an uncomfortable position, and that little piece of metal in your hand tells me I’d better ask permission before I move.”

Rina nodded, backed away a foot, and kept her finger on the trigger. Abel stood.

“I’ve got a picture of him and me taken before we were shipped to the Southeast,” Abel said. “It’s in my wallet…in the back of my pants. Wanna see it?”

Rina didn’t answer him. Abel slowly reached inside his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

“See, ma’am? Just a plain old wallet,” Abel said. “Cheap. Not even real leather.”

He fished out a color picture and tossed it to her. Rina bent down and retrieved the photograph, her eyes still upon Abel. Slowly, she stood and allowed herself to look at the snapshot.

It was definitely Peter—and the man who claimed his name to be Abel Atwater. Both were younger—kids, in fact. They were wearing camouflage hats, white T-shirts, and camouflage pants, and had machine guns strapped across their shoulders—Decker’s left, Abel’s right. They had their free arms looped around each other, and were smiling broadly. Abel had once been well built, broad shoulders and good height—judging from where he came up to Peter, around 6'. Looking at him now, he didn’t seem much over 5'8".

But it was Peter who captured her attention—his grin so childlike, his face and skin so smooth…clean-shaven. She’d never seen him without a mustache, and was surprised at the Cupid’s bow shape of his upper lip. But it was his eyes that kept her spellbound. They were the same color, the same shape…but they were different. It was the expression, the gleam of anticipation—eager eyes. Something
she’d never witnessed in him even when he was at his happiest—when they made love, when he was with his daughter, when he played ball with her sons. Nothing,
nothing
, had ever lit up his eyes the way they shone in this shutter-snap of history. Sadly, she knew in her heart that nothing ever would.

“I have more,” Abel whispered from behind her shoulder.

Rina jumped. The clopping of his prosthesis notwithstanding, she hadn’t heard him move. He was a few inches from her, reeking of sweat. Immediately, she backed away.

Abel said, “I’m sorry if I scared you—”

“That’s okay.”

Abel’s eyes went to the gun. “You know how to use that thing?”

“Very well,” Rina said.

“’Cause it’s dangerous if you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Look…” Abel gave her a strained smile. “Why don’t you just go in the house, and I’ll get out of here. We’d both feel more comfortable that way. I’m really sorry about this intrusion. Tell Pete I’m sorry.” He threw his hands in the air. “I’m always messing something up.”

Rina didn’t speak right away. Finally, she said, “You said you had more pictures.”

“Yes,” Abel said. “Yes, ma’am, I do. I carry my past in my pockets, what can I tell you?” He peered inside his wallet and pulled out some snapshots. “These were taken in Da Nang, whenever we had a few spare moments. Oftener than you’d think. Hours of mind-numbing boredom mixed with a few minutes of terror. Never could relax. When you did, you’d get caught with your pants down. Kind of like police work, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

Abel offered her the pictures. Rina took them. The tips of their fingers touched. Abel closed his eyes and swallowed dryly.

Rina said, “You can finish fixing up the board if you want.”

Abel smiled. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll do just that.” He walked back over to his tools, bent down, picked up a hammer, and put a couple of nails in his mouth.

Rina took a deep breath. Where do you draw the line between being cautious and being paranoid? The guy seemed straightforward, he and Peter were in that picture together. Yet he could be a psychopath, she had no way of judging him. Maybe the only thing that kept him from attacking her was the gun in her hand. Still, the trusting soul in her felt as if she should offer him something to drink. It was sweltering. But what if…

Rina turned her attention to the black-and-white photographs. The first one was a group picture—six boys—Peter smiling for the camera, his face grimed with mud. His eyes had changed, soured—the eyes she knew now. He was holding a machine gun in one hand, a bayonet in the other. Another picture showed him and Abel resting inside what looked to be a tent. They lay on separate cots, bare-chested, reading paperbacks. Did Peter’s cover say
The Carpetbaggers
? Abel was reading Michener’s
Hawaii
. Some sort of radio transmitter sat atop a pile of Coke cartons. The last picture showed Peter, Abel, and another boy boarding a helicopter. Still young, still smiling, but all of them with stale eyes.

Rina walked over to Abel and handed him back the photos. She held the earlier color photo and asked, “Do you have a copy of this one?”

Abel took the nails out of his mouth. “I don’t. But you can keep it, if you want.”

“I’ll make a copy and send the original back to you,” Rina said. “Is that all right?”

“You don’t have to go to all that trouble, ma’am.”

“It’s no trouble.” Rina paused, then said, “Can I bring you something to drink?”

“No thank you,” Abel said. “All I want to do is fix this board and get out of here. I’m under specific instructions to be scarce while you’re around.”

“Peter’s protective of me.”

“He should be. Lots of nuts around town.”

Rina asked, “What are you doing for him?”

“Rebuilding his barn, his stables.” Abel placed a nail on the board and whacked it flush in one stroke. “They’re in terrible shape.”

“Well, nice meeting you,” Rina said.

“Likewise.”

As soon as she was gone, Abel placed the hammer down and felt hot tears well up inside his eyes. Though he knew it was a waste of time, he wondered what it might be like to be loved by someone like that—caressed by such perfect fingers, kissed by luscious lips. Her curves were edible, her face divine. But it was the hair—black and thick, as shiny as an oil slick. Man, he wanted her.

And she belonged to Doc. Pete had the badge and two whole legs as well. A part of Abel hated Decker with a consuming intensity. But another part loved him too much to let him go. And now it was Doc to the rescue, his only chance for getting out of the mess he was in. He wiped his eyes and slammed another nail into the floor.

Seeing Doc was painful, too painful. The prime reason why he’d never answered his letters after they’d moved to separate cities, why he’d never called him after he’d settled in L.A. Had he remained whole, Doc and he would have probably gone through Police Academy together. He was from Kentucky, Doc was from Florida. A century ago, they both had decided that the City of Angels held all the promises. Like the cowboys of old, they had made plans to head west. Abel would marry his Song, his Asian doll, Decker would be the best man. Together they’d off all the bad guys and make the streets safe again. But the dream disintegrated—his girl murdered, his leg gone.

And now this one shows up—with the same thick black hair. Doing things to his mind.

Gotta stop thinkin’ about it.

Gotta stop.

Gotta stop
.

He took a deep breath and tried to free his mind of pollution.

This time he was lucky, succeeded in letting go. He buried his mind in the minutiae of his work and didn’t stop until he heard footsteps approaching the barn. He felt his face go hot.

“I brought you out some orange juice,” Rina said. Ginger was at her side. She was carrying a tray on which she’d placed a carton of orange juice and a glass full of ice cubes. She stopped at the entrance to the barn and lowered the tray onto the ground. The gun was no longer in her hand.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Abel said quietly.

“Are you almost done?” Rina said.

“Another five minutes maybe.”

“Okay.”

“I can leave now, if you want,” Abel said. “I don’t want to upset you.”

“No,” Rina said, backing away slowly. “It’s okay.”

“Well, I’ll say good-bye then,” Abel said. “It was nice to meet you. Pete told me that you and him have big plans. I wish you two lots of good fortune. He’s a lucky man.”

“Thank you.”

“And thanks for the juice.”

“Thanks for the picture,” Rina said. “It means a lot to me. I’ll get it back to you right away.”

“Take your time,” Abel said. He watched her walk away, the dog nuzzling against her hip. How he envied the four-legged bitch. He sighed and stroked his beard. “Take your time,” Abel repeated, whispering it this time.