Sam McCain - 04 - Save the Last Dance for Me (14 page)

Summer would be bad enough—but Iowa winter when it was twenty-five below zero?

She didn’t go back to the trailer till 8ccbd.

Daughter Ella carrying, presumably, the same roll of t.p. but a different magazine, emerged from the trailer at 8ccdh and went to the outhouse. She stayed only till 9ccjc.

At 9ccbf I got the opportunity I’d

been waiting for. Viola got in the rusty truck and drove away, leaving Ella behind. I drove down to the trailer and walked up to the door.

The place smelled of decades-old grime.

The yard was spiked with broken glass, empty bottles, rusty cans. A Tv turned low hummed in the front wall.

I knocked.

As I waited for a response, I turned to look at the land behind the church. I wondered how thoroughly Cliffie and his minions had searched the area of weeds and buffalo grass and the four rusty garbage cans.

I turned back to the trailer when I heard the door open but by then it was too late. The angry man had his shotgun pointed at me.

Bib overalls, T-shirt beneath, massive head, shoulders, forearms.

“C’mon,” he said.

He was the keeper of the gate. The man who’d let Kylie and me into the church that first night. The man arguing with his wife a little later on, striking her.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“You think I’m afraid to tell you? It’s Bill Oates.”

“What’s with the shotgun, Mr. Oates?”

“I want to take you somewhere.”

“I came here to see Ella.”

“Ella don’t want to see you.”

“It’d probably be better if I heard that from her myself.”

“We suffered a loss. You don’t seem to understand that. You shouldn’t be botherin’ people at a time like this. If you was pure, you wouldn’t be.”

“How do you know I’m not pure?”

“You work for that Judge, for one thing. And I’m told you’re going around with that Jew woman.”

“And that makes me impure?”

He smiled and for the first time I saw the stubby blackened teeth. “I guess we’re going to find out, ain’t we?”

You’re probably ahead of me on this one. Not even when he marched me over to the church at gunpoint did I realize what he had in mind.

Slow learner, I guess.

The church interior was shadowy. The chairs were arranged in orderly fashion. The altar was dark.

On a hot day like this all the ancient service-station odors rose up. You could almost hear the bell on the drive clanging to life and a motorist saying, “Fill ‘er up, would ya? And I guess you’d better check the oil.”

And then I heard them. And then I had my first understanding—dread, actually—of why he’d brought me here. And the real implication of his “pure” remark.

He nudged me down the aisle with the barrel of his gun.

I began to make out the dimensions of the snake cage. I tried to guess from their sudden hissing and rattling—the approach of intruders—how many of them there were.

“What the hell you going to do?”

“Just keep walkin’.”

I stopped. In an instant I

weighed the threat—getting shot in the back versus having to do something with rattlesnakes. So I stopped.

He stabbed the barrel of the shotgun nearly all the way through me.

“I said to keep walkin’.”

“I’m not going near those damned snakes.”

“Watch your language. This is the house of the Lord.”

“And I suppose the Lord wants you to put those snakes on me?”

“You’re not pure.”

I flung myself forward, hitting the floor and rolling to the right. I was slower than I’d hoped and he was much, much faster. He put a bullet about three inches from my head. It ripped up some concrete and ricocheted off the far shadowy wall.

You could smell the gunfire; the rattle of it echoed in the small place.

“Get up.”

He came over and kicked my ankle so hard it felt broken.

“You bastard.”

He kicked me again in the same place. Even harder.

“The next time you use a word like that, I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

The bullet or the snake? They each frightened me but in different ways. At least a bullet didn’t have those glassy eyes and those fangs and that forked tongue and that-But I got to my feet. I didn’t want to die on the floor there. Got to my feet and tried to stand tall but it was difficult and not just because I’m short. It was difficult because my right ankle hurt so much where he’d kicked me.

He grabbed me by the shoulder and flung me on the altar.

There had to be at least three of them, maybe four.

They made even more noise than the bullet had. Angry, filthy noise.

I stumbled on the altar platform and sprawled facedown before the small raised box on top of which the snake cage sat.

“Stand up.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“You said you were pure? I’ll give you the chance to prove it.”

“I’m not going to handle those snakes.”

“I’m sick of talk, you. Now stand up.”

The pain in my ankle was fading much faster than I had thought possible. But I didn’t want him to kick me again. This time he’d probably break bone.

“I’m not afraid of the snakes because I’m true to my Lord.”

“Is that why you slapped your wife the night Muldaur died? Because the Lord wanted you to?”

“He’s ordained that sometimes man needs to instruct woman in the ways of righteousness.”

“And that includes slapping them around?”

“I don’t take any pleasure in it, if that’s what you mean. I do it because the Lord has ordained it. I’d be committing a sin if I didn’t do it.”

All the time the hissing continued.

“Sometimes one man must instruct another man in the ways of righteousness, too.”

“That’s what you’re doing with me?”

“You need to know if you’re impure. I’m actually doin’ you a favor.”

“Gosh, thanks so much.”

He prodded me with his toe just above the ankle.

I really didn’t want to get kicked again. I pushed myself to my feet. Sometimes, you kid yourself and think you’re tough. But then something like this happens.

I’d banged my head on the floor just now and had a headache. My ankle was sore. I was pasty with sweat. And all I could hear were the snakes.

I was being pushed toward them. They may not actually have been louder, they may not actually have been angrier. But they sure sounded that way. I stumbled toward them.

He clubbed me on the side of the head hard with his rifle barrel.

I dropped to my knees before I realized where I’d be: kneeling next to the snake cage.

“Open it up.”

He had to shout to be heard above the hiss and rattle.

I just looked at him. Terrible things were going on in my throat, my chest, my bowels.

“You open that up and grab one of ‘em. If it don’t bite you then you are judged worthy by Divine Wisdom.”

I couldn’t talk. Literally. I tried. But my throat was raw and dry with fear. Only a few inches and a mesh of metal kept the rattlers at bay.

I wondered if he’d really shoot me. He seemed crazed but was he that crazed? And—a wild thought that should have occurred to me much earlier-what had he been doing in the Muldaur trailer so early in the morning? He’d arrived before I had. What was his exact relationship to Viola Muldaur? Was he pure? Could he pass the snake test?

Then he did it. Leaned in, unlatched the simple lock that held the lid down on the cage.

“I’m makin’ it easy for you.”

And for the second time, he fired his weapon.

One year at camp I’d slept in the grass and during the night a bat kept flying inches over my face. I always remembered the heat of its passage. The bullet was like that now. The heat of its passage.

I did a kind of dance on my knees, jerking sideways, frontways, slamming into the snake cage. And then doing, in simple animal reaction, the unthinkable.

I reached my arm out and grabbed the far side of the cage to keep it from falling off the low table it was resting on. And then I jerked back, astonished at my stupidity as the snakes flew out at me, at least two snakes arcing their heads into the top of the cage, trying to get at me.

“Open it!” Oates shouted.

And then swung the rifle barrel into the side of my head again. My entire consciousness was sliding into pain. It was getting difficult for me to think.

I nudged up against the cage.

He swung the rifle around yet another time.

This time I consciously stopped myself from bumping against the cage.

And this time I realized how I could get out of this situation, rifle or no rifle.

It was not without risk. There would be a few seconds there when the snakes would be close to me, able to bite me and hold on if they wanted to.

But I didn’t have much choice. The snakes or the religious crackpot—y decide.

“Open it,” he said. His voice was raw now.

He’d glimpsed the future. One of the snakes striking me, filling me with poison. He spoke in the raspy tone of true passion.

So I opened it.

But I kept hold of the handle to the lid. And instead of shoving my hand inside, I used

the handle to swing the entire cage around and fling it at him.

He screamed like a young boy.

He fired two shots.

And he dropped his gun when one of the flying rattlers slapped him across the face.

The gun discharged when it hit the floor.

I was already halfway down the aisle, my sore ankle be damned, heading for my ragtop.

I went home and took a very cold shower. I stood in there fifteen minutes trying to get snake off me. Part of it was psychological, of course. You couldn’t scrub away a sense of snake. It stayed with you for a long, long time.

I’d just finished getting into some clean summer-weight clothes—white short-sleeved shirt, blue-on-blue striped necktie, blue slacks, black socks, black loafers—when the phone rang.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“He called and said that he still loved you.”

“Yeah, sort of, anyway.”

“So you’re going to see him.”

“Tonight. That’s why I called. I told him I was with you last night and I think he got jealous. He started insisting that we get together tonight.”

“You know something?”

“What?”

“I’d do the same thing you would. I’d go.”

“Really?”

“Are you kidding? Look at all the times I went running back to Pamela.”

“Yeah, I guess you were kind of a glutton for punishment.”

“Well, as one glutton to another, why not give it a try?” I said.

“You think it might actually lead somewhere?”

“Probably not,” I said. “But it’s nice to have a little hope again, isn’t it?”

“Hearing “maybe” is always better than hearing “no.””

“That’s right,” I said.

“Even if “maybe” is a lie?”

I sighed. “Yeah, kiddo, even if

“maybe” is a lie.”

“You’re really a wise man,

McCain. You should run for pope or something.”

“I was thinking of that. I’d like to wear that hat he does. You know that really tall one? With the lifts I have in my shoes, that hat would make me seven feet.”

She laughed. “Thanks for being such a good friend.”

“My pleasure.”

Pause. “I really did want to sleep with you last night.”

“Same here.”

“Chad’s the only guy I’ve ever slept with, though. So it would’ve been a really big step.”

“I understand. I’m running for pope, remember?”

Mrs. Courtney was just leaving the two-story, redbrick Colonial-style rectory when I pulled up. She wore a black suit on this boiling day. She had the look and air of a millionaire’s wife, a somewhat lacquered and severe middle-aged blonde who did not belong out here in the sticks. Attractive but not appealing.

As if money—or in her case, the prestige of Harvard Divinity—had bled all the juices out of her. I reached her just before she got into her dark-blue Chrysler.

“Mrs. Courtney, my name is—”

“I know who you are, Mr. McCain. I

hope you’ll excuse me but I’m in a hurry.

I need to be at the mortuary in five minutes.” Her voice was cool if not quite cold.

No reading on her eyes. Shades.

“I’d really appreciate ten minutes of your time.”

“For what, Mr. McCain?” The words weren’t slurred. But they were slightly indistinct. Or was I imagining it? It had now been a few hours since the snake cage but every few moments snake images filled my mind, daymares, skewing my hold on present reality.

“I need to talk to you about your husband.”

“I repeat, Mr. McCain, for what?”

Only then did I realize that she swayed slightly as she stood there, and only then did I catch the first wisps of gin aroma. Nothing else smells like gin. Praise the Lord.

“I’m trying to find out who killed him.”

“So is Mr. Sykes. And he told me about half an hour ago that he’s got some very promising leads.”

I had to be careful here. I owed her the deference one normally gives a widow. But she was way too bright to believe that Cliffie could find a murderer. Or his ass with both hands and a compass.

“Every once in a while, he arrests the wrong person.”

“He assures me that the person he has in mind is indeed the guilty party.”

“Did he say who that person is?”

She put a slender hand on the door handle.

Her knees gave a little, the way a drunk’s do when he’s been standing erect too long in one place. “Good day to you, Mr. McCain.”

“Do you really want your husband’s killer found, Mrs. Courtney?”

“What a ridiculous thing to say.”

“If you’re serious about finding his killer, you’re not going to leave it up to Cliffie.”

“Should I share your sentiments with him?”

“He knows my sentiments.”

“You’re being stupid, Mr. McCain. Why wouldn’t I want my husband’s killer found? I loved my husband.”

“Loved him enough to protect him even after he’s dead? Maybe there’s something you’re hiding, Mrs.

Courtney.”

She said, “There’s a wake tonight in his honor.

I need to get ready for that. And I’ve spent enough time with you.”