Short Money (13 page)

“Do you shoot wild animals?”

“I’ve been duck hunting.”

“Then you’re a hunter. We hunt ducks here ten months a year. You should try us. We’ll fix you up in one of our deluxe blinds, guarantee you all the shooting you want.”

“I’m not sure I’d call what you do ‘hunting.’”

“Really?” Murphy smiled. “What would you call it?”

“What do you call it when chickens are killed at a slaughterhouse?”

“I would call that profit taking. You’ve never hunted on a preserve, have you? If you had, you wouldn’t compare it to killing chickens.”

“Slaughtering cattle, then. What I wouldn’t call it is hunting.”

Murphy regarded Crow mildly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “You should keep your mouth shut, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Crow did not want to debate the ethics of preserve hunting. “Let’s talk about Dr. Bellweather,” he said.

Murphy frowned and shook his head, refusing to be diverted from his topic. “We’ve got four thousand acres of some of the toughest terrain you ever saw, and some damn fine trophies on the hoof. And don’t you let anybody tell you a preserve-raised animal is any different from a wild one. Let me tell you. We got this one old elk, he’s gonna go in the Boone and Crockett record book, rack the size of a Volkswagen. I personally guided three hunts on him, and he’s survived every one. Smart as a damn cat. We got a hundred twenty miles of trails through woods, scrub, field, and bog. You could spend a month chasing after old Number One and never see the old bull. You hunt Talking Lake, you got yourself a real challenge. Maybe you get your game, maybe you don’t. And we can make it as hard as you want. You want a real challenge, you ought to try going after one of our Russians. You go after one with a handgun, you got yourself a real hunt.”

“How about I go after them with a machine gun?”

Murphy shrugged, looking disappointed. “You could do that if you wanted to,” he said. “We cater to all styles of hunting.”

“How about if I want to shoot myself a tiger?”

Murphy smiled, his lips tightening across his teeth, then curling back. “I doubt you can afford it. Now what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Dr. Bellweather. I understand you’re trying to kill him.”

Murphy chuckled. It was a fine, chesty laugh that seemed at odds with his rubbery, mobile features. “The man is obviously paranoid. I’m in the business of hunting animals, not men. Why would I want to kill Nelly Bell?”

“I don’t know. Why did Ricky pay him a visit last night?”

“Did he? Well now that’s pretty strange, seeing as Ricky was here all night reading his Bible.” Murphy turned and started back down the row of stalls, stopping in front of the gray Russian boar. “Let me tell you. You maybe won’t believe this, but I respect you, Officer Crow. When you had your troubles with Ricky? Hell, I knew he was asking for it. Fact is, a couple hours cuffed to the Hummer actually seemed to improve his personality.” He paused, smiling with narrowed eyes. “A course, I had to ask Orlan to get rid of you, but you had my respect. I didn’t respect you, I’d pick you up right now and feed you to the goddamn hogs. And don’t think they wouldn’t eat you. They eat anything.”

Crow stared into the rubbery face, thankful for the Ruger in the waistband of his pants, the Taurus in his coat pocket. It could easily go down that way. Somebody getting shot. Or fed to the hogs. If Murphy thought of Joe Crow as a serious threat, he wouldn’t think twice about eliminating him. Crow had no doubt that George, like his brother Ricky, was capable of killing people as well as animals. His eyes kept returning to the red spot on Murphy’s forehead, glowing like a third eye. For too long, George Murphy had been a bugaboo of his mind. Now that he had met the man, the bugaboo was real. A shudder rolled up his spine. The moment passed.

“Somebody once told me I’d probably like you,” Crow said.

Murphy laughed loudly, throwing his head back. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter. He was wrong.”

“Of course he was.” Murphy frowned and bit his upper hp. His bottom teeth were short, white, and widely spaced. “It wasn’t Nelly Bell, was it? I didn’t think so. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Murphy threw the rest of the corn into the gray hog’s stall, hung the bucket back on the wall.

“Let me tell you, Crow. You want to know what it is? It’s none of your goddamn business is what it is. It’s family business is what it is. It’s nothing to do with you. My advice to you: Next time you see Ricky? Leave him do what he has to do.”

“Just let him take out the doctor? I don’t think so.”

Murphy shrugged. “That’s too bad.”

“Ricky’s a good boy.”

Both men turned. Amanda Murphy had materialized a few feet behind them, still in her cream-and-pink cotton housedress, stark white legs planted in a pair of oversize green rubber Sorels, veiny arms crossed tightly over pendulous breasts.

George said, “Mandy, what are you—”

“Ricky does what he’s told.”

George moved to his mother, took her arm. “Mandy, let’s go back inside. You’ll catch cold out here.”

“The doctor has laid a taint on us.”

“A taint?” Crow asked. “What’s that?”

In the next barn, Shawn Murphy stood staring into a metal cage at a two-year-old black bear, a young sow. The bear was asleep at the far end of her cage. Shawn threw a few pieces of food at her but got no response beyond an irritated twitch of her heavy winter coat. Once, he had poked her in the ear with a long branch and she had charged at him, crashing into the side of her mesh cage, hot spit hitting him right in the face. That had been exciting. But today the old sow refused to be provoked. Bored, Shawn went to look in on the cougar cubs. The two cats were curled up in the corner of their cage, sleeping. All the animals seemed sluggish today.

Maybe Ricky and his dad wouldn’t find Number One. Maybe the elk would die in a boggy thicket and no one would ever know he had been shot. Or maybe he’d heal up and get better.

Shawn kicked the side of the cage. One of the cubs opened its eyes, glared at him dully.

His dad was going to kill him. They would find Number One, and they would know who had shot him. What would he do? It was too awful to think about. After the way Grandy and his dad had reacted when he’d told them about Doc Bellweather, Shawn was scared. He hadn’t thought it was any big deal. He wished he hadn’t said anything. Doc was his buddy, and a good customer for his dad. He’d thought if he’d said it was Doc’s idea, then his dad wouldn’t be mad anymore. Everything would be okay. But then Grandy had found out, and she’d flipped. Everybody started acting crazy. And now this thing with Number One. Shawn shivered. Who knew what was going to happen?

He could run away. The problem was, he had nowhere to run to. If it was summer, he could run away to become a woodsman, or a hobo, but it was winter and it was cold.

He was hungry. Maybe Grandy was napping. Maybe he could find something to eat. He could grab some cookies, or a loaf of bread, take it up to his room and keep it there. His mouth began to water. He left the barn and headed for the house. Suddenly the solution to his problems appeared before him.

“Doc,” he breathed, staring at the pink Jaguar parked in front of the lodge.

Amanda Murphy turned the full intensity of her gaze on Crow. “You are barren?” she said. “You have no children?”

Crow shook his head.

“There are evil men among us, who prey upon the children, who seek to soil their innocent souls, to lay a taint. The child is marked forever and must suffer mightily to regain his place at God’s table. What can one do? Revenge is thine, sayeth the Lord. The Hand of God is the Will of the Faithful.”

Crow said, “What are we talking about here?” He looked at Murphy, whose face had gone leaden and still.

“Suppose you had a kid,” Murphy said slowly. “Suppose you had a little boy. Suppose you found out some son-of-a-bitch had been playing doctor with him. Telling him things. What would you think about that?” Murphy’s voice had gone smooth and quiet. His eyes shone with excess moisture. “Think what you would do.”

Crow thought, Is he saying what I think he’s saying? He felt a sharp pain in his shin, realized the old lady had kicked him and was about to kick him again. He backed away. Amanda’s face was contorted into a tangle of folds and fissures. She lashed out with her right Sorel, grazing his kneecap. Crow reached into his coat, felt the big grip of the Ruger. He looked at George, hoping he would do something to stop the old woman. George let her take another kick at him, then cupped his hands around her narrow shoulders and held her in place.

“Mandy, we have to let the man go.”

“He is the scion of the doctor. Set the hounds on him.”

Murphy shook his head, his jaw clamped tight enough to crumble most men’s teeth. He indicated with a jerk of his head that Crow should leave.

It sounded like a reasonable suggestion to Crow. The old woman spat at him as he sidled past her.

“Can you smell the taint?” she hissed. “It hangs on him. Like stink on a wet dog.”

He pushed through the barn door and limped toward his car, anxious to make his departure. The dogs were barking at him again. He picked up his pace, imagining the trio of rangy hounds charging at him across the expanse of packed snow, red-eyed and slobbering. His shin throbbed where the old lady had kicked him. He wouldn’t feel safe until he was back on the highway, landscape flashing past. He reached the Jaguar, looked behind him. No charging pack of hounds; just George Murphy and his mother, standing in the doorway, staring at him with American Gothic intensity. Crow opened the door, climbed in, fitted the key into the ignition. The car started. He backed up, shifted into first gear, and headed up the long, slippery driveway.

A few inches behind Joe Crow, Shawn Murphy pushed his head up against the storage compartment lid and peeked out. He didn’t recognize the man driving, but this was definitely Doc’s car. Shawn concentrated on breathing silently. The guy must be a friend of Doc’s, otherwise he wouldn’t be using his car. If he was quiet, if the guy didn’t know he was there, everything would be all right. Sooner or later, they would get to Doc’s house. Shawn would live there with him in his big house in the city. He would go to a new school, where the kids didn’t know him. His dad would never find him. He thought about how mad his dad was gonna be, and how Grandy was gonna be even madder. But if he was gone, what would it matter? Doc would hide him. He would have to, because they were mad at Doc too. And besides, weren’t they friends? Didn’t they have fun together?

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CLASSIFIED AD IN SEDONA: JOURNAL OF EMERGENCE!

T
HE QUIET, SPACEY SOUNDS
of Enya meandered through the house, softened by the curtains and weavings, reflected from hanging crystals, amplified by the glass pyramid displayed on the mantel above the gas fireplace. Candles, tall white tapers, burned in every room. On the right front burner of the gas stove, a kettle of potpourri simmered; the air was moist and rich with spicy aromas of cinnamon and clove.

It was three-thirty in the afternoon. Sunlight pressed against drawn curtains; thin bars of yellow light crept up the walls and across the hardwood floors.

Melinda Crow danced, eyes nearly closed, in the center of the four-by-six-foot blue cotton rug she had woven from strips of recycled denim, her arms sweeping from left to right and back again, her hips performing a languid figure eight, long blond hair swinging from breast to back to breast. These movements caused her to turn slowly, each revolution taking several seconds.

Although the outdoor temperature was below zero, it was warm inside the house, and she wore only a light sundress of soft, unbleached cotton—the one dress that let her move freely without bearing down on her shoulders, chafing her nipples. The music flowing from the stereo was quiet and gentle, and she could hear herself breathing. She could smell the cinnamon. Flickering candles filtered through her short, pale lashes.

The portrait mirror that usually hung by the staircase now lay flat on the kitchen table. As Melinda performed each slow rotation, her eyes widened slightly as they swept across the doorway that led into the kitchen. She could see the mirror and the parallel white lines that cut across its breadth.

The song ended, and in the silent seconds before the next cut began, the sound of her bare feet on the denim rug raked her eardrums, her breathing became harsh, her nipples recoiled from the raw cotton. Melinda stopped moving and pulled the fabric away from her breasts. The next song, a faster, more upbeat time, began.

Melinda said, “Shit.” She stepped off the rug, feeling grit between her feet and the hardwood floorboards. Crossing the room to the stereo, she turned it off. A faint ringing persisted in her ears. She sat down on the futon sofa, stood up, crossed her arms, made a fist with her right hand, and struck herself on the hip. She examined the magazines on the coffee table, flipped through a recent copy of Sedona, skimmed an article about a woman whose unhappy cat, Spark, was processing her irritable bowel syndrome. The woman’s problems with her lower intestinal tract, it turned out, had resulted from her running over a cat with her car several months earlier. Spark’s purpose, according to unnamed sources channeled through veterinarian Dr. Kuhan Lightbody, was to help the woman through her period of mourning by helping her process her irritable bowel. Melinda skipped to the end of the article. It turned out that Spark was channeling the dead cat, who wished the woman to know that he forgave her and that he hoped she would drive more carefully in the future. After several months of hypnotic age regression therapy, the woman and her cat made a full recovery.

Melinda closed the magazine. Hypnotic age regression. Was that the solution, the way to begin again? She sat still for a full ten seconds, hands resting on her thighs, eyes moving jerkily, seeing nothing, her mouth open, passing air. She licked her lips. Her eyes returned to a focused state.