The Final Country (7 page)

“She stapled flyers to damn near every tree, took out a half-page ad in the paper, even tried to borrow money from me to rent a billboard …” Molly paused as if exhausted, her sigh full of some grief I didn’t want to understand, then she turned to face me.

“Eventually,” she continued, briskly now, “the man who had Ellie called, and offered to sell her back for a hundred dollars… They were to meet at the overlook above the spring, down there in the park. The cops know that much from Annette’s answering machine tape…”

“The cops?”

“Two days later they found her body stuffed under a ledge above the spring,” Molly said, nodding toward the sleeping dog, “and Ellie was sitting beside her. Maybe she’d never been lost at all.

“The son of a bitch had… he had raped and killed Annette… he had tortured her, raped her, killed her, then, my God, the son of a bitch cut her head off… they never found her head… we had to bury her without a goddamned head…” Then Molly paused again, heaved a great breath, then let the rest gush out. “My mother couldn’t take it. Six weeks later, she hanged herself.”

“Jesus,” I said. “What can I say?” Both my parents had been suicides, so I had some idea of the confusion and guilt it caused.

But Molly was already moving away, back to the bathroom, leaving the dog and me in the pitiless moonlight.

And when she came back, she came back into my arms. Naked. Just as she was supposed to. Whispering against my neck, “Don’t say anything.”

* * *

Nobody ever knows how much is only real for the moment. Or how much is real forever. Maybe the momentary is all we’ll ever know, the woman open beneath you, her lips wild with laughter, or riding high over you, her tears like hot wax on your chest. Molly was muscular and willing and lovely, and there were moments when I felt as if I might die, and moments when I knew I’d live forever. And even worse, a moment when I convinced myself that I was doing the right thing, somehow giving support and comfort to this woman.

* * *

Afterward, we leaned again on the rail over the dark wrinkles of the hollow, ice ringing like tiny bells in our glasses, the moon still molten, but the wind had shifted to the southeast, suddenly warm in our faces, our sweat unslaked.

“I never lived any place where you could work up a sweat in November,” I said. “Just standing still.”

“I’ve never lived any place where piss froze before it hit the ground,” she said.

“Maybe I made that part up,” I admitted.

“I thought so,” she said.

“But no matter how cold it is,” I said, “you can always put more clothes on.” Then I paused. “But I’ve never figured out how to take enough clothes off when it’s hot down here.” Then I paused again, turned to face her, touched the dark stone on her chest. “What’s this?”

“The only thing my mother left me,” she said quietly. “It’s called the Shark of the Moon.”

I looked more closely. The golden band no longer looked irregular now that I could see the snouts, dorsal fins, and tails of the golden sharks circling the dark pool of the stone. And etched faintly in the center I could feel another.

“So what the hell do you want from me?”

“Believe me. I’ve tried everything. I can’t get anybody to help. Not the cops. Not the most desperate and sleaziest PIs. Hell, I even tried to put an ad in
Soldier of Fortune,
but they wouldn’t take it. So it’s up to you, Milo. And as Mattie Ross said, ‘I hear you have true grit.’ “

Jesus, I thought as I tried to remember if John Wayne got laid in that movie, she’s pulling out all the stops. “I’m guessing here, but I’ll bet you want to put an ad in the paper about a lost dog in Blue Hole Park, right? And you hope the same bastard will answer it?”

“I’m meeting him at ten o’clock this morning,” she said, “on the same overlook where he took my sister…”

“What makes you think it’s the same guy?”

“I knew it in my bones,” she said, “when I heard his voice over the telephone. I fucking knew it.”

“You cut it pretty close.”

She reached into the chest of drawers and pulled out a Glock 20.

“You know, I’ve yet to meet a woman in Texas who doesn’t carry a piece,” I said. “It doesn’t have a safety, it doesn’t have a blow back lock, and the FBI thinks it’s perfect.”

“They gave me a permit.”

“Everybody’s got a permit as far as I can tell,” I said, wondering why all the major decisions of my life had to be made while I was slightly tipsy, mildly high, and stinking of bodily fluids. Or maybe it wasn’t just the bad decisions, maybe it included the good ones, too. Whichever, I had no way to resist. “Okay. I’ve got a black cherry El Dorado. Meet me in the parking lot at nine. I’ve got to look over the ground.”

She put her arms around my neck, saying, “How can I ever thank you?”

“Consider me thanked, and I’ll give you the family rate for a bodyguard day.”

“Family rate?”

“Three hundred instead of five,” I said, smiling, “in cash, in advance.”

“The fuck doesn’t count?” she asked.

“Nothing solidifies a deal like folding money. It doesn’t change its mind and doesn’t whine about respect the next morning.”

“That’s for sure,” she said as she dug into her purse and handed me the money with a quick burst of nervous laughter. “That’s what I always tell my clients,” she added. “The ones who are guilty, that is.” Then we laughed, shook hands, and I left her standing in the hard moonlight, listening to the faint murmur of the creek.

* * *

The upper reaches of Blue Creek wandered weakly through Betty’s ranch, then crossed another ranch, before it wound onto her other uncle’s place — Tom Ben Wallingford owned several sections — before it dropped in a small stream off the Balcones Escarpment to join the gush of the huge artesian spring at the base of the hollow, where Blue Creek became a wide, beautiful stream, pellucid water slipping over limestone ledges, pausing occasionally to form perfect swimming holes. Travis Lee, who had his job at the law school and later his private practice, donated most of his part of the old family ranch to the county for a park, taking a huge tax write-off and keeping a narrow strip of land on the north side of the creek. Leaving his older brother with his sections of mostly worthless scrub, particularly after the government dropped the mohair subsidy, land good only for deer leases, which the old man wouldn’t allow. And, as Austin expanded northwesterly, development, which the old man hated. Tom Ben’s sections nearly were surrounded by upscale developments, but the stubborn and childless old cowboy was dickering with the Blue Creek Preservation Society, of which Betty Porterfield was president and probably the major financial angel, to put the land into a conservancy, but only if they could come up with a deal to keep it a working ranch. But nobody could come up with the deal he wanted, and it seemed that Tom Ben Wallingford was going to dicker until he died, and he seemed to think he was going to live forever.

The Overlord Land and Cattle Company, a wholly owned subsidiary of Overlord Minerals, Inc., owned most of the land around the ranch — hell, most of Gatlin County — and the CEO, Hayden Lomax, insisted the old man had signed an option to sell the ranch, which Tom Ben Wallingford had denied completely. The whole thing had been simmering toward court for a couple of years before I came to stay in the Hill Country.

When Betty Porterfield asked me to move into her ranch house, I told myself that I had buried my Montana past and intended to finish out my life in the Hill Country. Betty and I had met over a gunshot dog and fallen in love over stories of loss and gunfire. And I loved Betty’s ranch, a section of Hill Country heartland, and the crippled animals Betty brought home from the emergency veterinarian clinic where she worked nights, loved the bright glow of the plank floor and the homemade cedar furniture, the wood cookstove and the hissing Coleman lanterns, the reassuring scratch and peep of the chickens in the yard dust, the yawns of sleeping cats, throwing the tennis ball for the three-legged Lab, Sheba, until my arm hurt, watching the sweep of weather across the wide Texas sky as I sat on the front porch pointlessly whittling, turning cedar posts into cookstove shavings.

Until it went bad, I’d never been closer to a woman than Betty. She had healing hands; I’d seen her work, seen the undeniable hope in an animal’s eyes when she put those hands on them. A look, I suspected, I had when she first put her hands on me. So I tried really hard. For the first time in my life I studied how to be home, studied every angle and plane of Betty’s face, every freckle, every stray wisp of red hair, the faint trace of the bullet scar across her right cheek, the dark leaden dimple on her left jawline where she’d fallen on a pencil in the third grade, which only showed when she occasionally laughed, wild and free.

And I studied Texas, too, because it seemed important to Betty, important in some way I didn’t understand, but extremely important nonetheless. “Texans are proud people,” her Travis Lee explained to me, “and Betty is a Texan.” As if that explained everything. So during the mornings while she slept, I wandered the ranch with books. Hell, I knew more about flora and fauna on her ranch than I knew about my grandfather’s land, which I had finally managed to give back to the Benewah tribe, one of the few places in Montana I had ever called home. Not the moldering mansion where I was raised, not the log cabin the garbage company goons had burned down. Those places weren’t home. Except sometimes in the log cabin back home when I’d be sitting on the porch watching the first snow, and my big black tomcat, Eldridge Carver, would curl in my lap. That was home, sometimes. But that was easy. Making myself at home on Betty’s ranch was work.

Month after month I wandered the ranch on foot in all kinds of weather. I sometimes thought I knew it better than Betty did. She’d torn out all the pasture and cross fences except for a small plot down the hill from the house where she kept a couple of saddle horses and occasionally ran a calf or two. On the back side of the ranch, I discovered a tiny outcropping of flint, no bigger than a freight car, and at the base of it, covered with limestone dust, a midden of arrowhead flakes, probably Comanche, since it seemed they had owned everything from there to southern Colorado for two hundred years. And I studied the Indians, too, nothing but ghosts now.

On other afternoons I’d gather up one of Betty’s saddle horses, then drift easily for a couple of hours over to Tom Ben’s place, where we’d sit on the veranda sipping iced tea and watching the sun soften the cedar breaks as it settled over the Hill Country while he shucked dried corn and doled it out cob by cob to the small herd of Spanish goats he kept for the occasional barbecue. During the Korean War Tom Ben had been a twenty-eight-year-old captain in the Marine reserves who had been called to active duty when I was a sixteen-year-old Army private on falsified enlistment papers, and on those occasional afternoons we sometimes touched on those times, talking without talking too much. But he never talked about WW II, except to wonder about what might have happened if we had to invade Japan. And about Korea, Tom Ben mostly complained about the cold and bitched about his feet. Never married, he was as fond of his niece as if she were his child, and he extended that fondness to me. His place was a home place in a way Betty’s never quite managed, but I didn’t go over there often enough.

At Betty’s place I read all the books I’d always meant to read, watched endless hours of movies on the battery-run portable television with a built-in VCR, which Betty allowed me to keep in the old smokehouse. She wouldn’t watch them with me but sometimes she’d come in to lean on my back, briefly, her nose snuffling out the old smoke and salt smells. Then she’d leave me to the present and drift back to the nineteenth-century British novels she was addicted to.

Also, for the first time in my life, I had long stretches of solitude with which to consider my life, trying to connect everything from my father’s lovesick suicide to my mother’s aggressive lie that somehow forced me to endure three months of muddy Korean hell before a broken collarbone got me back to the States in time to hear about her drunken suicide drying out at a fat farm down in Arizona. I considered it all: the failed marriages, the drunk years, the boring dry years — and it only added up to anything when I was in the arms of this sad, redheaded woman.

But I couldn’t make her happy. No matter how hard I studied. Hell, I knew better. A man can make a happy woman sad but he can’t finally make a sad woman happy. Then I studied her sadness until the burden of that became too much for either of us to carry.

And the sorry truth was that I couldn’t study Texas hard enough to make it home. It remained a foreign country, an undiscovered dimension, too large a place to be one place, a country held together by a semi-mystical history and a semi-hysterical pride. The more it became urbanized, the more it insisted on being country. The politics seemed like a cruel trick played by the rich on the poor. When I read copies of letters sent back home from the first settlers, the lies leapt off the page like billboards advertising hell: no hot weather, no mosquitoes, free land. Like every other place I had been, it was all about money. No more, no less. And even with money, I was still an outsider, more at home with whores, small-time drug dealers, musicians, and winos. And too old to change. It was as if I was spending a thousand dollars a month for a combination of graduate school, therapy, and serious frustration. But I tried and tried until I wore out my try, until it ached like a bad tooth.

Oddly enough, it was her other uncle who brought my unease to my attention first. Travis Lee drove up to the ranch house one silken fall morning as I sat in a rocking chair on the front porch, an unread novel in my lap, an unwhittled stick at my feet, the sun warm on my face, and Betty asleep in the house.

“What’s happening, cowboy?” Travis Lee wanted to know as he rolled down the passenger’s window of the huge pickup. “What the hell aren’t you reading?”

“Something I always meant to read.
Anna Karenina,”
I said.

“Ends badly, I hear,” Travis Lee said as he kicked open the passenger door. “Let’s go down to the creek and have a beer.”