Vineyard Fear (19 page)

“Look,” I said to John and Mattie. “Even though I knew you were up here somewhere, I'd have been a long time finding you if Billy Jo hadn't brought me to your camp. This guy's in the same boat. Why don't you all just stay up here for a few more days, and give me a chance to find out what's going on. I'll talk to the local cops and phone east, and then I'll come back up here and you can decide what to do.”

They looked at one another. There was an appearance of innocence about them that I thought might be misleading. Some unspoken agreement was reached and they turned back to me and nodded.

“All right,” said Mattie. “We'll stay here for a while longer.”

“I'll be back in two or three days. Maybe sooner.” I put a smile on my face. “I may come back with good news.”

“Do you think so?”

“Sure,” I said.

“We'd better get back to camp,” said John. “And you two had better head on down the trail while you still have some light.”

Billy Jo had been working on her saddle and now ducked under her mare's neck and handed her scabbarded 30-30 to John.

“Here. Just in case.”

He looked down at the rifle in his hands. “Just in case of what?”

“You never know. The magazine is full, but the firing chamber isn't, so you'll have to jack a shell in before you shoot. You know how to use one of these things?”

Mattie frowned skeptically at the rifle, but said nothing. John slid the rifle partway out of the saddle scabbard, looked at it, and slid it back in. “My father had one of these when I was a kid. Model 94 Winchester. I think I can still remember how it works.”

Billy Jo grinned. “Good. I never met a Skye who didn't know about rifles, but I wasn't sure an East Coast English professor would remember such things.”

“I wasn't always an English professor,” said John, with a crooked smile. He lifted the rifle. “Thanks.”

Billy Jo nodded and mounted her mare. “We'd better be moving, J.W.”

I climbed up on Maude and we rode down through the meadows and woods to the camp, where the twins had long since been waiting. Their parents dismounted.

“Hey,” said a twin, “I thought you were going to stay, J.W.”

“Not tonight. No sleeping bag . . .”

“We've got extra blankets.”

“No change of clothes . . .”

“You can borrow some of John's!”

“No beer!”

“Oh, so that's it! We should have known. Are you coming back?”

“In a couple of days.”

“Well, bring your sleeping bag and clothes and a pack-horse loaded with booze, so you can stay awhile! We want to teach you how to ride!”

Oh, wretched thought. “Thanks,” I said. Behind them, I saw John carry the rifle into his tent. Then I followed Billy Jo out of camp.

Going down the Goulding Trail was worse than going up. My legs were rubbery and sorer than ever when we finally reached the pickup and trailer, parked now in the long shadow of the cliffs. I got off Maude and almost fell down, but managed to lead her into the trailer and tie her halter rope to the front rack. Then I crawled into the
cab and admired Billy Jo as she smoothly turned us around and headed us down to the highway. There, she turned right, and we started for Durango. I looked up out of my window at the darkened cliffs and the bright sky that topped them. I liked them better from down here.

“Beautiful day for a ride,” said Billy Jo. “You'll be stiff tomorrow, but you'll survive. Riding takes muscles you don't use doing other things.”

I gave an experimental moan and she smiled.

“I know a fake groan when I hear one. You have a couple of shots of red-eye and a good night's sleep and you'll feel a lot better.”

“Have one with me,” I said. “I'll treat. The bar of your choice.”

She thought awhile. “Okay. But just one. I've got to get these horses home. Let me see . . . I've got it. Just the place for a man who likes his barley pops. A joint that makes its own beer!”

I brightened. “Sounds just right!”

We drove down into the Animas Valley. Long shadows reached across the valley floor from the west, but the eastern cliffs were ablaze with sunset light. In Durango Billy Jo parked the pickup and trailer west of the railroad tracks and gimpy me walked with her up to Main Street. There, right beside Radio Shack, was Carvers bakery, cafe, and—yes!—brewery! We took a booth, declined the waitress' offer of food, and ordered two Animas City Amber Ales. They arrived and we touched mugs.

“Cheers. And thanks.”

I drank. Delish! Durango found increased favor in my eyes.

“What are you going to do about this man Orwell?” asked Billy Jo.

“I don't know if I can do anything, but now, at least, John knows what's going on. I'll talk to some cops. You know, a town with its own brewery can't be a really bad town.”

“Then you'll love this one. It's got two.”

“No!”

“Yes. Down toward the end of Main, Father Murphy serves his own brews.”

“Well, when we're done here, we can go there.”

“Sorry. The horses. Remember? Next time.”

“I owe you more than a beer,” I said. “I owe you dinner, at least. I'd like to take you someplace. Maybe some good Mexican food. We don't get much of that on the island.”

She smiled. “You get Mexican food and I'll have seafood.”

“Can we do that in one restaurant?”

“Maybe we'll have to go out twice.”

“Maybe we will.”

“Why don't we start tomorrow night? You can talk to your people during the daylight.”

“All right. Shall I pick you up?”

“I'll pick you up, since I'm the one who knows where we'll be going. Seven?”

“Seven it is.”

She finished her beer and flowed up onto her feet. It seemed a shame to leave before trying the Purgatory Pilsner or the Iron Horse Stout, but she had the wheels, so I floundered up in turn.

Back at the motel, I was very conscious of her body next to mine.

“I'll see you tomorrow night, then,” she said. “If I can help you out before then, give me a call. You have my number.”

I got out and she drove away. I thought of her sleek body and dark eyes, and her dark hair sweeping down from her broad-brimmed hat.

I went inside and went to the phone on the bedside table. The chief, in Edgartown, would be at home. I figured he'd had time to finish supper so I put through a call.

“I thought it might be you.” He sighed. “I've had a nice day. I knew it couldn't last.”

“I'm doing your wife a favor by calling you,” I said. “Everybody knows you can't talk and smoke at the same time, so she'll thank me for temporarily saving your house from another fumigation from your pipe.”

“Annie likes my pipe,” he said, probably truthfully. They had been married for over thirty years and he'd been puffing his briar all that time and probably longer. I had once smoked a pipe myself, and still missed it.

I told him that I'd found John Skye and that tomorrow I was going to see the local cops.

“They'll have the latest information by then,” he said. “You can have it now.

“Early this morning Gordon Berkeley Orwell came out of the Maine woods, made sure he was seen by several people at the outfitting station, got into his Jeep, and drove off. We figure he had time after he left the island to ride up near there by bus, get out someplace not too far from where he was supposed to be hiking, walk into the hills, and come back out again where people could see him. On the other hand, maybe he really was up there in the woods all along, and we've had our eye on the wrong guy.”

“Do you think you've had your eye on the wrong guy?”

“No.”

“Did Gordon Berkeley Orwell have a sister named Bernadette?”

“Yeah. A student up there at Weststock College. Died this summer. Drugs. Weststock, that's where this Orwell guy, if it was him, tried to hit Skye the first time. Drugs, Skye, Orwell's sister. If there's a tie-in, that seems to be it. How'd you know about Bernadette Orwell?”

“I met her last spring when a bunch of Weststock students stayed at John's place doing some sort of sociology study. Skye says she was a student of his a year ago, but that he's barely seen her since.”

“Does Skye do drugs?”

“He does booze.”

“Did he ever do other drugs?”

“Is there anybody under sixty who hasn't at least tried grass?”

“I don't know. Some, probably. Do you believe him about not seeing the girl since the class she took?”

I'd been running that through my head. “Yeah, I think I do. Of course, I'm also the guy who predicted the Sox would go all the way last year. Where's Orwell now?”

“He went home. Back to New Jersey. He's had a bad couple of years. His father died summer before last, and his sister OD'd this summer. His mother's the only one left. Orwell was stationed down south of the border somewhere. Central America or maybe farther south. Adviser to some army or government or other, or maybe he was something more than that. Home on extended leave.”

“Career man?”

“Captain. Assigned to some kind of special outfit. Too young for Nam, but he's been a few other places as near as I can tell. The Pentagon is being pretty cagey about just what it is he does.”

“How'd he get the limp?”

“In the line of duty, we're told.”

“How?”

“We're not told.”

“Where is he now?”

“How should I know? He was home earlier today.”

“Can you give me his home phone number?”

“No. Police business.”

“Weststock College will have Bernadette's home address and phone. I can get it from them. It'll just take longer.”

“Wait.” He put me on hold. After a while, he came
back. “I had to call the station on the car radio.” He gave me the number. “What are you up to?”

“I want to find out if Orwell's still there. If he is, I want to talk to him. If he's the guy who's after John Skye, I want to know it. If he isn't, I want to know that, so I can tell John to watch out for somebody else.”

“His mother is at their home. She's lost a husband and a daughter, so don't be too tough.”

“I'm not tough.”

I hung up and called the New Jersey number he'd given me. A thin female voice answered.

“Hi,” I said, putting a bit of aped Colorado twang into my voice. “This is J. W. Jackson. I heard ol' Gordy is back stateside and I thought I'd give him a call and talk some old times. Is this Miz Orwell?”

“Yes. You're a friend of my son, Mr. . . .”

“Jackson. J. W. Jackson. Pleasure to talk to you, ma'am. Yes, ma'am, Gordy and me have been a couple of places together. You know. Sure hope he's there. Like to talk to him while he's up here.”

“I'm sure he'd like to see you too, Mr. Jackson, but I'm afraid Gordon isn't here right now. He's gone out to Jackson, Wyoming, to do some hiking in the Grand Tetons. You just missed him.”

“Durn! Wyoming, eh? He leave you an address or any such thing, Miz Orwell? Sure like to say hello . . .”

“I'm afraid he didn't. Where are you now, Mr. Jackson? Perhaps you'd like to come by for some tea. It's always a pleasure to meet my son's friends . . .”

“Ma'am I'm in a phone booth in Atlanta, so I'm afraid I can't accept your invitation. Sure do thank you for it, though. Gordy just now headed out, eh?”

“Yes. He flew west just this afternoon. He'd been up in Maine, you know. Why, I barely saw him before he was off again. Oh, dear. He'll be so disappointed to miss your call. Perhaps he can contact you later . . .”

Then I did a cruel thing. I said, “That'd be terrific.
Say, how's that sweet sister of his doin'? I tell you, old Gordy sure dotes on that girl.”

There was a silence. Then the thin voice spoke. “Oh, I'm so sorry. Of course you couldn't know. Bernadette died earlier this summer. It was . . . very sudden . . .”

I made myself go on. “Oh, damn! Pardon, ma'am. I sure am sorry to hear that. That's about as bad a thing as can happen to you. Yes, I sure am sorry. How are you and Gordy doin'?”

“It will take us time, Mr. Jackson. Right now everything is . . . You must have heard how Gordon hates those Eastern colleges. Just like his father in that respect . . . Then to have this happen . . . It's been a difficult time for us. First the colonel and now Bernadette . . . To be straightforward, it's almost driven Gordon mad. I'm half mad myself at times . . . But I must ask your pardon. These are family matters . . . Still, I do wish Gordon had a friend to talk to . . .”

“Yes, ma'am. Gordon can find me if he wants me. Just tell him J. W. Jackson called. Well, I got to go. Nice talking to you, ma'am. Awfully sorry about your daughter. You have a nice day, now.”

“Yes. A nice day. Thank you.”

I hung up and opened another beer. I felt like lead. Was it worth it to hurt a mother to learn only that her son was almost mad with grief? I didn't know. What I did know was that Gordon Berkeley Orwell could be showing up anytime now. I wondered if I should go out to the airport and just sit there. Sooner or later, he should step off some plane, if he was coming. Then I thought some more. I was wrong. He could fly to some other town and then drive to Durango. I thought of his mother's voice. It was the voice of a woman who hadn't had many nice days lately.

I finished my beer, got into my car, and drove downtown. Durango was alive with automobiles, brightly lit stores, bars, and restaurants. I found a parking place and walked along Main Street. There were souvenir shops
with Japanese-made Indian headbands, bows with rubber-tipped arrows, rubber-tipped lances, all apparently furnished by the same oriental wholesaler who provided the goods displayed at the Indian shops at Gay Head. There were stores with windows heavy with silver and turquoise necklaces, rings, and watch bands. There were stores with windows full of cowboy hats, boots, and belts. There were lots of restaurants and bars.