Going, Gone

by Laura Crum

  Bret and Blue shook hands through the fence, looking oddly like a prisoner greeting a visitor to a jail cell.

  “Come on in and sit down,” I said, and then glanced at Lonny. “I mean, it’s your place, of course.”

  Lonny gave me a faint vestige of his old smile, his face more tired and worn than a beat-up saddle. “Can’t, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “Can’t what?” I was feeling more confused by the minute.

  “Can’t sit down.”

  “Why not?” I knew I sounded inane; I just couldn’t seem to get the hang of this conversation.

  Lonny and Bret looked at each other. Then Lonny looked back at me and met my eyes. “Bret, here, is in the process of arresting me. I’m not going to be able to visit.”

  “Arresting you? Bret? But why? Are you a cop?” I fired this last question at Bret in disbelief. A cop was the last thing I’d ever thought Bret Boncantini might become. As a young man, his playful, irreverent spirit had seemed far more suited to the role of a legendary cat burgler than a cop.

  “Yep, I am a cop. A deputy sheriff of Martindale County. I was hired three years ago, to be exact.” Bret’s expression was a little rueful. “And right now I’ve got the unpleasant duty of escorting Lonny, here, to jail.”

  “But why?” I demanded again. “What’s happened?”

  Once more, Lonny and Bret looked at each other. Bret shrugged.

  Lonny answered the unspoken comment. “You’re going to have to know.” His eyes were sad. “I’m being charged with the murder of my girlfriend.”

  “What?” My voice had risen to a shriek.

  “And her brother,” Lonny added.

  “No way. You can’t be. What happened?” I knew I was babbling; I was aware of Blue’s shocked silence next to me. Mac reached for my hand.

  “I didn’t do it, Gail,” Lonny said, still meeting my eyes.

  “I never thought you did. But why are they arresting you?”

  Bret answered this question. “John Green, the detective, likes him for it. I can’t tell you why right now.”

  I stared at Bret. “You’re arresting Lonny?”

  “It’s my job, Gail. Lonny understands. I don’t think he did it, either. Don’t tell John I said that,” he added to Lonny.

  Lonny shook his head. “I don’t suppose it will make much difference either way.” He turned back to me. “I’d appreciate it if you guys would keep an eye on the horses until I get back. Oh, and that palomino’s for you, Gail, if you want him. It’s a long story and I don’t have time to tell it now. Go ahead and ride him; he’s gentle. I remember you said that Gunner was sore. If you want to know more about Sunny, ask my neighbor, Kate. She’s right across the dirt road from my house.” Lonny turned back to Bret. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Bret looked at me and then at Blue. Our faces must have mirrored the shock we were feeling because Bret gave us a sympathetic half smile. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he said. “Tell you a little more.”

  “Thanks,” said Blue.

  I was wordless.

  And we all watched Lonny and Bret climb in the sheriff’s car and drive slowly away.

  Chapter 3

  “My God,” I said. Sinking down in my chair, I took a long swallow of margarita. The evening didn’t look quite so pretty now. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It is a little hard to believe,” Blue agreed.

  “Lonny’s being arrested for the murder of his girlfriend and her brother. I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend,” I added inconsequentially.

  “And that sheriff’s deputy is your old childhood friend.” Blue shook his head.

  “I knew he’d moved to this part of the world, but I had no idea he’d become a cop. My God,” I said again. “Bret, a cop. I don’t believe it.”

  “Mama, what’s going on?” Mac’s large blue-gray-green eyes were worried.

  I looked down at my child, uncertain what to say. “Everything’s all right, baby,” was what came out of my mouth. “I don’t really know what’s going on, but we’re fine, our horses are fine, Freckles is fine. It’ll all be okay.”

  “Is Lonny okay?” Mac demanded.

  How to answer this? “I’m sure he’ll be okay,” I said reassuringly. “We’ll see him soon.” But I wasn’t at all positive about this. I had no real idea what the protocol was when you were arrested for murder. Thankfully this had never happened to me.

  “Will they let him out on bail?” I asked Blue.

  “It depends.”

  Blue sounded confident, as if he knew something about this sort of situation. I decided not to ask him how he knew. Blue’s checkered past included jail time in Bali and studying with the senior tutor of the Dalai Lama. He knew lots of things I didn’t.

  “What would it depend on?” I asked him.

  “Mostly how the sheriff-coroner feels about him. In these small towns, everybody knows everybody else. Unless the sheriff has a grudge against Lonny, he’ll probably set bail, though with a serious crime like this, he might not. But Lonny’s a solid citizen and a property owner. I’d guess that he’ll be able to get out on bail. It’ll be high, though.”

  “What’s high?”

  “Maybe a million.” Blue shrugged. “He’ll need to come up with ten percent cash. Most people mortgage their property.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “That’s if the sheriff decides to set bail. He’ll only do it if he’s confident Lonny’s not the type to bolt. For sure Lonny won’t be allowed to leave the county.”

  “Oh,” I said again. “How soon might he get out?”

  “If they set bail, it will be when he’s formally charged. Usually that’s seventy-two hours after the person is brought in. So he could be out in three days. Wednesday, maybe.”

  I took another swallow of my drink. “How do you know all this stuff?” I demanded, curiosity overcoming caution.

  Blue shrugged. Curiosity wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

  I took another drink and rested my eyes on the sun, which was hovering above the western ridge, its rays slanting between the branches of the oaks, which were just leafing out. If it hadn’t been for the drama we had recently witnessed, it would have been an idyllic moment.

  As it was, my mind chased in circles, trying to imagine any scenario that could have led to Lonny being accused of murdering his girlfriend and her brother. Since I had no information to go on, this was fruitless.

  My eyes drifted to the horses, who were fanning out across the meadow, grazing. The palomino was for me? What on earth had Lonny meant? I hadn’t asked him for a horse, merely mentioned that Gunner had been sore off and on and I’d like to try turning him out.

  I stared at the little palomino gelding. He was thick-bodied and a bit coarse, something like an overgrown pony, but very appealing. His dappled gold color, cream white mane and tail, and cute head with a neat white stripe between big brown eyes didn’t hurt. And he looked reasonably well made overall. But what had possessed Lonny to buy me a horse without asking me? Like most people, I tended to want to pick out my own horses.

  Blue’s voice interrupted my musing. “Let’s go gather some firewood.”

  Blue was talking to Mac, but I obediently got up and followed them down toward the creek bed, where we scavenged dead limbs from the oak trees. A couple of trips and we managed to drag up enough wood to create a sizable pile by the stone firepit.

  Blue and Mac began breaking the branches into appropriate lengths for the fire, to Mac’s great enjoyment. I watched them banging the branches on big rocks, with loud, satisfying “cracks,” and sank back in my chair, margarita glass in hand.

  The horse herd had drifted off and were distant dots in the meadow now. The sun was below the western ridge and the sky above the horizon had turned vaguely apricot. Our three saddle horses seemed settled in their corrals; Henry had quit grazing, as if he were full. The other two still had their heads down.

  “I’m going to water the horses and giv
e them a little hay,” I told Blue.

  “Good. Mac and I will build the fire.”

  Leaving them to their intricate construction of twigs and small sticks, I headed for the horse corrals, halter in hand. One by one I caught the geldings, led them to the water trough, and let them drink their fill. Then I distributed small flakes of alfalfa; they’d eaten quite a bit of grass already.

  Eventually I just stood, leaning on Gunner’s corral fence, my mind drifting as I watched my big bay horse eat. I’d owned Gunner since he was three; he’d been my friend and companion through many, many adventures. Was I really ready to turn him out here? Would Lonny even be around to take care of him?

  My mind jumped back to Lonny with a vengeance. I’d known Lonny almost as long as I’d owned Gunner. And I simply couldn’t imagine any scenario that would lead to him killing his girlfriend and her brother. I’d been Lonny’s girlfriend at one time, so surely my opinion on this subject was worth something. Hell, I trusted Lonny. I trusted him with my horses; I’d trusted him completely when I’d been with him. Like all human beings, he had his faults, but murder his girlfriend? No way.

  Once again, I wondered just who his girlfriend had been. He certainly hadn’t mentioned her to me. But then, Lonny had never been known for chatting about his personal affairs.

  Restless as a pinball bouncing from flipper to flipper, my brain leaped from thought to thought, collecting what I knew about Lonny and adding it up. A horse packer in these very mountains for many years, Lonny had eventually bought the pack station he worked for and grown rich enough to retire. Back when I’d met him he’d been living on the California coast and was recently separated from his wife. We’d dated for many years, or whatever the term was. We’d never moved in together, and when Lonny had decided to move back to the Sierra Nevada foothills, I’d elected to remain in my home. Our romantic relationship had come to an end, but we’d remained friends. And at no point in this long progression had Lonny ever been anything but a kind, decent person. I absolutely did not believe that Lonny had murdered anyone.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that Blue and Mac had the fire leaping high in the firepit; flickering orange-gold tongues rose into the air above the gray rocks. Fortunately, in green-grass season, sparks were no threat, and the fire seemed to be burning cleanly, anyway. I headed in their direction.

  As I once again settled into my chair, facing the bright, dancing flames, Blue reached for my margarita glass.

  “Can I make you another?”

  “Sure.”

  I edged my chair a little further back from the fire. The evening was still pleasantly balmy, though I could feel a chill gathering. By nightfall the fire’s warmth would be very welcome. But in this soft April gloaming, with spring peepers singing madly down by the creek, I didn’t feel the need to be toasted.

  Mac, on the other hand, stood as close to the fire as he could stand, his nose wrinkled slightly as he took in the flickering, flashing tongues of flame, licking and lashing at the constantly shifting pile of sticks and twigs. In another moment the breeze shifted and Mac blinked, coughed, and moved rapidly away.

  “Smoke,” he protested, rubbing his eyes.

  “Yep, it does that,” I agreed, accepting my refilled margarita glass from Blue and scooting my chair a few feet to the left. “You’ve got to keep moving.”

  “Smoke follows beauty, you know.” Blue smiled at me and poked the fire with a long stick.

  “So how come it’s following me?” Mac grumbled.

  We all laughed. I forbore to remark that Mac was, indeed, beautiful, a comment I didn’t think he’d appreciate. But I never got enough of looking at my tall, slender young son, with his long legs and graceful hands, so like his father’s. His face didn’t really resemble either of us much—big blue-gray-green eyes, a loose cap of ruffled fawn-colored hair. A strong chin, gentle bow of a mouth, a round forehead. Mac looked like nothing so much as those ethereal paintings of fairies or angels so popular in the early twentieth century; again, not something he would care to hear me say.

  Blue climbed back into the camper and emerged with a platter of steaks. After poking the fire into the required bed of coals, he popped the grill on top of it and forked the steaks into position. Mac watched every move.

  Getting to my feet, I climbed into the camper to do my part of the evening chores. In the tiny kitchen, I got out French rolls and began buttering them and wrapping them in tin foil. Once these were beside the fire, I started to make a salad. Through the small window in front of me, I could see the wide expanse of the meadow. The horse herd was five distant dots.

  What a great way for horses to live, I thought, and was glad that I’d been able to give Danny and Twister the chance to be relatively free, living as horses were meant to live. Suddenly I was eager to turn Gunner out, to see him running with the herd, leading a horse’s natural life. It seemed an appropriate reward to give my old buddy, who had done so much for me.

  Finishing up with the salad, I carried it outside.

  “Evening’s still nice,” Blue said. “Shall we eat outside?”

  “Sure,” I agreed, and begin gathering plates and utensils and bringing them to the picnic table.

  Freckles lay curled up by the fire, tail over her nose, paws still muddy, looking tired and content. I thought briefly and sadly of Roey, who had loved camping trips. In her youth she’d been my companion on a solitary horse packing trip across the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The pack trip on which I’d met my husband. I smiled at Blue.

  Blue met my eyes and smiled back.

  “Freckles looks happy,” I said, gesturing at the dog.

  Mac, too, looked at Freckles. “I miss Roey,” he said.

  I glanced at my son, still surprised, after all these years, at the way he could read my mind. Along with his ethereal appearance Mac seemed to possess uncanny psychic abilities. Over and over again he would correctly intuit my thoughts, or accurately interpret a situation of which he had no firsthand knowledge. His instincts about the world were invariably dead on.

  “We all miss Roey,” I agreed, watching his wistful face.

  “I miss Toby, too. And Baxter.” Mac’s eyes were fixed on the fire.

  In some strange, sad twist of fate, Toby, Mac’s pony, and Baxter, his favorite cat, had died within a week of each other last fall. And then, this spring, we’d had to put Roey down. It was a lot for a little boy to deal with.

  “I miss Toby and Baxter, too,” I told Mac. “It’s hard when our animals die.”

  “Are their spirits still with us?” Mac stared upward at the slowly darkening sky between the oak trees.

  “I think they are,” I said. “I think Toby and Baxter and Roey are still taking care of you. See those two big rocks over by the corrals?” I pointed out two monoliths, side by side.

  “Yes. I see them.” Mac looked at me.

  “That’s where Burt and Pistol are buried. They were two horses Lonny had back when he lived on the coast, near us. Burt was the horse that taught me how to rope. And Pistol was a great horse, too. Lonny buried them here when they died. He says they look after the place.”

  “We buried Toby and Roey and Baxter at home,” Mac said. “Will they look after us here?”

  “Of course they will,” I said. “Their spirits will stay with us. And Burt and Pistol will watch over us, too.”

  Mac smiled. Somehow this notion was reassuring. I watched my little boy and wondered why life had chosen to deal us this particular hand. Sure, he was learning about mortality early, it would always be a given to him, and perhaps this was a good thing, but it seemed an awfully heavy burden for those slender shoulders to bear. I didn’t really know what to say that would be helpful. Death was unbearably final, undeniably sad, and all around us. I did the best I could to provide some comfort.

  Wordlessly Mac moved around the fire until he leaned on my knee. I lifted him up in my lap, something he seldom requested anymore, and kissed his temple. For a moment he rested against m
e, and then wiggled to get down. I let him go.

  At times motherhood seemed to be an endless letting go. Mac’s growth was a constant process of separating from me, a steady movement away from our complete unity in the days when we had both shared my body. Once born and in my arms, my helpless baby had become a self-willed toddler and now an independent little boy. Soon, as I well knew, he would be the rebellious teenager, and eventually, the adult who would be my equal, and if we both lived long enough, my caregiver.

  I sighed. A lot to take in, sitting by a smoky campfire, wishing I could hold my little boy just a tiny bit longer. But Mac was watching his father remove the steaks from the fire and set them on a plate. It was time to eat.

  We’d just finished dinner when we saw the headlights bouncing down the ranch road toward us. Freckles woofed. Blue studied the car a minute and then glanced over at me.

  “Looks like your friend Bret is coming back,” he said.

  Chapter 4

  Dusk was nearly dark as the sedan pulled up in front of our camp. Headlights clicked off. The almost-round shape of a gibbous moon shone through the oak trees on the eastern ridge. In the faint silver-white light, I saw Bret’s hair gleam, pale and gray, as he got out of the car. Odd to think of Bret with gray hair.

  Blue stood up as Bret opened the gate and walked up to the campfire. Mac stepped behind me. Freckles wagged her tail and sniffed Bret’s hand. And Bret grinned, his old grin, and regarded the group of us a little ruefully. None of us seemed to know what to say.

  I finally opened my mouth. “What happened?”

  I’m not sure what I meant, but Bret answered with, “Lonny’s in jail. They’ll charge him in a couple of days. I think they’ll set bail. He’ll be out.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but what happened to get him into this situation?”

  “That’s a long story.” Bret glanced at an empty chair.

  “Care for a drink?” Blue asked, ever the polite host.

  “Can’t. I’m still on.”

  “Do you have time to sit down and fill us in?” Blue’s voice was calm and courteous, as if this were a normal social situation.