Vineyard Fear

by Philip Craig

  “He doesn’t think he’s wrong,” I said, “but he wants to talk with you. Says he’ll listen to your side. Whatever you decide about that idea, I think you two and the girls ought to break camp and go down to Clear Creek tonight.” I got out the radio and told them about the walkie-talkie plan. “He wants it to happen tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. I think I will talk to him,” said John, turning the radio in his hands. His tone was thoughtfully professorial.

  “You will not!” said Mattie, astonished.

  “I’m sure I can convince him that he’s wrong.”

  “And what if you can’t? What then?” Her tone was that of a mother speaking to a child proposing some wild idea.

  John maintained his tone of academic detachment. “I’m sure I can. His idea is so completely absurd that only a madman could believe it once given the facts.”

  “That’s exactly the point,” said Mattie. “This guy is crazy!”

  “Mattie could be right,” I said.

  “There! J.W. thinks I’m right. The twins will think I’m right. You agree, don’t you, Billy Jo?”

  Billy Jo hesitated. “Well, you’ll be safer if you all go down to Clear Creek . . .”

  “You see? Everybody agrees. This man Orwell is obviously disturbed. You can’t reason with a disturbed man, and you know it. We’ll break camp right now.” Mattie squeezed her husband’s arm. “Please, John, be reasonable.”

  He looked down at her in mild surprise. “Why, I usually think of myself as a reasonable man, Mattie.”

  “I’d be careful with this guy,” I said. “He’s pretty slick.”

  “He’s dangerous, no doubt,” nodded John. “But if we use these radios when he and I talk, he’ll have no opportunity to do anything foolish before I have my say. Afterward, he’ll have no reason to pursue this vendetta.”

  Mattie snorted. “This man is a trained professional in the Special Forces or whatever, and you’re a college professor! No contest! Be sensible!”

  “Now, now, my dear, please be calm . . .”

  “Calm!”

  “Yes, calm.”

  “And what if he doesn’t believe you? We have to go back to Weststock. What then?” Mattie naturally asked the right question.

  John answered it. “We’ll be no worse off than we are now.”

  “I want us to be better off!”

  He patted her arm in that way men have of trying to calm the fears of the ones they love. “All I want is an opportunity to speak with him. I’m sure I can convince him of his error.”

  I was not so sure. “Where do you want to do it? Up here somewhere or down in town? Or somewhere else?”

  He squinted at the sky, then swept his eyes over the surrounding meadows and trees. “Up here, I think. He may be younger and better trained at this sort of hunting game than I am, but I know this country and have acclimatized myself to this altitude, and that will be to my advantage. It will balance things out. Yes, we’ll meet up here.”

  I looked at Billy Jo. She shrugged and looked at Mattie.

  “We should leave this to the police,” said Mattie.

  “The police have had their try,” said John gently. “If this plan fails, they can have another go. But with luck, we’ll settle the matter before they need to.”

  “All right, then,” I said. “You break camp and move down to Clear Creek. Tomorrow I’ll bring Orwell here. I imagine he’ll have that machine gun of his, just in case you and I are planning a double cross of some sort. Where will you be? Where do you want Orwell?”

  John thought, and then pointed to the east. “I want him yonder, on the cliff where the twins brought you the other day. The meadow runs right up to the cliffs there beside that grove of woods where the ledge goes down to the cave. I’ll be watching from that ridge between here and the cliff.”

  “You’d better be hunkered down pretty good. I’ll have to take him over the ridge, and this guy has good eyes.”

  John gave me a small smile. “He won’t see me. Neither will you, even though you know I’ll be there. Nobody’s born a professor, remember. I was a kid playing cowboys and Indians up here, then I was a real cowboy, and then I was a hunter, and then I was in the army, all long before I became the effete East Coast pointy-headed intellectual I am today. I want Orwell in the meadow, in plain sight on top of the cliffs, before I’ll talk to him. That way I’ll know where he is, and he won’t have any chance at monkey business, if he decides to try any. He’ll have to come across a half mile of open meadow to get to where I am, and by that time I can either shoot him or be long gone.”

  Though I knew that people do things you’d never guess they’d do, I wondered if John could actually shoot somebody. I didn’t want him to have to make that decision.

  “I think being long gone is the best idea,” I said. “After you talk, we’ll wait on the cliffs for half an hour, so you can pull out. Then I’ll take him back down the trail, and that will be that.”

  “And what if he doesn’t buy John’s story?” asked Mattie hotly. “What about that?”

  “Why, I’ll be gone,” said John. “I’ll make my way down to Clear Creek. I’ll be quite safe, my dear. And if worse comes to worst, I’ll have Billy Jo’s rifle, after all.”

  “Wonderful.” Mattie shook her head. “A middle-aged literature professor with a deer rifle against a trained soldier with a machine gun!” She obviously hadn’t bought the macho image of John in his pre-professor days.

  There were, shouts from the meadow, and the twins came galloping over the waving green grass.

  “What channel shall we use?”

  “Thirteen,” said John. “One of my many lucky numbers.”

  I looked at my watch. “About this time? That’ll give Orwell and me time to walk up here and get out to the cliffs. I don’t want him to have a horse, because that would let him move too fast. In fact, I want him to be tired when he gets here. I don’t want him frisky at all.”

  John looked at his watch and nodded. “All right. When I see him out on the cliffs, I’ll call him.”

  The twins rode in just in time to see Billy Jo and me climb into our saddles. They looked disappointed, which, compared to how Mattie looked, was not too bad.

  “See you at Clear Creek,” said Billy Jo.

  We rode out as Mattie and John were extolling the virtues of Clear Creek to their questioning children. I didn’t seem to be getting any better at riding. Everything from my hips down seemed to hurt. I imagined that meant that any hopes I had of becoming a rodeo rider had best be set aside. I was glad to let them go.

  All the way down the trail I looked for signs that someone had come up after we had, but I saw nothing. There was no one waiting for us at the truck and trailer and there were no car tracks or footprints on top of those we’d made coming in that morning.

  “You’re the keen-eyed Westerner,” I said to Billy Jo. “See any sign that we’ve had a guest?”

  “Not a one, Kemo Sabe.”

  I had her drop me off at the north end of Durango, just in case Orwell was watching the motel. I didn’t want him to know that she was involved in this matter. She raised a hand to her bruised lip. “If you ever change your mind about this other woman . . .”

  “I don’t plan to.”

  “But if you do . . .”

  “Half the men in Durango will hyperventilate if you just bat your eyes at them. Believe me.”

  “I’m not interested in half the men in Durango. She must be some kind of woman.”

  “She is.”

  I shut the door and she drove away. I walked south along Main Street thinking about Zee and worrying about tomorrow.

  — 24 —

  By the time I got to my motel, I’d worked a lot of the kinks out of my bones. It was beer time, so I had a couple out of my cooler while I thought things over.

  Both John and Orwell had said they wanted to talk. If they were telling the truth, John’s plan might work. Of course, people with vested interests in issues didn
’t always tell the truth. I ran four scenarios through my mind: John and Orwell were both telling the truth about wanting to talk; John and Orwell were both lying about wanting to talk; John was telling the truth and Orwell was lying; Orwell was telling the truth and John was lying.

  I thought some more. After a while, I decided to give up thinking, and went out for some food. I had stiffened up again and knew now why cowboys walk funny. I drove downtown past sidewalks full of tourists and had a steak at the Ore House. When in Steakland, eat steaks. I washed mine down with more Coors. Not bad.

  I was home brushing my teeth and still thinking when the phone rang. I recognized the voice.

  “I really don’t think you’re set up to trace this,” said my caller. “But just in case you are, I don’t plan to stay on the line. You want to talk to me, you go down to the Main Mall and go to the public phones there. When one of them rings, you answer it. Ten minutes.” The phone clicked in my ear.

  Ten minutes. I finished brushing my teeth, put on my straw hat, and went out into the neon night. I was in the Main Mall wondering if the guy wearing cowboy clothes and chatting on one of the telephones there was chatting on the one Orwell planned to use to call me when the man on the phone hung up and turned to me.

  “Hello, Mr. Jackson,” he said. “You’re right on time.” He gestured. “I thought this would be a good place for us to meet. Very public, no police that I can see, but a lot of civilians who might get hurt if either one of us tries to damage the other. Let’s take a walk along the street, shall we?” He ran his eyes over me. “I don’t see any sign that you’re armed. Are you?”

  I was looking at a young man with a drooping black moustache and the over-the-ears hairstyle seemingly favored by many young men in Colorado. He wore the hat, the boots, the denim jeans and jacket, and the plaid shirt that constituted the unofficial Durango uniform. I looked through the moustache and saw the face of Gordon Berkeley Orwell that I’d seen taken from the fax machine. If I were Max Carrados, could I have smelled spirit gum? Did people still use spirit gum to stick on false moustaches and the like?

  “I have a pocketknife and fingernail clippers,” I said. “Ah. I, on the other hand, have a pistol tucked away, so I imagine that gives me an edge, should I need it. Will I?”

  We walked out onto Main Street and turned right. The train depot was down that way a few blocks. “I don’t think you’ll need any firepower,” I said.

  “You must forgive me for telling you that I’d be calling on the mall phone. Tactics. Never let the enemy know your real plans. You understand.”

  “Yes. I talked to John Skye today. He’s willing to speak with you tomorrow. He thinks he can persuade you that you’re after the wrong guy. He thinks that once you are persuaded, you’ll go away.”

  “If he persuades me, you may be sure that I will do exactly that. What scenario does your friend have in mind?”

  I told him.

  We walked down the street, two men in Western hats glancing briefly into windows filled with turquoise and silver jewelry as we walked and talked.

  “So you plan to take me up there, eh?”

  “I know where Skye wants you to be before he’ll talk to you. I don’t think you can find the place by yourself.”

  “I don’t like going into places I haven’t scouted. I’m never sure about what might be waiting for me.”

  “You have that Beretta machine gun. You can keep that in my back while we’re hiking, if it will make you feel any safer.”

  He smiled. “So you know about the Beretta. Do you think your friend Skye will attempt to ambush us?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “How about someone else? You, for instance. Or will the police be waiting for me?”

  “I haven’t told the police about this. They botched things pretty badly out at the ranch.”

  “I should believe you, of course.” Two pretty girls came walking toward us. He stepped aside and they went between us. He never looked at them. “However, I make it a practice not to believe people too often. Tomorrow, you say?”

  “Yes. We should start up the trail no later than nine or so in the morning, if we’re to be out at the cliff in time.”

  “Where is this trail?”

  “You can get a map of the San Juan National Forest from the Forest Service. You’ll find the Goulding Trail going up the cliffs about halfway between Rockwood and Haviland Lake. They tell me that there are other trails going up, but that’s the only one I know, so that’s the one we’ll use.”

  “I have one of those maps. Describe the trail to me.”

  I did.

  “There’s a cabin near the top?”

  “Yes.”

  We walked. I thought that if I were Orwell, I wouldn’t like the idea of coming up the trail toward a cabin where someone I couldn’t see could see me and could be waiting. I remembered walking into villages in Vietnam and hating that very thought.

  “And up on top there’s another trail? Which way do we go?”

  “I’ll tell you that when we get there.”

  “Again, I must trust you, eh?”

  I was suddenly angry. “Who are you to be talking about trust? You’re the guy who almost killed me three times. I haven’t done a damned thing to you. Do you want to do this thing, or not?”

  “I don’t plan to get my ass blown off by some wacko professor or his friends, I’ll tell you that!” We came to the depot and pretended to look at advertisements for the Silverton train. After a while, he said, “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll meet you at the top. We can go the rest of the way together. You’re going to start up about nine?”

  I thought he would probably go up very early tomorrow morning, so he could scout the area before I got there. But I couldn’t be sure, and because I couldn’t be sure, he would be safe. He might even meet me at the bottom of the cliffs and go up with me, instead of going up earlier. He didn’t like to let the enemy know his real plans, after all.

  “I figure it will take me a couple of hours to hike up to the top. I’m not acclimatized to these altitudes.”

  “Nothing personal, but I’ll expect to search you when we meet, so don’t bring a weapon.”

  “Pocketknife and fingernail clippers. You, of course, will be dressed.”

  “Dressed,” he said. “I haven’t heard that expression since Jacksonville. The first time a guy told me he was dressed I didn’t know what he was talking about. Yes, I’ll be dressed. I will be a stranger in a strange land, after all, and if I’m going to have trouble, you’re going to have more. Please wait here for a few minutes. I will see you tomorrow at the top of the Goulding Trail.”

  I watched him walk away up the street. After he disappeared beyond the nearest crowd of tourists, I went to my car and drove to my motel, brooding all the way.

  — 25 —

  Early the next morning, I got into my car and drove to the Sheriffs Department.

  A deputy said the sheriff was in his office, spoke into a phone, and waved me through to the inner sanctum. The sheriff was chewing a matchstick. He pointed me to a seat. I asked him if they’d contacted the Jackson, Wyoming, police about Orwell renting a car there. The sheriff rolled his cigar to a corner of his mouth.

  “As a matter of fact, we did. That was a good idea of yours. Orwell rented a Chevy Blazer. Blue. We’ve got the license plate number, but we haven’t seen the car. Never knew there were so many blue Blazers in La Plata County until we started looking for this one.”

  “He might have changed the plates.”

  “We thought of that.”

  “You can’t stop them all.”

  “That’s right. Somebody back east said you were a cop once.”

  “A long time ago. Any other news from the east?”

  “Some. Orwell was an actor in high school and college. Liked to play roles where he could try to look like somebody else. No surprise there, is there? He looks different every time anybody reports seeing him. Hell, we don’t even know if
all these sightings really are Orwell.”

  I had seen him close up. I knew.

  “For all we know,” said the sheriff, “the real Orwell may be up there in the Tetons, camping out.”

  “Yeah, that could be,” I said. “But if it’s not Orwell, I don’t know who it could be. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. This Orwell fellow is on special leave of some sort. Seems he got hurt on some job—down south of the border someplace, nobody’s saying exactly where. His old man died a while back. The two of them were close, I guess. Then this summer, his sister pulls the plug on herself. Tough times for Orwell. Things seem to have piled up on him. His special leave seems to be for mental R and R. Could mean he’s slipped a cog. Could also mean nothing.” The sheriff shrugged his big shoulders, and a crooked smile played around his matchstick. “Ten-cent psychology. Worth a dime less than you pay for it.”

  I thought of Orwell’s mother, who had suffered losses as great, but, as is often the case with women, had not decided to kill someone because of them. I got up. “Thanks for your help. I’ll keep in touch. If I get any smarter, I’ll let you know.”

  Out on the streets of Durango, the tourists were enjoying themselves. Beyond the buildings, the rimrocked hills rose in wild purity toward a bird’s-egg-blue sky. The tourists did not know that a killer was perhaps walking among them, and the innocent earth did not care.

  Back at the motel there was a message to call Billy Jo. I decided against it, but as I did, the phone rang. It was Billy Jo.

  “My grandfather’s old .45 Colt Peacemaker is out here,” she said. “It must be a hundred years old, and it hasn’t been fired in years, but it still works. I could bring it in to you.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t want a gun.”

  “It’s better to have one and . . .”

  “No. There’s not going to be any shooting.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “I’m sure. I want us all to get out of this without anyone getting hurt.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Yes.”

  At eight o’clock, I parked at the foot of the Goulding Trail. There were car tracks leading farther ahead. I followed them on foot and came to a blue Chevy Blazer with New Jersey plates. It was tucked out of sight behind a clump of oak brush. I tried the doors. Locked. I tried an experimental call: “Orwell, come out, come out, wherever you are, and let’s get going!”