Blue Lonesome

by Bill Pronzini

  “Lynette, I’m about to tell you something we found out last night, something nobody knows except Jim and me and Lonnie.”

  “Found out—?”

  “Dave was molesting Tess.”

  “Oh Jesus!”

  “It’s true. For a month or more before he died.”

  “You mean he—”

  “No, he didn’t rape her. Touched her, that was as far as it went.”

  “Touched her.” Lynette slumped onto one of the chairs. Anger puckered her mouth, drew the skin tight over her cheekbones. “I should’ve known,” she said.

  “He did the same with Karen, didn’t he.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many times?”

  “Just once. She told me right afterward; I taught her right.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Went after him with a butcher knife. He took it away from me before I could cut him. Then he tried to laugh the whole thing off. Said I was making a mountain out of a molehill.” She took a long, nervous swallow from her beer. Foam dribbled from a corner of her mouth; she didn’t bother to wipe it away. “I’d been out at the store and Karen was in the tub. He walked in on her … just wanted to help her wash, he said … fuckin’ pervert. Bad enough with her, but his own little girl …”

  “Why didn’t you report him to the sheriff?” Messenger asked.

  “What good would it’ve done?” she said bitterly. “That kind of charge against a Roebuck in this town? Besides, I couldn’t put her through a thing like that, all the damn questions. If he’d actually raped her … but just messing around, her word against his … I couldn’t do it. Best thing for us was to get shut of that pig and just forget it ever happened.”

  “You told Joe about it.”

  “No. Karen told him. Blurted it out. If I hadn’t been there to calm him down, he’d have been the one to blow Dave’s head off. I should’ve let him get his gun, even if he is my brother. Then Tess might still be alive.”

  “Maybe you only stopped him temporarily.”

  “No. I told you before, it wasn’t Joe. He brooded about it, sure, who wouldn’t? And when he saw Dave at the Hardrock he lost it and started beating on him. But that’s all he did. He’d never hurt a kid, not in a million years.”

  “Neither would Anna,” Dacy said. “She didn’t kill either of them. I’m as sure of that now as you are about Joe.”

  Lynette blinked up at her. “Dave,” she said. “He would.”

  “Would what?”

  “Hurt a kid. Molesting his own flesh and blood is hurting her, isn’t it? Not much of a step from that to worse. What if he tried to … you know, with Tess, and she got free and ran off to tell on him? What if he busted her skull with that rock to keep her quiet? And Anna came home and saw it or saw him putting her in the well?”

  “My God.”

  “It could’ve happened that way, couldn’t it? He’s the one who killed Tess and that’s why Anna killed him?”

  23

  THE WILD HORSE Casino was closed. Parking lot empty, windows dark, the high bucking stallion frozen and lightless.

  “Damn!” Messenger said. “They must’ve shut down because of John T. Now we’ll have to go out to the gypsum mine to talk to Draper and Teal.”

  “Don’t jump the gun, Jim. Casino bar’s not the only place in town with a big-screen TV.”

  “How many others?”

  “Two. Murphy’s and the Hardrock Tavern.”

  “Will either of them be open?”

  “Both. They’re shitkicker bars; they wouldn’t have shut down the day after Christ died.”

  “Which one’s closer?”

  Dacy said, “Murphy’s,” and swung the Jeep into an illegal U-turn across the highway.

  Except for sporadic traffic passing through, the town had an empty look and feel. No pedestrians, not many parked cars, most of the businesses along Main—even the ones that normally stayed open late—closed and dark. Town in mourning for its boss hog, he thought. That was part of it, anyway; the other part was fear. Three brutal murders in less than a year, including the last two surviving members of one of Beulah’s pioneer families. People had closed ranks, locked windows and doors, dusted off pistols and rifles and shotguns. Their fear made them angry and skittish, and the combination of all three made them dangerous. It was a bad time for him to be roaming around here with night coming on, even in Dacy’s company. They’d turned on Anna, one of their own, and hounded her out of Beulah and eventually into oblivion in a tubful of bloody water. It wouldn’t take much for them to turn on the man they blamed for John T.’s murder, an outsider, a pariah. And if that happened, they wouldn’t settle for just driving him away.

  The wind was hot and abrasive against his face as they dipped downhill past the new high school. He tasted the dryness, felt the tension in his body. But he wasn’t afraid. Fear all around him, hidden and gathering, but none in him. It occurred to him that he was no longer in a state of crisis or flux; no longer the same person he’d been a week ago, and not even a shadow of the one he’d been before Ms. Lonesome came into his life. The internal forces had finished their work and the changeling process was complete. Thirty-seven years old, and he’d finally gone through the chrysalis stage—his own personal rite of passage.

  Dacy’s voice dragged him out of himself. “… Lynette said before we left?”

  “What?”

  “Before we left her. What she said about Dave killing Tess and Anna shooting him because of it. You think it could’ve happened that way?”

  “No,” he said. And yet … “And you don’t either.”

  “Tell me why I don’t. Ease my mind.”

  “If it’d happened that way, why wouldn’t she have admitted it? The only reason to keep quiet would be to hide the abuse, and at that point it didn’t matter. She wasn’t that much of a martyr, was she?”

  “Wasn’t a martyr at all,” Dacy said. “She’d have admitted it, all right. She never wanted pity, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to deal with than hatred and suspicion.”

  Not that way, no. But suppose …

  Draper and Teal weren’t at Murphy’s, a roadhouse on the flats below the shopping center: None of the half dozen pickups parked on its front lot was white. Both Messenger and Dacy were silent as she wheeled the Jeep back onto the highway heading north. The sky to the west, where the sun was sliding down toward the jagged crest of Montezuma Peak, was streaked with crimson and orange—fire colors, like the blaze that had consumed the skeletons of Anna’s ranch. Cloud puffs in that direction had dark red underbellies, as if they had been used like cotton swabs to mop up blood.

  Back through the empty town, past the High Desert Lodge. A sheriff’s cruiser passed them there, but the driver wasn’t Ben Espinosa and he paid them no attention. Downhill and onto the northern plain. Pale flickering neon—the outlines of a blue miner with a red pick and a yellow gold pan—jutted from the roof of the Hardrock Tavern, marking its location when they were still some distance away. A cavvy of motorcycles and a dozen pickups and four-by-fours jammed front and side lots. He began scanning for the white pickup even before Dacy turned in.

  Two white trucks. And the second of the two, near the end of the side lot, had a broken radio antenna.

  Dacy parked across from it, in the only available space. When she shut off the Jeep’s engine, Messenger could hear the throb of country music and the muted jumble of voices from inside the low-slung building.

  She caught hold of his arm, stopped him from getting out. “No, you wait here. I’ll bring them.”

  “Bring them? Why not talk to them inside?”

  “We’re doing this my way, remember?”

  “I’m not arguing, just wondering.”

  “It’s crowded in there,” she said. “The two of us walk in together and you’re recognized, we might not get a chance at Draper and Teal. You understand what I mean?”

  She’d been sensitive to it, too, driving through town—the fear and nervo
us anger, the potential danger. He nodded and said, “I understand.”

  “All right. Just stay put until you see the three of us by the pickup. Then walk on over.”

  She was inside the tavern less than five minutes. When she came out she had two men with her, both in their thirties and rough-dressed, one sporting a thick freebooter’s beard. She spoke animatedly to them, gesturing with her hands, as she led the way to the white pickup. The bearded one bent to peer at the driver’s side door, the side farthest away from the roadhouse. Messenger, out of the Jeep and approaching at a fast walk, heard him say, “What the hell? I don’t see any dent. There ain’t even a scratch.” The voice was the same one he’d heard on the phone pretending to be Herb Mackey.

  The other man, red-haired and wiry, saw him first. “Christ, Billy, look who’s coming.”

  Billy Draper straightened; the two men stood staring at Messenger as he slid around the pickup and joined Dacy. She had positioned herself at the front of the truck, her back to the west; that put the glare of the setting sun in the eyes of the two miners. There was no room for them to sidestep in the narrow space between the pickup and the four-by-four next to it. All they could do was squint and raise shading hands.

  “You’re Dacy Burgess,” Draper said to her. “Yeah, I thought you looked familiar. What’s the idea, Dacy? You and this dickhead up to something?”

  “We’re after the answers to some questions.”

  “Yeah? Well, we’re fresh out.”

  “You haven’t heard the questions yet.”

  “Don’t matter. We’re still fresh out.”

  “Who paid you to set that snake trap at Mackey’s?”

  “Snake trap? What’s she yammering about, Pete?”

  “Beats me,” Pete Teal said. “Drunk or stoned, maybe.”

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, boys.”

  Almost casually Dacy slid a hand under the loose tails of her shirt, brought it out filled with a short-barreled revolver. Messenger was as taken aback as Draper and Teal. He might have expected that this was the sort of tactic she’d use, a pure Western improvisation, but he hadn’t. Babe in the desert, she’d called him earlier. Right.

  The gun made Teal twitchy; his gaze was fixed on it and his hands moved jerkily up and down the legs of his Wrangler jeans. Draper’s reaction was one of angry bluster. He said, “Who’re you kidding, honey? You ain’t gonna shoot nobody with that thing.”

  “You think? Check out where it’s aimed, Billy. Take one step this way, you’ll spend the rest of your life half-cocked.”

  “Big talk.”

  “Take the step then.”

  Staredown.

  Neither the revolver nor her hard-bright eyes wavered. Messenger had known there was a core of steel in her, but he hadn’t realized just how deeply forged it was. He kept learning things about her, and one of them was that there was a lot she could teach him, a lot he wanted her to teach him. Listen and learn, listen and yearn.

  Draper recognized the steel in her, too; he didn’t move. Teal kept rubbing his pants legs, staring at the revolver. When Draper said, “Hell with you and your gun, mama,” the words came out sounding more sullen than angry. “We don’t have to tell you nothing.”

  “You do if you want to stay out of jail.”

  “Jail, shit. We never even been to Mackey’s and you can’t prove different.”

  “I’m not talking about Mackey’s. I’m talking about John T. Roebuck’s murder last night.”

  That jump-started Teal. He flapped an arm and said, “Hey! We didn’t have nothing to do with that.”

  “Looks to me like maybe you did.”

  “No way. Listen—”

  He broke off because a bright red four-by-four had come sliding into the parking lot and was swinging around toward where the four of them stood. Dacy lowered the revolver, hid it behind her leg, as the four-by-four—a Chevy Blazer—slewed into a space near the Jeep. Two men got out. Hanratty and Spears. Hanratty’s wheels tonight, with him driving.

  “What’s goin’ on over there?” Hanratty called. He sounded drunk and looked drunk: unsteady on his feet, red-faced, his shirt partly untucked.

  Dacy called back, “Just a friendly conversation. Isn’t that right, boys?”

  “That’s right,” Teal said. “No problem here.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “Like the lady said. Buy you and your buddy a beer when we’re done, all right?”

  “Whiskey tonight. Honor of John T. You hear about John T.?”

  “We heard.”

  “Son of a bitch there, that city boy, it wasn’t for him John T.’d still be alive.”

  Nobody said anything to that. Hanratty’s red face took on a belligerent expression; he started in their direction. Messenger tensed. But Tom Spears wasn’t as drunk as Hanratty, or as inclined to be vindictive. He said in lugubrious tones, “Unpin your ears and let your hackles smooth down, Joe. We come here for whiskey, not hassle.”

  Hanratty muttered something, glaring at Messenger. But he held on to his temper, and after a few seconds he let Spears prod him away to the tavern.

  Teal said to Dacy, “I’ll tell you again: We didn’t have nothing to do with any killing. We was at the King mine last night and we can prove it.”

  “Maybe you can. But concealing evidence makes you accessories.”

  “Evidence? What evidence?”

  “Name of the person who paid you to set that snake trap.”

  Draper said, “Back to that.”

  “That’s right, back to that. Who was it? John T.?”

  “Hillary Clinton.”

  “Jim,” Dacy said, “you take the Jeep and go fetch the sheriff. I’ll hold these boys here until you get back.”

  “Right.” Messenger started away.

  Teal flapped an arm again. “Wait a minute,” he said, “wait a minute. Leave the goddamn sheriff out of this. All me and Billy did—”

  “Shut up, Pete, for Chrissake.”

  “All we did was a favor for a friend, just a favor. Even if one of them snakes’d bit him, he wouldn’t’ve died from it. Just scare him into leaving town, I swear that’s all it was.”

  “What friend? Name him.”

  “John T.,” Draper said. The sun had gone down and he was no longer squinting or shading his eyes; he seemed more sure of himself. “Yeah, it was Roebuck. He come out to the mine and give us two hundred bucks to set up the trap. You satisfied now?”

  Dacy asked Teal, “That right, Pete? It was John T.?”

  “Right. That’s who it was.”

  For some time there had been a slow spread of realization and understanding in Messenger’s mind, like oil being poured through a funnel. Now it was as complete as his rebirthing process. He said flatly, “No, it wasn’t.”

  “You asked us, we told you,” Draper said. “You don’t believe it, that’s your lookout.”

  “It wasn’t John T. He went out to the mine to see you, all right, but not until afterward—yesterday or the day before. He knew who drove a white pickup with a broken antenna; he must’ve seen you around the casino. He asked the same question: Who put you up to the trap? And you told him. If he gave you money, that’s what it was for.”

  “Man, you’re full of crap.”

  Dacy said, “Jim?”

  “That’s exactly how it was,” he said. “They’re lying mostly to protect themselves and partly to protect their friend. They told John T. and it made him mad as hell. He got in touch with the friend and they arranged a meeting at Anna’s ranch. And it wasn’t the first time. Come on, Dacy, we’re leaving.”

  “What about these two?”

  “They won’t follow us. Not if they want to stay out of jail.”

  “You hear that, Billy? Pete?”

  Neither man answered. Neither moved as Messenger, with Dacy behind him, circled the pickup and went across to the Jeep. They were still standing there, growling at each other now, when she drove out to the highway entrance.

&nb
sp; “All right,” she said, “where to now?”

  “Back into town.” And when she’d made the turn: “The sprig of verbena that was found in Tess’s hand—what color were the flowers?”

  “What color … Jesus, Jim!”

  “Tell me what color.”

  “White. White flowers.”

  “Her Sunday dress was white, too.”

  “What does that have to do with—?”

  “How big is a verbena plant? What does it look like?”

  “Not tall—foot high or so. Spiky branches with a lot of little flowers in clusters. Now for God’s sake will you tell me what’s in your head?”

  “The truth,” he said grimly. “I’m pretty sure I know who committed the murders. And I think I know why.”

  THE TROUBLE CAME while they were stopped at an intersection near the top of the hill, waiting for the red signal light to change.

  He had just begun an explanation. As inwardly focused as he was, he wasn’t aware of the vehicle roaring uphill behind them until Dacy said, “Shit!” and smacked the steering wheel with her fist. High-beam lights slashed through the rapidly settling dusk, filled the Jeep for a few seconds, then cut away as the oncoming car changed lanes. When it skidded up next to them in the inside lane he saw that it was the red Blazer with Joe Hanratty at the wheel and Tom Spears beside him.

  Hanratty’s belligerence had escalated into a rage, with or without the prod of more whiskey. He leaned across Spears and hurled spittle along with half-slurred words: “Not gonna get away so goddamn easy. Pull over, Dacy.”

  “No,” she said. “We got nothing to say to each other.”

  “Pull over, I mean it.”

  “Don’t make trouble, Joe. I mean that.”

  “Listen, you and that city bastard—”

  The light flashed green. The highway ahead was empty; Dacy made the mistake of popping the clutch and accelerating, an action that served only to provoke Hanratty. Messenger, half turned in his seat, saw the Blazer’s tires spin black smoke, heard and smelled rubber burning as they caught traction. The four-by-four rushed up on them, yawing so wildly that its front end scraped the Jeep’s side before Hanratty was able to bring it under control. It shot ahead by twenty yards. Then its brake lights brightened and it swung toward them again, deliberately this time.