Blackbird

by Tom Wright

  ‘Okay, Jason, you know what we need now?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I think so,’ he said. ‘A clean twenty-ten.’

  ‘Which means – ?’

  ‘Lawyer-proof,’ he said. ‘I can get it to you by end of shift.’

  ‘But first, I think this woman’s husband is Andy Jamison, the computer guy, and I need somebody to find him and make the notification. You ever done that?’

  ‘Yes, sir, once.’

  ‘Then you know how it goes. If you’re going to get anything interesting in the way of a reaction, it’ll be when he opens the door and sees the uniform or when you hit him with the news, so stay alert. Pay attention to whether he wants to know what happened, when, where and why, or tries to talk you out of it really being her – all that stuff. If he doesn’t, he’s probably our best suspect. Either way, don’t act like you suspect him of anything, don’t get spiritual with him and don’t say you know how he feels. Just keep it simple and make sure he’s okay before you leave.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Hardy nodded and headed back downslope toward his cruiser.

  By now Hazen must have lost interest in my take, because he was nowhere to be seen. I looked around the scene one last time, as usual not wanting to walk away for fear of missing something. But I knew Wayne and his people were too good at what they did for that to be a legitimate worry.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, stripping off the gloves and stuffing them into my jacket pocket. ‘I’m going back to Three and get the paperwork started. Let me know if anything else turns up.’

  Mouncey moved to join me. ‘First time I ever seen you do that, Lou.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Send a kid blue to get first look at the old man.’

  ‘Maybe he’s not the usual kid blue,’ I said, but my mind wasn’t on the conversation. I was wondering exactly how crucifixion causes death and how long it takes to kill the victim.

  ‘So you be workin’ this one youself, boss?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ I said as we headed down the way Hardy had gone. ‘I wouldn’t want to fall into sloth.’

  Then I remembered Coach Bub again, a man who was never troubled by hesitation or self-doubt, and wondered what his advice would be if he were here. After that I thought of my friend Jonas McCashion, a history teacher, and the reason was no mystery. The title of his most recent book was The Blood Imperative: Barbarity Through the Ages, and I intended to track him down for a free consult.

  FOUR

  But between meetings, returning calls, catching up on scheduling and reports, getting a file started on the Gold homicide and trying my best not to think about going home, I managed to forget about Jonas that afternoon.

  And for whatever reason – maybe wanting to feel useful, maybe just wanting some air – I’d gone ahead with my decision to work lead on Gold’s case. Glancing at the board, I settled on Mouncey and Danny Ridout to help with the interviews. One of the reasons I wanted Mouncey was her uncanny way of making people feel they needed to explain themselves to her. I had no idea how she did it, but it made her one of the two or three best interviewers I’d ever known. Danny, on the other hand, had those big, innocent, disappointed eyes that just kept closing in on liars until they finally lost heart and gave up the truth. He and Mouncey had a weird chemistry of some kind that made them a good team, and they usually got results, but sending them out together was also good for a few laughs.

  Next I called Max Karras’ office to book an appointment for a consult with him later in the week, taking the first hour he had open. However, thanks to all the time I’d spent chitchatting while I waited in his outer office, I knew all about his secretary Andrea’s kids, her marital problems, and her never-ending war against weight gain, and we were pals. She didn’t hesitate to rat Max out, telling me he’d just had a cancellation and was playing online poker.

  ‘How much time has he got?’

  ‘About half an hour. Want me to get him for you?’

  When he picked up I said, ‘Bill me for a session, Max. I’ve got a case I want to talk to you about later, but right now you’re on my clock.’

  ‘What’s going on, Jim?’

  ‘These days everything pisses me off,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, fast out of the gate, like always,’ he said. ‘Any other depressive signs?’

  ‘Nothing tastes good.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll get to that, but first tell me what’s happening with you and Jana.’

  ‘I don’t know, Max,’ I said. ‘She’s still gone. I guess I’m just hoping she doesn’t learn not to care any more.’

  ‘And the girls?’

  ‘Taking it pretty hard,’ I said. ‘How are kids supposed to feel when their parents break up?’

  ‘I’d say it’s a little early to call this a break-up. Aren’t there still some options short of that?’

  ‘I’m not really sure. Maybe it’s Jana you should be asking.’

  ‘So you’re still blocked about the Flying S offer. What was it, fifty-one per cent?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Me running the place, Dusty and Rachel retiring on the other forty-nine percent.’

  ‘Begs the same old question: why are you still in town talking to a therapist about it instead of out there on your horse?’

  ‘I’m working on that, doc,’ I said. ‘Somehow I just can’t get it to feel like the thing to do.’

  Max grunted but said nothing.

  ‘And I keep getting these flashbacks – ’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Braxton Bragg. Football. All kinds of stuff.’

  ‘Kat?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Kat.’ I stared off into my memories for a minute, wondering why Max was asking about her . . .

  That Saturday – the day we met – the first thing Kat had said as we climbed into the Ford to head out to the farm was, ‘Pretty neat truck,’ adjusting her feet among the empty Dr Pepper cans, Snickers wrappers, chemistry and social studies books, and general clutter on the floorboard. ‘How’d you know where to kick the door?’

  ‘It’s always been the same place.’

  But eventually came the question I considered myself unqualified to answer: ‘What are your folks like?’

  ‘It’s just my Aunt Rachel, Dusty and Gran Esther,’ I said. ‘I work for Dusty on the farm after school except when I’ve got practice.’

  ‘So it’s like Rachel and Dusty adopted you?’ she said. ‘They sign your report card and send you to the dentist and make you pick up after yourself?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Just my cousin LA. She’s really Rachel’s daughter, but she’s always been more like a sister to me,’ I said, wondering if this sounded as inarticulate to Kat as it did to me. ‘She doesn’t live with us.’

  ‘LA?’

  ‘Short for Lee Ann.’

  ‘Pretty name,’ Kat said. She looked around at the countryside, drinking it in, everything new to her. ‘How come she’s not here too?’

  I thought of saying something about how a house usually isn’t big enough for two drunks, sober or not, but I didn’t, instead deciding the main truth in short form might actually leave me less explaining to do later. ‘Things aren’t really okay between her and Rachel,’ I said, ‘on account of what her stepfather was doing to her.’

  Kat stared at me for a minute and swallowed dryly. ‘You mean he – ’

  I had just looked blankly at Kat for a couple of seconds, trying to think of a good way to answer her, which must have been answer enough, because she’d nodded once and turned her face away.

  ‘I never really know what to say when somebody asks about that, Max,’ I said. ‘Which makes me feel like it’s always coming up. I’m not sure why I think I’ve got to make people understand, unless it’s that my family doesn’t seem to make any damn sense at all, at least to me, if you leave that out.’

  ‘What does Lee Ann think?’

  ‘She says secrets like that are toxic,
and we’ve swallowed enough of them for ten lifetimes.’

  ‘Point well taken,’ Max said. ‘How did Kat’s visit go from that point?’

  A couple of minutes after our non-conversation about LA, Kat and I turned into the drive and under the archway of the farm’s white-painted wrought-iron entrance gate, heading up the half-mile drive to the house. Rounding the curve, I saw Rachel’s green Volvo under the big loblolly behind the house and Dusty’s blue GMC longbed parked beside one of the tractors farther down toward the barns. I coasted into my usual spot next to the Volvo and crunched to a stop on the gravel.

  ‘Geez, what a beautiful house!’ Kat said, gaping at the fieldstone, cypress, glass and slate construction overhung by two dozen huge old oaks, the long gallery and the iris, tulip and jonquil beds Rachel had planted along the southern slope of the yard.

  We found Rachel at the bench in the potting shed, wearing jeans and an old red canvas shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a lock of hair down in her face. She squinted against the smoke from the Pall Mall dangling from her lips as she carefully broke up the rootball of the ivy she was re-potting. The air in the shed was dusty and cool and spoked with coppery sunlight angling through the latticed sidewall.

  ‘Hi, Aunt Ray,’ I said.

  ‘Hey, doll,’ she answered without looking up. ‘What’s goin’ on?’

  ‘I want you to meet somebody.’

  Rachel brushed the hair from her eyes with the back of her hand as she turned to face us, then took the cigarette from her mouth. ‘Well, would you look at this,’ she said. She stabbed the cigarette out in a jar lid on the bench, wiped her hands with a cloth and reached out to shake with Kat. ‘Hi, my name’s Rachel,’ she said. ‘I’m the farmer’s wife.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Katherine Dreyfus, but I go by Kat.’

  ‘And a yankee at that,’ said Rachel. ‘Where’d Biscuit find you, honey?’

  ‘At the Skillet,’ said Kat. ‘I watched him play last night. He was terrific.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, he’s that all right. Hell of a game, wasn’t it? But the more yards he gets, the harder it is to make him do his homework. Come on in, Kat. I’ll introduce you to Esther and get you something to drink. Biscuit, tell Dusty we’ve got company, will you?’ Tossing me a wink, she took Kat’s arm as they walked up the arboured flagstone path toward the back door of the house. ‘So, where you from, girl?’ I heard her say as they disappeared from sight.

  I found Dusty currying Mariel, a pregnant four-year-old Janus mare, in the paddock beside the first barn. Mariel and I were good friends because she trusted the way I saddled and handled her, and because I hardly ever forgot her treats. Waggling an ear, she eyed the sack I was carrying. Dusty glanced at me. ‘Say, podner, what’s up?’

  ‘Not much. I brought some company.’

  ‘Who is it?’ He stuck the comb under the stump of his left arm, picked up the towel and ducked under Mariel’s neck to take a close look at her offside eye, which had been crusting a little.

  ‘A girl I met,’ I said. ‘Her name’s Kat. She’s from Boston. I invited her for supper.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ he said. He wiped at the corner of the mare’s eye and she tossed her head impatiently. ‘Hope they like hamburgers in Boston, ’cause I think we’re out of scrod.’

  ‘I’ll cook tonight,’ I said, holding out a couple of carrot heads for Mariel and watching her take them delicately with her soft lips.

  ‘Doubt it’ll get you out of doing dishes.’

  ‘I know. I’ll still clean up.’

  ‘Then it’s all yours, cookie,’ he said, tossing me the comb and towel. ‘Put those up while I take her in and get her some oats, then we’ll go up and meet your friend.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, handing him the sack.

  ‘Oh, yes, my dear, yes!’ Gran Esther was saying to Kat as we came in. ‘Boston was a completely new universe for me – that cold, cold wind, but history simply everywhere, such wonderful museums, the moon coming right up out of the sea – I can see it now, just like it was yesterday!’

  Aunt Rachel was slicing tomatoes and onions at the breakfast bar, listening to the talk and smiling her absent little eavesdropping smile as Dusty and I got out of our boots in the entryway. I washed my hands at the sink beside her, then ripped open the two packages of hamburger she’d set out. Dusty had poured a cup of coffee and carried it around the open counter into the den, where I heard him say, ‘You must be the young lady from Boston.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Kat said, rising to walk over and shake his hand. ‘I’m Kat Dreyfus.’

  ‘Call me Dusty,’ he said. ‘You eat hamburgers?’

  ‘Quick as a mousetrap.’

  ‘Miss Dreyfus is on a journey of conscience,’ Gran Esther said, sipping her tea. ‘She’s helping the black people and the other poor folks.’

  Something caused me to shiver slightly as I worked spices and chopped onion into the meat. When that was done I padded out to the patio in my socks to get the fire started. The air was cool, the sun low and red beyond the oaks. An owl hooted sadly somewhere behind the house. Dumping charcoal into the grate, I saturated it with starter fluid and rummaged around for matches. When I had the fire going, I walked back inside where Rachel had the hamburger fixings laid out on plates along the counter.

  She said, ‘How’s it feel to be so far from home, Kat?’

  ‘It’s beautiful here,’ Kat had said. ‘Especially at night. I’ve never seen so many stars. Compared to the city, it seems so peaceful and safe – ’

  As I tried to describe this part of the conversation to Max now, the words died in my throat. After a silence he said, ‘Y’know, Jim, you’re dealing with some pretty knotty abandonment and mortality issues here – could that be what all this is about?’

  ‘Sounds like something LA would ask.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Max. ‘We’re lucky to have her.’

  He was right. She’d gotten me in to see him after diagnosing my depression a couple of years ago, and the two of them had been a hell of a tag team, having me surrounded before I could think of an evasion strategy. But I’d liked and trusted Max immediately because he was a smart guy, obviously not a bit afraid of whatever was wrong with me, and entirely unimpressed by my suffering. The first thing he’d said to me after introducing himself was, ‘So, Jim, how’s it feel to piss on your own grave?’

  Now: ‘Sounds like Kat and your folks really hit it off from the start – ’

  I said, ‘That was then – ’

  ‘Humour me,’ he said. ‘Where did things go from there?’

  Kat and I had been seeing each other every day since the District game, and I’d proudly introduced her to Johnny, the miserably envious Daz, and pretty much everybody else I knew. We rode the far places of the farm in Indian summer, past grazing Brangus and Charolais and sunning brood mares watching us with patient eyes, under windmills that creaked like cellar doors in their tireless turning, through woods as high and silent as cathedrals, across pasturelands where the wind ran through the grass in waves that chased and overran and re-crossed each other until they lost themselves in the hills.

  On a golden Saturday afternoon we let the horses graze as we lay back under the old willows by the Far Pond listening to the goggle-eyes take insects from the smooth surface with little smacking sounds. Pale peach and ivory coloured clouds piled on themselves to the highest reaches of the sky, and the gently sloping bluegreen fields stretched away endlessly into the long afternoon. The heartbroken call of a dove drifted across the water from the cottonwoods along the opposite shore, and swallows dipped, climbed and turned in the cooling air.

  Without opening her eyes Kat said, ‘It’s really sweet being out here. How far are we from the house?’

  ‘About three and a half miles.’

  ‘Wow. How much of it is the farm?’

  ‘Everything you can see from here. A little over nine thousand acres.’

  ‘Must be a lot of work.’

  ‘Sometimes.�
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  Pointing to the cupped brown nests in the dry cattail stalks fringing the shallow end of the pond, she said, ‘Did blackbirds build those?’

  ‘Yeah, redwings,’ I said. ‘Soldier-birds, some people call them, because of those little stripes on their shoulders.’

  ‘We have them back home,’ Kat said. ‘At least I think they’re the same. But I’ve never seen them up close like this – they’re beautiful.’

  ‘They say some of the Indians thought they called people away from life, like “Time’s up”, off to the Happy Hunting Ground or something.’

  ‘Then we better not listen.’

  Kat played classical guitar, and sometimes brought her Ibañez along on our rides. She’d make up songs about things that caught her attention along the way, like the one she called ‘What Colour Is Time?’, about the green hills around us and how long they’d been there, waiting and watching for other colours to come.

  Another time she told me about having a nanny named Estrella from Guadalajara when she was a little girl, and asked me in perfect Spanish how I learned the language.

  ‘Mainly just hanging around with the hands – a lot of them are from Mexico,’ I said. ‘Porque lo preguntas? ’

  ‘I’ve heard you and your family talking to them,’ she said. ‘Es una lengua hermosa. Es un mundo hermoso aqui.’

  And she was right. I looked away across the fields and valleys, thinking about how beautiful it all was and wondering why I’d never seen it like this before.

  She made a couple of tuning adjustments on the guitar, strummed and chorded randomly for a while, then found her key. ‘There’s about a thousand versions of this one,’ she said. ‘See if you’ve heard it like this – Estrella used to sing it to me sometimes, like a lullaby.’

  Ay, ay, ay, ay

  Canta y no llores

  Porque cantando se alegran,

  Cielito Lindo, los corazones.

  Este Cielito Lindo

  Lindo Cielito que canto aqui

  Viene de la huasteca cielito lindo

  Solo por ti

  Que tu estas dentro

  Tierra de las aztecas

  Cielito Lindo, que Dios nos hizo

  Son esas tres huastecas