by Tabor Evans
Although he had noticed the large portrait earlier in the evening, he had not had the opportunity to comment upon it. As he approached the soft circle of steady light thrown by the candle, Jessica saw that his eyes were fixed on the painting.
"That's my mother," she said proudly. "She died when I was very young."
"I'm sorry," Longarm said. He did not mention that the file Billy Vail had given him back in Denver had such information between its covers.
"Some say that death is just awakening from the dream that is life," Jessica murmured.
"Did Ki teach you that?" Longarm asked, thinking of boys killed in wars, and of dreams of such boys.
"No," Jessica smiled, turning from the portrait, to face Longarm. "My father taught me that."
So close to her now, close enough to breathe in the fragrance of her hair, Longarm could see that she had been weeping. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks tear-stained. Tears had also stained the front of the long robe she was wearing. The robe was of sheerest silk, colored pale lavender. Her feet, beneath the hem of the robe, were bare. Was she bare as well, beneath the robe?
Jessica gestured toward Longarm's hand. "What have you got there?"
He looked down in surprise. He had forgotten he was holding the bottle of Maryland rye. He held it up to the candle's light so that the amber whiskey's color would please her. "Take a drink," he coaxed, "and tell me why you were crying."
"It's nothing…" she began tentatively, and then stopped to shake her head, as if at the foolishness of such a statement. "If it's nothing, then why am I crying over it, I know, I know…"
Longarm chuckled. "Took the words right out of my mouth. Look, problems can be solved." His head was full of what he was sure was worrying her. She'd lost her foreman and a bunch of hands. The roundup was coming, and the running of such a huge spread had to be the cause of her anxiousness. "If you'd like, tomorrow we can ride into Sarah together, to see who's available to be hired. If you think about it, one of your top hands right here might be able to handle the job."
"You're very kind to be concerned," Jessica said. Before the fireplace was a fur throw rug in front of a sofa. She sat on the sofa with her back against the armrest and her legs curled beneath her. Patting the sofa, she said, "Sit down and give me your bottle. I think I will have a drink." She tilted the bottle, taking tiny sips from it, as she explained that she'd already appointed one of her hands as foreman, and that the Circle-Star had more than enough men to handle the roundup. "My father taught me to shoot and ride and rope, Longarm, but he didn't neglect my brain. Maybe it was because he'd always wanted a son. I don't know… Anyway, I know all about how the cattle business works, as well as all the other businesses my father owned, which I've inherited. I fully intend to run them all myself," she trailed off. "Someday…" She stared at the fireplace. cold and empty as a mineshaft. "I wish it were fall. I could do with a roaring fire. I could do with being able to gaze into the flames."
"Why were you crying?" Longarm persisted. "Why must you wait to take control of your father's empire?"
Jessica looked at him. "I have to answer your questions with some of my own, but be patient and answer me honestly, and you'll find out what you want to know. Longarm, suppose you capture the men who killed my father — what happens then?"
Longarm shrugged. "They'll stand trial, of course."
"And if duly convicted they will be hanged." Jessica nodded. "But what if they were merely the muscles that pulled the triggers? What if the brain that ordered them to do the deed belonged to someone else?"
"You folks in Texas sure have a funny way of talking," Longarm muttered. He reached for the bottle and took a swig. "Reckon what you're asking is, what if this gang has a boss that sent them out to do their dirty deed? If that's the case, I'll arrest the boss as well, if I can dig up the proof that links him to the gang."
"And what if that boss has yet another boss? A boss far away? What if that boss can't be touched?" Her smile was warm. "Not even by a federal lawman?"
"I think you've got more than a 'what if situation on your pretty little mind," Longarm said. "What you're talking about is a conspiracy."
"What's on my mind, Mr. Longarm of the law, is not at all a conspiracy, but a war. A war in which my father was a casualty." She paused. "And not the first."
"Tell me why you were crying, Jessie."
"Because they think that killing my father has ended the war. It hasn't, Longarm." She stared into his eyes, her expression in the candlelight both fierce and beautiful. "I'm crying because I've got to prove to them that the war isn't over, and that means I've got to do some things — live my life — in a way I'd never planned, in a way I don't really want. It means I've got to fight, and kill, even though those things are not what women are meant for."
"What are women meant for?" Longarm asked.
"For love," Jessica whispered, her eyes now bright, liquid, emerald-hued as her mother's. "But before I can love," Jessica finished, "I must hate."
Longarm was silent, pondering what he'd been told. Finally he said, "Two things are on my mind. Number one, I'm sorry for saying that your mind was pretty and little. That just sort of slipped out. Your mind is certainly not little. The second thing on my mind is" — he grinned — "I haven't got the slightest idea what you're talking about. Why don't we eat this apple…"
"…one bite at a time!" Jessie chimed in before giving vent to her rich laugh. "Oh, Longarm" — she reached out to squeeze his hand — "I'm glad you're here. I might have gone insane if you hadn't showed up."
"Well, you going to start from the beginning?"
"From the beginning," Jessie declared. "From the first bite of the apple."
"Whoa now…" Longarm chuckled. "That's a little too far back. As I recollect it, that was Eve who took that bite."
Jessica Starbuck didn't laugh. "That's true. That first bite out of the apple came about because of temptation. Temptation brought about the start of the trade wars between my father and his enemies."
"I assume the start of your father's troubles was in the Japans?" Longarm asked.
Jessie nodded as she rose to fetch two glasses from a sideboard. "Would you prefer brandy to your bottle of rye?"
"This here suits me fine, thank you."
"I'll stick with the rye as well," she said, and then continued to tell her story as she returned to the sofa. "You have to try and picture what the Japanese were like when Commodore Perry's fleet sailed into their harbor. The Japanese had kept all Western influence out of their country for two hundred years. Two hundred! Think about it, Longarm. They'd conquered the Okinawans, as Ki told you. But he neglected to mention that they were, for all practical purposes, the overlords of the Chinese as well. They were the masters of their part of the world, and they thought that because the rest of the world was beneath their interest, their paradise would be left undisturbed."
"Paradise for the Japanese, maybe," Longarm pointed out. "But not so wonderful for the Okinawans and Chinese under the Japanese thumb."
"Spoken like an American." Jessica grinned. "Like a lawman. But that's how it was, at least, for the Japanese. Then America steamed up to their front door. My father was just a sailor, but he saw his chance, and fate was kind to him. By the time he'd returned to our own West Coast, and convinced enough wealthy businessmen to lend him the money he needed to buy up import and export rights, the civil war in the Japans was in full swing."
"I reckon there were fellows in the Japans who were all for tossing us foreigners out on our ears. Those Japanese fellows were most likely the fat cats. They had things sewed up nice and neat. Then along comes America and Europe, wanting a piece of the pie."
"A samurai — that's a warrior, a man a lot like you, Longarm — once said, 'If you understand on situation, you understand all.' You've proven him right. The Japanese civil war was fought by a group of conservative men who had everything to lose if the traditional order of things was changed. To be fair, they were also concerned abo
ut losing their heritage." She paused. "Heritage is very important to the Japanese. To the samurai, especially," she added sorrowfully.
"But the old order lost, as it did in our country's Civil War?" Longarm interjected.
"Yes, the Shogunate was overthrown by an alliance of progressive-minded lords and samurai fighting under the banner of the young Emperor Meiji. A city called Edo became the nation's new capital, and was renamed Tokyo to commemorate the nation's change."
"And your father rode the Japans like a man rides and breaks a bucking horse."
Jessica stared into her glass. She had drunk too much. The whiskey had loosened her resolve, allowing the memories she'd kept locked away to rise. She remembered her father when he was young and strong. In her heart she saw him the way he must have been during that wonderful time when his thick blond hair had blown in the wet winds coming off Tokyo Bay. Her father had brought her fine silk kimonos and painted fans like jewels — trappings more exquisite than any princess's adornment pictured in the storybooks of her childhood. He had told her about houses built of paper, and about warriors who made fierce faces and crowed like ogres as their glittering blades flashed through the clear blue sky like lightning bolts. Since her father's death she had banished the memories of the way he had held his small daughter upon his knee, regaling her with tales that allowed her to see and smell the pink cherry blossoms falling like snowflakes, and taste the sweet plum wine…
"Jessie?" Longarm whispered. "If it hurts you to talk about it, let's not." He poured himself more rye. "Memories can hurt."
She shook herself. "My father did ride and break the Japans," she began again. "He branded his presence onto that land the way a hot iron sears the hide of a steer, or an artist's brush sweeps across white canvas." She glanced at her mother's portrait. "During that time, while back in America, he met my mother and they married. I was born in San Francisco. That's where the original Starbuck office was established. Things went very well. Not only for my father, but for other American and European businessmen. The British built miles of railroad in the Japans. The French and Germans had a fair share of commerce as well."
"There's no such thing as a fair share when you're talking business and commerce," Longarm said. "Two men might be working their claims on opposite sides of a mountain, all of a sudden one figures half a mountain isn't nearly enough, he wants the whole pile of rock for himself."
"And he'll try and take the whole mountain if he thinks he can get away with it," Jessie agreed. "The trouble began in the late sixties. The depression of the seventies was just beginning, and money was growing tight. My father was overextended. The men who had lent him money were beginning to feel the pinch so many Americans would soon feel. He and my mother were in danger of losing everything for which they had worked so hard."
"Of losing what they were trying to build for you?" Longarm asked.
"Yes." Jessie blushed. "Of course my future was weighing heavily upon their minds. Remember, I told you that like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, my father's troubles began with temptation? Well, in those days he owned no clipper ships of his own, but leased ships from others. A group of European businessmen, Prussians, approached him with an offer. They were willing to sublease from my father all of his ships, at a price three times what he had been paying. The profit was enough to get him out of his immediate money problems. He accepted the Prussians' offer." Jessica's voice began to tremble. "There was, of course, good reason for the Prussians to be willing to pay my father so much. Their cargo was very precious. The Europeans were shipping slaves to America, Longarm. Chinese slaves, stolen from their homeland by the Prussians with the help of certain Japanese warlords."
"Your father knew what he was contributing to?" Longarm asked.
"Of course not. The manifests the Prussians supplied my father with listed the cargo as bolts of silk and other goods. Once he found out what was going on upon his ships he put a stop to it, but oriental philosophy says that a man is not excused from blame because he is ignorant of his part in some wrongdoing." She looked away.
"Well, my philosophy says you can't right a wrong till you know about it," Longarm scolded. "Your father did no more business with them, right?"
"He tried not to, Longarm, but once the Prussians had their claws into him they refused to let him go. They needed my father's cooperation to establish themselves in America. They considered our country ripe for the taking, and they believed in taking what they could. That's what you've got to understand about these men," she pleaded, her voice grown strong and intense. "They believe that a few men are destined to rule all men. They dismiss as foolishness the idea that men are created equal. They want to rule the world as they've ruled parts of Europe for so long, and they will do anything to get what they want!"
"Like murdering your father, Jessie? Or having him murdered?"
She smiled grimly. "One bite at a time, Longarm, remember? When my father refused their advances upon his business, they began to strike at his interests in the Orient. Old friends of his were at first coerced, and then, if they refused to listen out of loyalty to my father, they or members of their families were killed. My father, meanwhile, had branched out into Europe, and began to give as good as he got," Jessie added proudly. "Ships were hijacked on both sides. Private armies sprang up. Trade wars uncondoned by any government, but just as bloody as those between countries, were waged. The battles were fought with violence, paid for and protected with money. Nobody interfered. Nobody could. Nobody dared. Money bought silence. Men fought and died and the world was none the wiser. It might have gone on like that forever, just another expense to add to the profit-and-loss sheets, the lives of a lost crew memorialized by a few ink marks in a ledger." She paused. "My father has done many wonderful things, Longarm. But please understand that what I've told you about him tonight is not something I'm proud of."
"Men make mistakes in their lives, like I told you, Jessie," Longarm said quietly. "If your father did some bad things, so be it. He's dead now. I reckon that ledger you were speaking of shows he had more marks on the credit side of the page." He longed for a smoke, but he dared not leave the room to get one, thinking that if he left Jessie's side, the spell would be broken and she would pull back into the shell she'd built around herself in order to survive. "You said the war, the sea and land battles, the hijackings between the two sides might have gone on forever. What happened?"
"I now know that in a war, everyone is fair game," she said bitterly. "My father didn't understand that, but then he'd had little experience in such matters. For the Europeans it was old hat. They bided their time, waiting for the proper moment to strike. It came when my parents voyaged to Europe on business and for a holiday. I was too young to make the journey with them, of course. The authorities there said it was an accident, and my father, for all of his power, was far from home. He could not make them change their ruling. My father and mother were crossing a street. A carriage came from around a corner. Supposedly it was out of control. It careened into their path — four maddened horses dragging behind them steel-rimmed wheels. My father suffered minor injuries, but my mother…" Jessica looked at Longarm and smiled sadly. "Thinking about it, it seems so naive of my parents to have traveled into the lion's den, so to speak. But in those days — and even until the day he died — my father was a curious mixture of shrewdness and innocence. And back then, when it had happened, the idea of rivals striking at one's immediate family — well, even if my father had wanted to live his life in a fortress, my mother would not have allowed it." Jessie looked up at the portrait above the fireplace. She gazed at the women whose spirit seemed to live in her own green eyes. "My mother was not the sort of woman who would allow herself to be caged."
"Her murderers went unpunished?"
"You don't — didn't know my father if you can ask that," Jessie declared. "The actual assassins, the men who did the deed for money, were beneath my father's notice. He found out which of his Prussian enemies had ordered the
attempt. The man who'd hatched the plot, a count, had a son, a young man in his twenties, who would fall heir to his father's holdings and power. The boy was a fop, a lover of high society and nightlife. On the eve of his sailing back to America, my father, all alone, trailed the young man until he came upon him on a secluded street. With his bare hands he snapped the boy's neck, leaving the body in the gutter. Several days later, as the count mourned his loss, a package came to him via courier. It was the boy's handkerchief, embroidered with his family's crest. Tucked inside the cloth was my father's business card. On it he had written, 'With my compliments'…"
"Sweet Jesus," Longarm murmured, when he could find his voice.
"There was an uproar, of course," Jessie continued. "The count demanded justice." She laughed. "But by then my father was back in America. Back in his territory. The shoe was on the other foot. The death of the count's son went unavenged."
"But surely not for long?" Longarm began.
"Yes," she nodded. "Things calmed down. Maybe the shock of my father losing his wife and one of his enemies losing his son spoiled their taste for further violence. In any event, there were fewer battles. Business interests on both sides enjoyed undisturbed prosperity. Things remained that way up until the day they'd finished what they'd started on those European streets. Up until the day they murdered my father, here on his own ranch." Jessie tilted the bottle, pouring the last inch of rye into her glass. "We've drunk it all, I'm sorry…"
Longarm smiled and shook his head. "This was thirsty talk, woman." He thought about things for a moment, then said, "How do you know that your father's murder had anything to do with what you've told me? I don't mean to be unfeeling, but what proof do you have linking his European enemies to the shooting?"
Jessica stared at Longarm, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed, as if she were evaluating him and, at the same time, weighing an important decision. She rose from the sofa. Longarm saw the outline of her long, lithe body traced by the shimmering silk as she reached out to take his hand. "Come with me. I'm going to show you something." She held his eyes with her own. "Because I trust you."
