Beyond This Point Are Monsters

by Margaret Millar

  “What is that?”

  “It would invalidate the whole hearing if Robert were to turn up alive.”

  He thought of the blood in the mess hall, seeping be­tween the cracks in the floorboards and soaking into the soft pinewood and standing in puddles as though it had dripped from a leaky roof. “Mrs. Osborne, he’s not going to—”

  “Stop. I refuse to listen to you. What do you know about it, anyway?”

  “Nothing,” he said, wishing it were true. “Nothing.”

  She was staring down at the backgammon board, frowning, as if the game had begun again and it was her turn. “The police will be useless from now on. The hearing gives them the excuse they’ve been waiting for to drop the case completely. So it’s up to you and me.”

  “How do I come into it, Mrs. Osborne?”

  “You have a great many friends.”

  “Some.”

  “And relatives.”

  “A few.”

  “I wanted you to see that they get the message as soon as possible.”

  “What message?”

  “About the new reward. I decided to handle the details personally, without an intermediary like Mr. Ford.” Ford had, in fact, refused to be a party to it or even to discuss it with her. “It’s often occurred to me that the first reward was bungled. There were too many strings attached. This time I’ve offered to pay ten thousand dollars for any information at all concerning my son after he left the house that night.”

  “You’re letting yourself in for a lot of trouble.”

  “What have I got now? Do you think this isn’t trouble, not knowing whether your only child is dead or alive? But you wouldn’t understand. If something happened to Cruz, you’d still have Rufo and Felipe and Jaime and the twins. I had only Robert.” She went over to the cherrywood desk and opened one of the drawers. “I was looking through some old pictures tonight and found this . . . Do you remember?”

  It was a color snapshot, enlarged and framed, of a tall towheaded smiling boy in his early teens. He held a span­iel pup hardly bigger than his own hand, and the pup, too, seemed to be smiling. The picture was of youngness, boy­hood and puppyhood.

  “I took it the day he brought Maxie home with him,” she said. “Neither Mr. Osborne nor I cared much for dogs, but Robert coaxed and made such a fuss we had to let him keep it. He adored Maxie. He thought he was the luckiest boy in the world to find a pup out on the road like that.”

  “He didn’t find it on the road.”

  “It must have fallen from a passing car.”

  “Mrs. Bishop gave it to him.”

  “Robert found the dog on the road,” she repeated, “and brought it to the house. Your memory isn’t improving with the years, Estivar.”

  “No.” But he knew it wasn’t getting any worse either.

  the scene remained sharp and clear in his mind. It was late afternoon and he’d started out for the ranch house to check some bills with Mr. Osborne. The sounds of quar­reling struck his ears before he got as far as the garage.

  Either Mrs. Osborne hadn’t had a chance to close the windows and doors as she usually did or else she no longer cared who listened and what was overheard.

  “He’s to return it to her,” Osborne said. “Right now.”

  “Why?”

  “The dog’s obviously pure-bred and maybe pedigreed. She might have paid a hundred dollars for it, or more.”

  “She thinks Robbie is a fine boy and she’s only showing her appreciation.”

  “You always take his side, don’t you?”

  “He’s my son.”

  “He’s mine too. But no one would ever guess it, you’ve made such a softie out of him. He’s fifteen. When I was fifteen I was earning my own living, I had a couple of girl friends—”

  “Are you saying in all seriousness that you want Robert to grow up like you?”

  “What’s the matter with me?”

  “If you have plenty of time I’ll tell you.”

  Then the piano started—“March of the Toreadors,” “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” the pieces she played best and loudest. When Estivar returned to his own house he found Robbie sitting on the front porch with the pup cra­dled in his arms. For such a young dog it was very quiet and sober, as if it sensed that its presence was causing trouble.

  The boy said, “Are they fighting?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Bishops never fight.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me. She’s very nice. We both like animals a lot.”

  “Robbie, look. You’re getting to be a big boy now and—”

  “That’s what she said.”

  The fighting went on intermittently for weeks. To the extent that it was possible, Estivar avoided the ranch house. So did Robbie. He rose long before dawn to get his chores done early and then he went roaming around the countryside with the pup at his heels. He came back from one of these excursions with the story that his father had fallen off the tractor and was lying unconscious in a field. Mr. Osborne died five days later. He had a big funeral but no mourners . . .

  “it doesn’t matter now where he got the dog,” Estivar said. “It was a long time ago.”

  “And your memory has failed.”

  “If you say so, Mrs. Osborne.”

  She replaced the picture of the boy and pup in the desk drawer, handling it with care, as though it were still a negative that would vanish in the light.

  “He was always doing things like that,” she said, “res­cuing birds that had fallen out of nests, bringing home lost dogs. That will be the worst part, really.”

  “What will?”

  “When he comes back, telling him Maxie is dead. I dread that, I dread it terribly. I don’t suppose you’d tell him for me, would you, Estivar?”

  “Listen to me—”

  “I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  For a minute the silence in the room was so complete that Estivar could hear the fog falling from the eaves. “All right,” he said at last. “When he comes back I’ll tell him Maxie is dead.”

  “Thank you. That’s a load off my mind.”

  “You must try now to think of your own future, Mrs. Osborne.”

  “Oh, I am. In fact, I’ve been making plans for a trip to the Orient.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Robert’s always loved Chinese food. And of course he won’t want to go back to the ranch. You can hardly blame him. He was stuck there for so many years. It’s time for him to see more of life, new countries, different people.”

  “You’re forgetting his wife.”

  “He has no wife. She gave away his things. That’s just like a divorce. In the eyes of God it is a divorce. She repudiated him, she gave away nearly everything he owned, even his glasses. It was pure luck I was able to rescue them.”

  She went over to the picture window and stood facing it, though the drapes were drawn and there was nothing to see. Estivar noticed that one of the drapes had wrinkles and soil marks in the middle, as if it had been pushed aside dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times so that she could look out at the street. The sheer futility of it moved him to anger, compelled him to argue with her.

  “You’ve always been a very practical woman,” he said.

  “If that’s a compliment, thanks.”

  “What do you think happened the night Robert disap­peared, Mrs. Osborne?”

  “Many things could have happened.”

  “But which of them did, in your opinion?”

  “My private opinion, not to be repeated to anyone?”

  “Your private opinion, not to be repeated.”

  She turned from the window to face him. “I think they had a fight, he and Devon, an
d he simply walked out on her.”

  “That doesn’t fit in with the testimony.”

  “What’s testimony? It’s only people talking. And peo­ple lie, they lie to protect themselves or to make them­selves look good or for money or for any of fifty other reasons. The presence of a judge and a Bible doesn’t make much difference.”

  “You were in court this morning, Mrs. Osborne.”

  “Of course I was. You saw me.”

  “Then you heard Robert’s wife testify that when he left the house that night he was wearing his contact lenses, which were later found broken on the floor of the mess hall.”

  “I heard her.”

  “She also stated that Robert’s prescription sunglasses were still in the glove compartment of his car.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have the horn-rimmed glasses he usually wore.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you must know that Robert didn’t walk out on his wife. He couldn’t have gone anywhere without glasses of some kind.”

  A flush rose up from her neck, staining her whole face scarlet until even her eyes were bloodshot. “You’re on her side.”

  “No.”

  “You’re against me.”

  “I’m not. If you’ll just—”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “All right.”

  Neither of them spoke again. The only sound in the room was a log shifting in the grate as though it had been kicked.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  catalpa street was in one of the city’s older sections, which Devon had never seen before. Turn-of-the-century frame houses alternated with recently constructed low-rent apartment buildings.

  431 was of modern design in stucco and redwood and almost new, but it was already breaking down from over­use and neglect. Most of the units had wall-to-wall chil­dren. As ceiling plaster cracked and paint peeled and plumbing wore out, no one had the interest or money or capacity to repair them. With deterioration came contempt. Initials were carved in woodwork, epithets written on walls. Trees were broken off before they had a chance to grow. Outside taps leaked, forming mudholes, while a few feet away shrubs died from lack of water, shriveling in the morning sun. The whole area was landscaped with litter. Number 9, at the rear on the second story, had Carla’s name on a piece of cardboard taped to the door. C. Lopez printed in tiny letters in pale green ink indicated that Carla wasn’t particularly anxious to be found.

  Devon pressed the doorbell. She couldn’t be sure whether or not it was ringing inside the apartment be­cause there was so much noise coming from below. Though it wasn’t a holiday, half a dozen school-age chil­dren were playing in the service alley. Devon pressed the bell again, and when this failed to bring a response she rapped sharply with her knuckles.

  “Carla? Are you in there, Carla?”

  The door of the next apartment opened and a young black woman stepped out, carrying a child’s teddy bear. Her eyes were weary and swollen and she held her body as if it hurt. Like the building itself she seemed to be a victim of overuse and neglect.

  She said, “No,” in a low-pitched hoarse voice.

  Devon stared at her. “Pardon?”

  “No, she ain’t there. You from Welfare?”

  “No.”

  “Lopez went off with some guy early this morning.”

  “What about the baby?”

  “She was gonna drop it off at her mother’s place and then she and the guy was gonna go away by them­selves . . . You sure you ain’t from Welfare?”

  “I’m a friend of Carla’s.”

  “Then you know she lost her job.”

  “Yes.”

  “She was feeling real blue about it and on top of that she got some kind of court order. But last night I could hear her moving around in there, singing away to herself—like happy, you know? I figured she found a new job. But then she came over and told me how she was going on a vaca­tion.”

  “Where?”

  “Some city up north. Like way up north, out of state.”

  “Do you remember the name of it?”

  “I never been out of state.”

  “Would you remember if you heard it again?”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Seattle,” Devon said.

  “Seattle.” The young woman passed her fingers across her mouth as though she were trying to feel the shape of the word. “Seattle, is that way, way up north?”

  “About as far as you can get without leaving the coun­try.”

  “That sounds like the place.”

  “Did you see Carla leave?”

  “Couldn’t help it. I was standing right where I am this minute.”

  “Was the man with her?”

  “He waited down on the street beside the car.” Her eyes fired up for a moment like pieces of coal. “Maybe the car was stolen, eh?”

  “Had you ever seen the man before?”

  “No. But I kind of suspicioned from the way the two of them acted that he was a relative, not a boy friend. Her uncle, maybe.”

  “Then he wasn’t a young man?”

  “No. He moved heavy.”

  “Uncles don’t ordinarily go on vacations with nieces.”

  “Oh, he didn’t want to go, I could tell that. He kept leaning against the car, hungover maybe, or maybe just blue. Anyhow, it was a funny scene, her flying around like a bird and him dead on his feet.”

  A girl flying happy like a bird, Devon thought, and a hungover uncle dead on his feet.

  She said, “Thank you, Mrs.—”

  “Harvey. Leandra Harvey.”

  “Thanks very much, Mrs. Harvey.”

  “Sure. Any time.”

  The two women stared at each other for a moment as if they both knew there wouldn’t be another time.

  devon stopped at a gas station and put in a call to Ford’s office. She had to wait several minutes before Ford’s voice came on the line, soft and precise: “Yes, Mrs. Os­borne?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother.”

  “It’s about the girl who testified at the hearing yester­day morning, Carla Lopez. She has no phone and I wanted to ask her some questions, so I drove into the city to see her.”

  “And did you?”

  “No. That’s why I’m calling. The woman who lives next door told me Carla left this morning on a vacation with a man.”

  “Nothing illegal about that.”

  “I think I know who the man was and I’m pretty sure I know where they’re going. There’s something peculiar about it. I’m worried.”

  “All right, come on over to the office. I was going to get in touch with you anyway—I’ve had a couple of queries from Judge Gallagher. You may be able to answer them. Where are you?”

  “On Bewick Avenue about three blocks from Catalpa.”

  “Keep heading south and you’ll hit the freeway. It should take you fifteen minutes.”

  It took twenty. She wasn’t used to California freeways, and on the other occasions when she’d gone to consult Ford someone else had driven her and she hadn’t paid much attention to the route.

  Everything in Ford’s office had been designed to shut out the city, as if its noise might shatter a thought and its polluted air suffocate an idea. The picture window with its view of the harbor was double-plate glass, the ceiling was cork, the walls and floors were covered with thick wool. The chairs and the top of the massive desk were made of leather and even the ashtrays were of a non-resonant material, myrtle wood. The only metal in the room was the gold wedding band Ford wore to protect himself against overeager clients. He wasn’t married.

  “Good morning, Devon,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  “Thanks.�
�� She sat down, a little puzzled. It was the first time he’d called her Devon. She knew it hadn’t been done on impulse, that years in the practice of law had left Ford with a minimum of spontaneity. What he said and did, even the gestures he made, seemed planned for hidden judges and secluded juries.

  “So Carla Lopez has gone on a vacation,” he said. “Why should that bother you?”

  “I’m pretty sure she went to Seattle.”

  “Seattle, Peoria, Walla Walla—what difference does it make?” He stopped suddenly, frowning. “Wait a minute. Someone referred to Seattle during the hearing. The Esti­var boy.”

  “Jaime.”

  “As I recall, it was simply a casual remark to the effect that one of his brothers worked in Seattle and had sent him money for Christmas.”

  “The brother’s name is Felipe and Carla had a crush on him. She still has.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Carla herself. So did Jaime when I met him last night at the reservoir. He said that during the summer Carla worked for his family she made a play for all the brothers. The two older ones didn’t pay much attention but Felipe really twitched.”

  “Twitched?” His shock was genuine. “Where did you get—”

  “That’s the expression Jaime used.”

  “I see.”

  “Felipe left the ranch, and the area in general, more than a year ago.”

  “Before or after the girl got pregnant?”

  “Oh, I think after. She’s apparently been trying for a long time to get in touch with Felipe and no one would give her any information about him.”

  “Did Jaime tell you that, too?” Ford asked.

  “No. I overheard a conversation in the hall yesterday afternoon when I went to phone Mrs. Osborne. The phone booth was stuffy and I kept the door open a little. There were two people talking just outside. One of them was Carla, the other was the policeman, Valenzuela.”

  “Ex-policeman.”

  “Ex-policeman. He said something like ‘not knowing a thing about it until a few minutes ago.’ But she claimed he was lying to her the way the Estivars had. He warned her to stay away from the ranch and she told him she wasn’t afraid of the Estivars or the Osbornes or anyone else be­cause she had her brothers to protect her.”