by Don McQuinn
The Pastor was up to the sarcasm. "'And they were all amazed, and were in doubt, saying one to another, What meaneth this?'"
Crow laughed. "You called to throw Biblical insults at me? Must be another nothing-to-do night in Lupine."
The Pastor sighed. "I'm inviting you to dinner. Martha's, of course. My treat. I need to talk to someone."
"You know me better than that. I don't..."
"...get involved, etcetera, etcetera." Richards finished the sentence for him, then went on. "I like the way you think. And you listen. If you feel like saying something when I shut up, fine. If you don't, that's fine, too."
"You've got friends you've known a lot longer than me; call them."
"I called you."
Crow twisted to look outside. Lila's place was dark. He'd meant to get in some work after eating. Noise from the phone made him raise it again. He said, "I'll meet you, but we're just wasting time. I can't stay long; don't like leaving Zasu alone."
"Lila does it all the time."
"That's different. It's her dog."
"In an hour, then? I'll be waiting."
Crow snapped the phone shut. He undressed and, wrapped in a beach towel, stepped outside to his camp shower. The propane heater's growl had hot water ready before the evening chill got uncomfortable. Standing under the spray, Crow was taken aback to realize he was rather looking forward to dinner with the Pastor, in spite of the fact that it sounded suspiciously like an evening of maneuvering through a minefield of confidences. He took some consolation from the certainty he'd learn something. Richards was no sage, but he'd seen a lot, heard even more, and seemed to have learned from all of it. Nevertheless, Richards knew about the dreams now; one mention of them would end things on the spot. He decided he could tolerate a few cliches about taking care of himself - very few.
Drying off, he said aloud, "If there was anyone here to bet with, I'd bet the first thing he brings up is Lila's place and her chances of making the thing work."
Not until he was in the pickup with Major and turning onto the road did he realize he'd called it "Lila's place." He didn't know what to make of that at first but, after driving a bit, he told himself it was another confirmation that we never fully understand what's going on around us. The cornerstones of our world are as undependable as moonbeams. Talk about stability was all wishful thinking.
At seven sharp, Crow walked up the stairs to Martha's restaurant. She beamed at him from behind the service counter. "Look at you. Take off that ugly old bandage and you'd be as good-looking as ever. Who'd guess you were almost killed?"
"Whoa." He shook his head. "The story's growing like Pinocchio's nose. I got dinged, that's all. And this is not an ugly old bandage. It's a fashion statement."
Martha made a face. "Macho, macho, macho. Don't you ever get tired of adolescence? Anyhow, I shouldn't be making fun. Garza lectured us about concussions. He was afraid for you. I'm really glad you're here with us. You need watching."
"You two busybodies must have hit it off just fine."
"Oh, good, grouchy and macho. Are you going to stand here and pick on me or join the Pastor? He's at my power table."
"Power table? In Lupine?"
She led him further inside. "If I say it's the power table, that's it. Got that?"
Crow groaned about falling for the set-up. Joining the Pastor, the three of them spoke a bit longer, and then Crow was in his seat, the Pastor opposite. As Crow hoped, they talked of fishing while they ordered. Crow started with his Maker's Mark and Richards asked for tea. They both took Estelle's advice on the pork ragu special after Richards explained that the chef worked at a high end Italian restaurant in Chicago before taking a vacation in the Northwest one summer. "Came back the next year and stayed. Got into hiking, biking, kayaking - you name it. Lost forty pounds and an attitude problem that made you think Nero was reborn. Anytime you see something Italian on Martha's special list, get it."
Their plates came quickly and they ate with more gusto than talk. Finished, leaning back, the Pastor knitted his fingers across his chest and said, "You're all wondering why I called you here tonight."
Crow said, "Yes, I am. What's up?"
The Pastor dropped the semi-comic pose and leaned forward. "Do you own a computer?"
"A laptop. Comes in handy for data, locating places, rates - stuff like that."
"You've never been hacked?"
"Who'd want to? There's nothing on it."
"You bank electronically? Pay bills? Buy from catalogues?"
"Well, yeah."
"There you are. Identity theft. Someone could steal your credit card numbers. Social Security number? Bingo, your life's an open book."
Crow was so startled by the Pastor's intensity he wasn't aware of his own change as he said. "Any man who does that to me will be a long time recovering."
The Pastor blinked. He said, "I didn't mean to anger you. We're speaking hypothetically."
"I understand. But, like I said, who'd bother with me?"
"A thief low enough to prostitute your identity. The worst part is, when someone like that's done with you, you're changed forever. A malicious person can dig up things from your past, ruin your credit, your reputation. You can never be the same person you were."
The thought chilled Crow. "I never considered it. Someone else's problem, you know? But even if you proved you never did anything wrong, you'd always be looking over your shoulder, wouldn't you? Nasty."
The Pastor's mirthless laughter was like claws. He told Crow, "We all have secrets. It's universal."
Once again, the Pastor's words cut deeper than Crow could accept. He said, "If you've got a point, make it. "
"I apologize. I seem to be doing a lot of that tonight. Old fool." The Pastor shook his head. Passion ebbed from taut features. "I really need someone to talk to and all I've done is irritate you. The thing is, I'm a computer expert." Crow's eyes widened. The new expression amused the Pastor and a different chuckle transformed him. He went on, "They've always fascinated me. I still have my old 64K antique."
"I'd never have guessed. So what's the connection between me, you, and computers? You haven't hacked me?"
"Wouldn't think of it. But someone tried to get into mine. I just discovered the fact this morning. I don't know what to think. I wanted to talk to you about it."
"Me? I don't know zip about..."
The Pastor waved that off. "Not important. As I said, you listen. You also understand the need for privacy. I think I know why that someone tried."
"Could someone run up a big bill on the church business account?"
"I think it's more personal." The comment was unusual, but what impressed Crow was how the Pastor's gaze wandered, took him far from the quiet buzz of Martha's. When Crow finally nudged him with, "What is it, then?" the Pastor composed himself.
"I need you to hear a story. I need you to give me your word you'll never repeat any of it. Listen and forget."
Crow was silent a long time, concentrating on his drink. He sipped, enjoying the sweet warmth informing his throat. He wished he could honorably refuse the Pastor's request. In the end he said, "I'll listen." He meant to stop there, but heard himself say "I'll do anything else I can." He gulped the last of the whiskey and cursed Lupine to the very ground it stood on. Red, like the heart of an explosion, stuttered across his vision. He held up the empty whiskey glass. "You sure you couldn't use one of these?"
The Pastor said, "More than you can imagine. That's why I drink tea." A rueful smile, then, "I've made a nuisance of myself here, fighting indiscriminate development. It's not fun. Development means jobs and people have to live somewhere. I - my church board - has lent money to people who needed help building a small business, a farm, a day care, things like that. But some projects..." He shook his head. "Some of these men would eat their young. They certainly have no qualms about stealing their heritage."
"And you think one of them wants to mess you up."
"Exactly. But you ruined my s
tory. That was my punch line. My version was a tad more elegant."
"Pastor, I don't need stories. I've seen this sort of thing all over the country. Everybody talks nature and environment until money gets in the game."
"That's terribly cynical."
"I've watched it work. The bad guys aren't stupid and time's on their side. Progress whittles away the conditions a species needs to survive. Eventually it goes extinct. Once it's gone, there's nothing left to protect and you can go ahead and build. And there's pollution, a developer's best friend. It kills the things conservationists want to protect. Once they're dead and gone, there's no reason not to build a mall and more houses on that spot. Now you've got lawns and flower beds. That means chemicals that flow downstream and poison the next target area. Money always wins."
"Fighting the good fight's worth any cost, though, isn't it?"
Crow was wry. "How many times have I heard that one?"
"Bear with me. If I'm..." The older man struggled for words. "If my suspicions are right, I could be involved in some legal issues. Should it happen, I want you to help Lila."
Crow sneered, purposely offensive. "I thought I was pretty clear about dusting off this place and everybody in it just as soon as I can. Talk to Vanderkirk about helping her. They're already tight and he's got money. What they call a match made in heaven, right?"
The Pastor's reaction was startling. He pitched forward, furious. Red-faced, fists white-knuckled on the table, his voice trembled. "Don't you dare make jokes about her future. She's a wonderful woman and I love her. Loved her aunt and uncle. Your cynicism goes even deeper than I suspected. I misjudged you. You're a selfish, self-centered man."
Crow rose. Shockingly quick and strong, the Pastor leaned forward, gripped Crow's belt. He stopped Crow cold and practically hissed. "Listen."
Embarrassment influenced Crow's obedience as much as the Pastor's insistence. Diners stared. The Pastor gave them a moment to get back to themselves and for Crow to settle, then said, "Van's a bully. He wants Lila's land. He wants her. He takes what he wants, moves on. His kind desecrate beauty, desecrate creativity. They destroy for nothing more than personal gain."
"What am I supposed to do about it?"
"Help her. Make her dream work."
"You sell your Christian thoughtfulness at a high cost, Padre. Offer me a place to lick my wounds and next tell me I owe it to you to change my life - to benefit you." He leaned forward, inches from a suffering but unflinching Pastor. "I can't take a chance driving. Not until I'm sure the concussion's under control. I'll work on Lila's building. Nothing more. Until I can leave."
"She reached out to you, Crow. Yes, I expected some gratitude. I hoped to see a little of that Marine Corps loyalty I've heard about."
Crow backed off, leaned on his elbows. "Don't push me. I've talked to Van. Didn't like him. Yeah, he's strong on Lila. Not my business." It almost choked him. He told himself if it wasn't completely true. He vowed to make sure it became so.
The Pastor looked uncomfortable. "He had bad business deals with some people. I got involved. It cost him some business. And I knew his first wife. He's..." Discomfort turned to reluctance. "He's dangerous. He hurt her. Threatened worse, she said. I believe he's capable of it."
They stared off into space as Estelle cleared the table. She asked if they wanted anything else. Crow turned to face her with a cold look and dismissive head shake. She left without another word.
A silent void enveloped the men. Crow knew it could destroy the warmth that had grown between them. In spite of everything, he didn't want that. He tried not to think about it, and found thoughts and images chaotically arcing across his mind.
Patricia's face lingered. She sent him the confiding togetherness smile that was her way of telling him she loved him without saying it. The vision shimmered, transformed itself to the last picture he had of her. An ordinary snapshot. He looked at it at least once a week. Couldn't help himself. Every time he did it seemed like another piece of his heart broke off.
Joe took it with the self-timer. Mother and son stood on a cliff, overlooking the beach. Just them, sea, and sky. Eternity. Joe was expressionless. She was smiling the special smile, waving at the camera.
The next night she died.
Did she have an intimation? How many times have I agonized over whether that wave was her goodbye? She never understood why I couldn't know what she was thinking; I was always so clear to her. What would she tell me now?
Honor. Be true. Do what's right.
I'm afraid. I want to help this woman. I held her. I want to be with her. I destroy the people I love. Joe said it: Patricia died because of me. I saw his eyes when he said it. Whatever's inside him that used to be us - I killed that, too.
Honor.
Lila reached out to me. I want to take her hand. So much. She needs help.
She needs me.
The Pastor cleared his throat. "My concern got the best of me. I can honestly say I didn't mean the things I said. My temper... I've prayed too many times to be forgiven for it. Now I'm asking you. I know what I'm asking, son. I'm not trying to be sly. I don't have a choice."
Crow stood up. "Nothing to forgive. I understand. But you've got no idea what you're asking. Here's how it is. I'll live up to my agreement, but I'm not fighting anyone's battles. Period. I've got my own."
Nodding, the Pastor raised a hand as if to shake Crow's. He thought better, lowered it. Without rising, he said, "I'm grateful for whatever you can do. Thanks, son. God bless you."
Crow threw money on the table. He said, "Don't ever say that to me. Ever." He marched away.
Chapter 25
Crow was barely back to the Airstream when tires rasped on the gravel fronting Lila's home. Even by tentative moonlight the lines of Van's Beamer were unmistakable. Zasu barked. Major responded once before Crow could silence him. He felt foolish, like a lurking schoolboy. Still it was better than being discovered. At best there'd be conversation he didn't want. What troubled him most - and he admitted it painfully - was the probability he'd learn things about Van and Lila he didn't want to know.
He ached to walk over and intrude.
He couldn't imagine how he'd handle it if he did. That thought took him back to the conversation with the Pastor. What was the old fool thinking? How could he ask a man to help a woman who didn't want help? She certainly didn't need it. Not with Van there as a fall-back.
Slipping into the darkened trailer, he sat at the table. The bourbon in the cabinet called to him. He only considered it for a moment. The struggle to escape that demon taught him forever the wisdom of his father's dictum: "Whiskey's the devil's own gift. There'll be a time when you need a drink, bad. Never take that one."
Patricia tried to hide behind whiskey, believed its gift was strength. He wished he could turn a on a light and write to her now, maybe get some idea of what to do.
They'd see it. They'd think he was watching.
He couldn't stand it any longer, sitting in the dark wondering what they were doing. He jerked upright so violently it tumbled the chair backward. Major scrambled to his feet, casting about, wondering what he'd missed. Crow patted him, simultaneously picking up the chair. "Nothing to get excited about. Just me having a fit." He led the dog outside and headed, more or less furtively, for the road. "I need to walk," he explained in a whisper, although there was little chance his voice would carry to the car, much less inside the house.
The silent, unlit house. Beyond the silent, unlit car. Them. In the dark. Together.
The touch of moonlight was enough to allow surefooted progress. Glimmering stars insisted his problems, however disturbing, were small stuff. He looked down at his dog shuffling beside him, checking the night air, happy just being with his man. This was how things were supposed to be. Contentment was a function of solitude. It never failed. He looked back over his shoulder at the barely visible building.
Without warning, something hard and cruel gripped him, as shocking as any roadside b
omb. Half his mind screamed at him to dive for cover while the other half struggled to find a reason for something akin to terror on a peaceful country road. Truth, when it came, was bullet-brutal.
He cared for her. He wanted her to care for him. He was lonely.
* * * * *
Soft music from the car's cd blended with the enclosed warmth. Lila's thinking drifted aimlessly, this subject, that one. She thought of the small sailboat dodging the massive carrier as it breached the fogbank.
Dinner was excellent, his conversation amusing, the cheerful activity of the restaurant crowd distracting - there couldn't have been a better way to get over disappointment. Still, she questioned the wisdom of the cognac Van insisted they needed to close out the evening. Perhaps he'd been right; it certainly conspired to create a welcome, wobbly forgetfulness.
Unfortunately, distraction worked in fits and starts. Her mind kept flicking back to the sympathetic face of the loan officer. So kind. So rejecting. How did someone combine those things? Who looked another person in the eye, expressed sympathy, and unhesitatingly torched a dream?
Van was bedrock. Unfailingly thoughtful all evening, when she felt herself giving way to depression he always had a story, a quip, that brought at least a smile and occasionally a solid laugh. The latter did her far more good than the expensive wine he kept pouring. It surprised her when she said she was tired and ready to go home and he made no argument at all, save for the post-dinner drink. Even then, he'd told the waitress to make it light.
Light, perhaps, but it weighed heavily. They spoke little all the way back from Seattle. When they did talk, Lila had the peculiar sensation she was listening in on two people she didn't know all that well.
Now, sitting in front of her home, Van was reviewing the evening, telling her what fun she'd been. She heard the words. She was more involved with his presence. His face was in three-quarter profile, the luminescence of the dashboard and the moon creating complex shadows on his features. They shifted at his slightest movement and she thought of mercury. Perverse stuff; a metal, but one that flowed, almost too swift to capture.
