it into a damp grass patch where it sizzled and went out.
Some time later, Beau got up on his feet, very unsteadily, and began to retrace his steps. Headquarters must know the Yankees were in the vicinity. Walking was more trouble than usual. The mountain seemed to be a breathing entity; the ground rose and fell in rhythm with the rise and fall of Beau’s chest as he sucked in air. Nonetheless, he persevered. Headquarters must know.
When he came to the cliff top, he stopped to watch the surf spread white sparkles across the sand so far below him and catch his breath. An iron band seemed to be squeezing his ribs just below his nipples. He could not get enough breath to continue for several minutes. At last he synchronized the sea’s sighing with his own incoming and outgoing breath. One foot went in front of another, somehow miraculously finding the narrow path. Beau swayed along across the cliff top, about to topple now into the sage on the landward side, now into the void above the surf. Almost he danced at certain perilous points where the edge of the trail threatened to fall away into the sea.
When he came to the steep slope behind the Chapel, he made his way, still swaying, down the trail toward the ledge that held the Village. Near the place where the land leveled, Beau caught his toe on a stone, tottered in place, and fell full length on his face. He was still for a long while, contemplating the pain in his head.
Juan came to. Fear nibbled like a school of piranhas at his mind. He thrust the fear away. Then a great hot fire built in his heart, spreading up through his shoulder and down his left arm. Juan evaporated in that pain. Beau, likewise, dissolved in the fire.
Little Luis Cruz, beset with hurt and terror, cried “Señor Jesus, por favor!” Three souls intertwined and went into the mysterious great beyond. The body twitched violently, and was still. The rain came down and soaked the linen suit. The hat and its attached wig rolled before the storm winds into a pyracantha shrub someone had planted by the Chapel’s back door long ago.
The Wig in the Bush
Butter found Beau stretched out in death behind the Chapel. She was walking with Dickon and Ben for her evening stroll. As she often did, she had ranged ahead, zigging and zagging from side to side as one scent or another took her attention for a moment. The rain had stopped, for the time being, and Dickon and Ben were moving slowly, talking.
Butter discovered Beau’s body. She sniffed at it, curious and uneasy at the same time. She had not encountered a dead person before. Then she noticed his hat and wig bobbing in the wind on the pyracantha bush. She approached it warily, growling at this strange apparition. Suddenly she wheeled and raced back to Dickon and Ben, circling them and alternately barking and whining.
“What’s up, girl?” Ben said. She started toward the back of the Chapel, and then stopped to look back to see if he and Dickon were following. Dickon rubbed his right earlobe.
“I think she wants us to follow her, Ben,” he said. When they turned to go in her direction she trotted forward, stopping again only once to make sure they were following. When they got near the pyracantha, Butter stopped, pointed with her nose, and began barking.
Dickon spotted the wig and hat bobbing on the bush. “It’s Beau’s hat,” he said.
“What on earth?” Ben said as he toward a man stretched on the ground. Dickon followed him.
“It’s Beau,” Dickon said. Swiftly he knelt beside the body to feel at the neck for a pulse. “No heartbeat I can detect,” he said. “I’ll stay here. You go get Dr. Field.” The worry and fear in Dickon’s voice prompted Ben to his feet. His own heart was thudding in his chest.
“Right,” Ben said, wheeling around and breaking into a lumbering run. Butter raced along with him, barking. He tried to hush her as he ran, with little success. He soon slowed to a fast walk because exercise easily winded him. Years of indolence had left their mark. When he got to Dr. Field’s cottage, he knocked on the door. Dr. Field grumbled from inside, “Damn it, Beau, did you forget how to turn the knob?” He flung open the door. He was disheveled, clad only in drooping boxer shorts that had leering yellow faces imprinted over red hearts on a white background.
“Oh,” he said when he saw Ben. “I thought it was Beau coming home. I don’t know where he is. I’m just about to get dressed and go look for him.” Butter whined from her place beside Ben. She knew something was very wrong.
“Beau’s behind the Chapel,” Ben said. He was still breathing heavily from his attempt to run. “Something’s wrong with him, I think. He’s lying on the ground, not moving.”
“Face up or face down?” Fear wore grooves in the doctor’s face.
“Face down.” Ben’s face was a mask of worry.
“Let me get my pants and a jacket. This doesn’t sound good. Beau never lies on his stomach, if he can help it.” Ben waited while Dr. Field dressed. Dr. Field set out loping at a pace Ben’s longer legs and weaker lungs could not match. Butter danced ahead of Ben, urging him on. When Ben caught up to the doctor, he was on his knees feeling Beau’s throat for a pulse.
He looked up at Ben and Dickon. Dickon was still rubbing his right earlobe. Ben tried to catch his breath. Dr. Field’s eyes were bright with tears about to spill. “He’s dead,” he said, “and has been for some hours.” He stroked Beau’s head. “He had a heart condition. My guess is he died from a heart attack. The autopsy will tell us more.” Ben reached for Dickon’s hand. Dickon pulled Ben to him, his arm around Ben’s shoulders.
Dr. Field stood. “Call the sheriff,” he said. “I’ll get a blanket, something to cover him. It’s not right he should lie exposed like this.” Dr. Field started to turn, and swayed. Ben caught him and steadied him.
“I’ve got a blanket closer,” Dickon said. “Ben, you go with Chester. Help him call through on the radio. I’ll get a blanket, and stay with Beau until somebody official gets here.” Ben nodded.
“Okay, Dickon,” Ben said, still supporting Dr. Field. “Butter, stay with Dickon. Come on, Doc, let’s get the necessary things done, and then we can rest a little.” Ben started out for Dr. Field’s cottage. Butter started to follow him, but Dickon grabbed her collar and held her back. Dr. Field insisted on standing on his own, and despite his shakiness, managed to walk to his cottage. Once there, he steadied to the needful tasks. He radioed the sheriff’s office, explained in careful detail what he had observed, and his estimate, as the deceased’s physician of record, that he had died of a heart attack, induced by cause or causes unknown. Then he poured himself and Ben each a generous shot of sour mash bourbon.
“Sit, Ben,” he said, and took a chair for himself. He stared at the whiskey in his tumbler. Ben sat. He waited while Dr. Field took a sip of his bourbon. Dr. Field began to talk while he gently swirled the amber fluid in his glass.
“I first met Beau when I came to the City for a convention years ago. A so-called friend of his, Noah Count, made the two of us the butt of a practical joke. Noah conned me into waking him up by telling me he, Noah, was sick, and could I get his friend?” He sipped again at his bourbon. Ben took a small swallow from his own tumbler. He was confused, and the whiskey didn’t help him to clarity. He was unused to taking whiskey neat, and almost choked. The fire burned its way down his throat and into his belly. He blinked as his eyes watered. The fumes rose to his brain. He waited for Dr. Field to go on.
Dr. Field did not look up. “Beau was the one I was closest to.” He sipped again at his bourbon. “He was totally the invention of a scared little Hispanic boy, and one of the most southern of all southern gentlemen anyone could meet.” Dr. Field took a larger swallow of his whiskey, and coughed. “Strongest defense mechanism I ever encountered.” Ben waited for Dr. Field to enlighten his confusion.
He looked up at Ben. “I was in love with him, you know. It wasn’t right, and I never let anything come of it, because he was my patient. But the counter-transference was strong.” Ben took a second, more cautious, sip of his bourbon. It war
med his throat more than it burned. Dr. Field swallowed another large mouthful, and this time he didn’t cough.
“It was only after Beau came to me for therapy that I met the other two.” Dr. Field emptied his tumbler. He stood, a little unsteadily, and went to the bottle for a refill. He turned and offered a refresher to Ben, who declined.
“Juan was the protector, the guardian for the group. When he was out I never worried. Luis, of course, the original boy, was helpless and hopeless. And I never knew, with Beau, from one minute to the next what would happen.” Dr. Field made his shaky way to his chair. He fell into it. He raised his glass. “To the trio,” he said, slurring his words. He swallowed some of the liquor.
“It’s not right to say Luis was helpless and hopeless,” he went on. “He created the Louisiana colonel out of snatches of old movies and the conversations of the ruling classes in his little corner of Texas.” He looked at Ben, pleading for some kind of understanding in that hurt puppy way the unaccustomedly drunk sometimes display. Ben smiled. It was the only comfort he could think of offering just them.
“You see,” he said, “while I was in love with Beau, Juan was in love with me. It was all so awkward, since they were in the same body. Aside from
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