A Host of Shadows
Page 19
Tokens
He did not really want to kill her, but to his utter dismay the fantasy had begun to cross his mind.
The road, like many in this part of Nevada, was bumpy and only partially paved. They roared to the top of the mountain recklessly; covered in dust, bobbing and bouncing to mediocre pop songs. After several false alarms, Jack Benton finally recognized the battered, metal mailbox and the wooden fence. He pulled the Jeep to the side of the road, willing himself to behave in a romantic fashion.
“Are you ready?” he asked. He took his young fiancée by the hand. “Some wishes do come true.”
Becky tapped her foot and rolled her blue eyes in an expression of contempt, a habit Jack found adolescent and infuriating. “I’m tired and I’m hot and I’m fucking thirsty,” she said, sneering. “Can we just get this over with?”
“Sure,” Jack said. He was determined to remain reasonable. “Whatever you say. But I promise you’re going to love this.”
Jack put the Jeep into drive and rounded the corner. He relaxed and released his breath. The grounds had been well kept, just as he’d been promised when he’d purchased the home. The plants and flowers were lovingly nurtured by the handyman and constantly watered by the icy, melting snow that ran down from the slopes of the nearby Sierras. The grass was green and verdant and smelled wonderful after the long, dirty drive. The cabin, a carefully designed mix of rustic and modern; of redwood, brick and pine, had been recently painted, as per the escrow agreement.
Jack was gratified to hear Becky grunt; an involuntary expression of approval. Now that they had crested the point, one could see that this was the only way up to the expensive getaway house. The other three slopes fell away into nothingness, and the view of the high desert below was nothing short of spectacular.
“It’s nice, Jack,” Becky said grudgingly. “What’s that?”
He followed her pointing finger. Perhaps fifty yards down the mountain sat a battered two-room shack and small tool shed, both just below a large septic tank. The shack seemed recently painted; it wasn’t quite finished, as though the painter had run out of leftovers. An ancient television antenna sagged like a weary phallus on the black, tarpaper roof.
“That’s where Luke lives,” he said.
She seemed pleased to have discovered something to complain about. “And just who the hell is Luke? I suppose now some toothless redneck in overalls is going to be peering in the window while we’re fucking or something?”
Jack winced. “Please watch your language,” he said. “You’re not attractive when you swear like a sailor.”
“You’re unbelievable, you know that? It’s like I’m engaged to a goddamned minister or something.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “Let’s not fight.”
After a pause, Becky relented. “You’re right,” she said, “like always.” She brightened. “It is beautiful here, Jack,” she said. “Let’s go look around.”
The property was remarkable, considering its location. Nevada’s high desert had trees and some greenery, but rarely did one see such beautiful, tall grass, lightly sprinkled with multicolored wildflowers.
“It’s like an oasis or something,” she said.
“The soil is exceptionally rich,” Jack said after a long moment. He decided to leave it at that.
Becky was already trotting towards the cabin like an excited child. At one time Jack might have tried to keep up, but he knew he couldn’t now. This was yet another way the differences in their ages had become problematic. He already endured hours each month having his hair and beard painstakingly dyed dark again, even hired a personal trainer, but nothing seemed to be working. After a scorching hot, delightfully secretive beginning to the affair, while Becky was still working in his antique warehouse, things had steadily worsened. She had begun to pull away. Oh, she still wore the classic, 19th century engagement ring occasionally, but he was losing her. Sometimes Jack caught her looking at younger men, and it shredded his heart. He wondered, at times, if her death might free him; a thought always followed by the most peculiar feeling, a mixture of guilt and a child-like fear of divine retribution.
Jack Benton wanted Becky’s hand more than he had ever wanted anything in his entire life, and he was not about to give up without a fight. Thus, an expensive vacation home and this trip: One final desperate attempt to put things right, to re-start the flame; to salvage his fading hopes and dreams.
Becky’s voice floated out of the living room, through the open door and back down the slope. “Jack, this is so fucking cool!” He sighed, went to the back of the vehicle and got their luggage: One small suitcase for him and three for Becky, she of the huge breasts, foul mouth and oh-so-talented tongue.
“Afternoon.”
Jack jumped back and dropped the cases in alarm. “Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Luke drawled. He spat foul tobacco juice and shrugged. “Didn’t really mean to.” To Jack’s horror, the old man was indeed wearing tattered overalls and had a hopelessly gauche bandanna around his thick neck. Luke took care of the property, but he was a true character.
“The field looks magnificent,” Jack said. “You did a nice job, Luke.”
Luke squinted at the waves of bright flowers, pondering something. Finally he shrugged. “I didn’t want to.”
“I remember.”
“Went against what I been taught over the years.”
“I know.”
A long pause. “Still, I reckon you was right,” Luke said. “Me, I was sure it would raise holy hell. Tell you the damned truth, I had to get drunk to do the planting. But nothing bad ever happened. In fact, look at it. It all grew up and out real pretty.”
“You’re a little too fond of the firewater,” Jack said. He tried for a light, jocular tone. “Must be that Indian blood.”
Luke took him seriously. “Yeah, I’m half-breed all right. I surely got some Horse in me somewhere, “he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The tribe that lived here. Called themselves the Horse Humans. They worshipped Orunde. I’ve heard some stories about them that would curl your hair, Mr. Benton.”
“I’m sure you have,” Benton said politely. He already knew a lot about the history of this area. The brutal tribe had occupied the land for more than five hundred years before vanishing. He felt bored.
“I’m part Horse, sure enough,” Luke said. He pulled a large crucifix from under his sweat-stained blue work shirt, dangled it. “But me, I’m no heathen, sir. I’m a good Christian, now.” He put the cross away.
“Good for you.”
Luke nodded. “Anyway, it was just on my great-great-great Grandmother’s side, I think. Guess you could say they’re distant family.”
“Did you find any interesting antiques while you were out planting? I could use some new pieces for my store.”
Luke blinked. “Wouldn’t touch ’em if I did, Mr. Benton.”
“Why?”
“You may own the property, but things like that, they belong to dead folks. Stealing ain’t right.”
“Oh.”
At a loss for words, Jack dug into his trousers for a hundred. He held the bill out to Luke, whose eyes widened. “Here, take this,” Jack said. “Just a little something extra for indulging me about the flowers.”
“I couldn’t,” Luke said, but his wrinkled paw was already closing over the money. He examined the bill and grinned wolfishly. “Wow. Maybe I should reconsider my point of view.”
Benton grinned. “Maybe you should.”
“Thanks, Mr. Benton.”
“You’re welcome.” He turned to go. Luke touched his shoulder and then pointed up at the gorgeous, rainbow field.
“You know something? Now I really like those flowers.”
“Indeed.”
“Look at all those colors. Seems to make ’em happy after all these years of having nothing’ but a carpet of dirt over them.” The old man spat again and actually managed to lo
ok embarrassed. “Reckon that sounds foolish to a white man.”
Luke was likable, but Jack Benton thought him the strangest imaginable combination of redneck and Native American. He shook his head. “No, it doesn’t sound foolish,” he said. “I think it looks very nice, so why shouldn’t they?”
Luke jerked a thumb towards the cabin. “I live down there, remember,” he drawled. “You need something, you holler. Only reason I’m gone is to go to town for supplies, or maybe get dead drunk.”
“Luke, did I tell you why I came here?”
Luke nodded. “To get the young lady to give you her hand,” he said. He smiled, revealing rows of stained, chipped and wholly absent teeth. “So you’ll be wanting me to kind of stay out of the way, right?”
Relieved, Jack nodded. “Yes. Exactly. Thank you.”
“You need some help with those bags?”
Jack allowed himself a brief second to imagine Becky’s face when she finally met Luke. He shook his head rapidly. “I’ve got it. Heck, I can use the exercise.”
Five minutes later, as he stumbled through the door with all four cases, Jack Benton was cursing himself for not accepting the help. He kicked the door so that it closed behind him, sat on the largest bag and wiped the hot sweat from his brow.
“Honey? What do you want for dinner?”
No answer.
Jack got to his feet, puzzled. “Honey? Becky?”
He felt the short hairs on the back of his neck twitch. His mind flashed on a hideous scene, like something out of the novel “Deliverance,” with mindless hillbillies raping and murdering Becky while her aging, potbellied husband struggled up the slope with egregiously heavy baggage. What a sad joke that would be—to have some maniac kill the woman he was contemplating murdering. He turned and glanced at the shotgun mounted on the mantle above the fireplace.
“Sex.”
“Huh?” Jack spun around. Becky had already started drinking. She was naked, except for the thong underwear she insisted on calling “butt floss.” She knew it always turned him on. She was wearing the engagement ring. She did a slow pirouette in the doorway, held up a bottle of champagne, and flashed her plump, toned ass cheeks. He felt himself stir.
“What I want for dinner is sex, Jack. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes. Yes.”
A long time later, he woke up to a tapping sound, almost like someone knocking at the door. Jack tried to shake away the champagne fog and focus his mind. He felt the bed next to him, and found the round swell of a breast. Becky was passed out, breathing deeply. Had he imagined that noise? He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly midnight. A brisk wind had risen and was straining at the windows, trying to get inside.
Again, a tapping sound. Could Luke have gotten drunk and climbed the steep slope, looking for company or perhaps more alcohol? Jack slid out of bed, desperate to keep from waking Becky. He knew he couldn’t hide the handyman’s presence forever, but this first weekend was off to such a good start and he didn’t want to spoil things. He eased the bedroom door closed and started through the darkened living room.
But then it struck him that he and Becky were more than thirty miles out into the wilderness, all alone and unprotected; that compared to most folks who lived near Two Trees, Nevada he was rich. And that Becky was as much of a genetic celebrity as any movie star.
He groped for the light switch, found it, flipped. The lights did not come on. Relax, it’s just the wind. Jack swallowed bile and eased over towards the fireplace. The tapping sounded again, and some dim part of his brain began repeating those dread couplets from Poe: Came a tapping at my door… Quoth the raven, nevermore…
Jack fumbled with the shotgun, figured out how to slip it out of the rack. He broke it open and felt for the shells. It was empty. No murder on the agenda tonight and probably not much self-defense, either.
I’ll just ignore it and go back to sleep
, he thought. Who am I kidding? I’ve never fired a gun in my life. I can’t kill anybody. Besides, there’s nothing out there. It’s just the wind banging something against the door, that’s all.
Jack went back to bed, but he did not sleep.
In the morning, while Becky was still snoring, he crept back into the living room in his underwear. Jack, his thinning hair tousled and pudgy body sagging, hugged himself against the cold and eased the front door open. The hinges squeaked like something from a B-movie. Jack looked outside and saw nothing but an eloquent, desert sunrise. He chuckled at his own foolishness and started to close the door.
A stray gust of wind approached the cabin, and again he heard the tapping. Jack jumped. He glanced down at his feet and gasped.
A long, wooden arrow lay on the gently sloped cement porch, near the doorway. When the wind swirled, the metal tip rolled up against the wood a time or two, causing the sound. Then it would roll back down the gentle slope towards the grilled rain gutter.
Jack knelt to pick up the arrow. His knees popped. He stepped back inside, closed the door and locked it. He found his reading glasses and examined the find. It was definitely two, perhaps even three hundred years old. The tip was dark and ragged, probably made of iron now black with grime. The notches at the head had once held feathers. It was a fascinating antique. Luke must have found it in what was now the giant flower bed and dropped it off as a token of his appreciation for the extra hundred bucks. What a find.
Jack put the arrow on the mantle, below the shotgun, and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. He made it extra strong, the way Becky liked it, and added a touch of cinnamon. He found himself whistling and doing a dance step or two. Guess the old boy still has what it takes, he thought. It looked as if this trip would be a success. Jack felt greatly relieved. He determined he would find a romantic spot and propose all over again, ask for her hand in marriage as if he’d never asked before. Because women liked things like that, didn’t they? It gave them something to say that made all their girlfriends envious.
A shower, a shave, some clothes to cover up his less-than-perfect body and Jack was back in the kitchen. He poured a mug of potent coffee and stared out the window.
There was something on the sill.
Jack leaned close, pressed his nose up against the thick glass; it smeared his plump features like a kid at the candy store window. His jaw dropped with excitement. He hurriedly downed the coffee, grabbed his coat and rushed outside, almost slamming the door behind him. He stumbled through the tall grass and worked his way over to the outside of the kitchen window.
It was a fantastic piece, an ancient pistol, possibly of Spanish origin. The splintered handle was encased in engraved silver, now quite darkened and stained. The thin, steel loading rod was still in the barrel. This gun was precious enough to fetch thousands of dollars at auction. Jack felt a twinge of guilt. Luke had no idea how valuable these items were. He was giving away a fortune in exchange for a hundred-dollar bill.
Jack walked back towards the front of the house and looked down the slope towards the shack. The door was closed, the blinds drawn. Good, maybe he’s had a heart attack, Jack thought, and then cringed at his own lack of charity. Again, he was wishing death on someone. How shallow! In fact, Jack decided right then and there that old Luke deserved decent compensation for these items, perhaps a percentage of the net. He hurried back inside and rolled the two antiques into a bath towel, then placed them in the bottom of his largest suitcase.
Becky was stirring. He pulled his stomach in and went over to the side of the bed to kiss her. She pushed him away. “Don’t. I’ve got zoo breath.”
“It’s almost noon, and I thought we’d go for a picnic today,” he said with mustered enthusiasm. Jack also wanted to avoid having to introduce Luke for as long as possible. Once Becky got a look at that geriatric redneck, she’d probably demand to be flown home forthwith.
Jack felt another flash of shame. Here Luke was being so magnificently generous, and he was still wishing the poor old bastard weren’t around.
And the day went downhill from there. They got lost on the way to the cherry orchard. Luke had promised Jack that the picnic spot lay close to the mountain called Bear Claw, but although he found the dry creek bed, Jack couldn’t locate the orchard. So they ate their food in blistering, late-afternoon sunshine, rather than cool shade, and closer to the ratty outskirts of Two Trees than the whispering pines. Becky was withdrawn again, already a bit plastered, and he fancied she was overly focused on his bald spot. When the evening bugs came out, Jack summoned up his courage. He drank a second beer, kicked some rocks aside and went down on one knee.
“Oh, Jack,” she said, annoyed. “Don’t start.”
“May I ask for your hand in marriage, my lady?”
He searched her eyes for warmth and saw only irritation. “I’m hot, I’m hung-over and I think I’m fucking getting sunstroke. Not now, okay? Jesus, Jack, your timing just sucks.”
“I-I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I was trying to be romantic.”
She batted some insects away. “Romantic my ass. Let’s get the fuck out of here, okay? I’m being eaten alive.”
“Sure, honey,” he said, deeply disappointed. “Whatever you say.”
On the way back up their mountain, Jack gathered himself and said: “Honey? Did I mention that there was a guy who looks after the property for the owners?”
“What?” Becky mumbled. “What did you say?”
“Never mind.”
Jack glanced at her, and felt an abrupt and uncommon twinge of disgust for his fiancée’s drinking habits. The sunset was unusually yellowish, and it bleached her normally beautiful features and accented her newfound wrinkles. She was out again, mouth slightly open. A thin line of spittle rolled down her slightly plump cheeks. Becky had her arms crossed over her chest, and they looked slightly flabby. He had often wondered if her breasts were phony; now, suddenly, he felt sure of it. She was a little cheap and vulgar, a bit too practiced at oral sex for his liking… But Jack Benton still found her strangely beautiful.