“Take it easy, Earl,” Brodie said.
“Stop telling me to take it easy, you son of a bitch!”
Brodie took his foot off the gas and turned his head and looked at Kubion. He was tall, fair-haired, narrow-hipped, and looked like one of those smiling pretty-boy types Kubion had seen around the Miami resort hotels, looking for middle-aged and moneyed pussy; he had violet-blue eyes that were normally soft but which could harden until they resembled chunks of amethyst quartz-and they were like that now. “I’m no son of a bitch,” he said slowly, “and I don’t like being called one.”
“Fuck you, Brodie. You hear that? Fuck you!”
Brodie stared at him a moment longer, his hands tight on the wheel. Then he seemed to shake himself slightly, and his fingers relaxed; he put his foot back on the accelerator and his eyes fully on the road again. They were beyond the village now, at the junction of Macklin Lake Road and Mule Deer Lake Road. Silently he swung the car right, the tire chains making thin crunching sounds on the packed snow which covered the roadway, and almost immediately they began to wind through thick stands of lodgepole pine. The car’s headlights, made furry by the falling snow, tunneled through the darkness.
Kubion said, “Well, Brodie?”
Leaning over the back seat, establishing a small barrier between the two men in front, Loxner said, “You remember if there’s bandages and iodine at the cabin, Vic?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Brodie answered. “The place is stocked up with everything else.”
“We haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, you know that? Once I do something about this arm, it’s maybe a good idea to put some food on my gut.”
“We could all do with a little food. Steaks, maybe.”
“The hell with it,” Kubion said. Ice crackled loudly as he wound down his window and threw the cigarette out; the chill mountain wind blew snow against the side of his face, put an edge on the heater warmth inside the car. “The hell with it, the hell with both of you.”
They rode the rest of the way to the Mule Deer Lake cabin in heavy silence.
Eight
Shortly past nine o’clock, in the familiar darkness of a Whitewater motel room, Peggy Tyler sighed and rested her cheek against Matt Hughes’ hairless stomach. “Did you like that?” she asked. “Did I please you, Matt?”
“Oh my God!” he said.
Smiling, she moved up into the fold of his right arm. Tawny blond hair, tangled now, flowed over his chest and shoulders; her amber-colored eyes contained an expression, tinged with amusement, that was completely contrary to their normally demure one. Statuesque and heavy-breasted, her body shone like finely veined marble in the darkness.
She was twenty-one years old and had for four years known exactly what she wanted from life. And when the boy she had been dating at age seventeen offered to buy her a new ski sweater if she would take off her clothes and let him play with her, she had known exactly how to go about getting it.
Her goal was twofold: to get as far away from Hidden Valley, California, as it was possible to get; and to marry a man with position, wealth, and a passion for warm places, snowless places where you could lie at the foot of a clear blue ocean in the middle of January and let the sun bake away all the cold, cold memories. But she was not impatient as so many of her school friends had been. She saw no point in leaving immediately, prematurely, after high school graduation for San Francisco or Hollywood or Las Vegas or New York, as some of them had done. Once you were there, you had to play the game because everyone else played it-and all the while some of the excitement and some of the glitter were just around the corner, look but don’t touch.
No, that wasn’t the way to do it at all. There was a better way, a much better way. It required a large sum of money and a long period of self-sacrifice, but in the meantime you could mature, you could become well read and acquire a certain polish. You put every spare dollar into a special bank account until you had accumulated a minimum of twenty-five thousand dollars, and then you left. Then you went to Europe instead of to the mundane cities of America; you went to Paris and Rome and Monte Carlo, and you outfitted yourself in fashionably expensive clothes, and you stayed at the best hotels and frequented only those theaters and restaurants and clubs which catered to the whims of the select; you ingratiated yourself into the lives of the wealthy and the sophisticated, fitting in perfectly because you were perfectly prepared. That was where you would meet the kind of man you wanted, in his milieu, on exactly the right terms. It would not take long, with her looks and her sexual prowess. It would not take long at all.
So she remained in Hidden Valley, living with her mother in the family home on Shasta Street-her father, a county maintenance foreman, having died of a heart attack when she was eleven. She had taken the job with Grange Electric in Soda Grove, and assiduously, she had sought out the right men with whom to sleep-the men with a little money who did not mind making small loans or cash gifts in exchange for the use of her body. Men like Hidden Valley Mayor Matt Hughes.
She had always believed Matt Hughes to be something of a puritan: righteous, religious, happily married, certainly not inclined to extramarital affairs. As a result, and despite the fact that he was the most well-to-do man in the area, she had never really considered him a possible stepping-stone. But then she had gone into the Mercantile one afternoon more than a month ago to buy some groceries for her mother, and he had been there alone; he kept looking at her, she could feel his eyes on her as she moved along the aisles, and when she had gone up to the counter to pay for her purchases, he made overtures that were at once carefully veiled and, to her, altogether obvious.
Concealing her surprise, accepting him immediately because of who and what he was, she had hinted that she found him attractive too, and that she would be willing to see him in more casual surroundings. Nothing more had been said that afternoon, but Peggy knew that she would not have to wait long until Hughes followed through; in point of fact, she was half expecting his call to her at work the ensuing Monday.
He said then that he was planning to be in Whitewater that evening, would she like to have dinner with him? She pretended to think it over and eventually allowed that she supposed it would be all right. He suggested she meet him, if she didn’t mind the short drive, at a place called The Mill-a small restaurant on the outskirts of Whitewater; she said that was fine, and met him that night, and responded to his flattery and to his physical presence just enough to let him know she was definitely interested. After dinner, however, she demurely declined his suggestion that they go somewhere alone; she made it a practice never to seem too eager, which invariably made men like Matt Hughes want her that much more. When he asked if he could see her again, she feigned reluctance and then told him that even though it was probably wrong, dating him when he was a married man and all, she really couldn’t bring herself to say no.
They had three other dinner engagements at The Mill before she finally allowed him to kiss her, to fondle her, to maneuver her to the small motel on the outskirts of Whitewater-one which did not ask questions or care to what exact purpose their units’ beds were put, this being the middle of the winter off-season. He had been almost laughably excited when she accepted his proposal, as if he were an overeager teen-ager who’d never had a woman before, and she had thought he would probably be totally unsatisfactory as a lover. But he had surprised her in that respect, he was really very accomplished. Sex for Peggy had been a source of intense physical pleasure from the very first, and Matt Hughes was as proficient as any she had gone to bed with in the past four years. It made the arrangement with him all the more satisfying…
They lay without speaking for a time, and the only sound was the penetrating voice of the wind as it whipped through the pine and hemlock outside the motel. Finally, Hughes stirred and rolled onto his side and said, “You’re fantastic, Peggy, do you know that?” in a voice still thick with desire.
She smiled again. “Am I, Matt?”
“Yes. Oh yes. Peggy-can I see
you again tomorrow night?”
“We still have more of tonight, baby.”
“I know, but I want to see you tomorrow too.”
“Well, I’m not sure if I can…”
“Please? I’ll have something for you then.”
“Oh?”
“A Christmas present, a very nice Christmas present.”
Peggy lifted herself onto one elbow, looking at him closely now in the darkness. “That’s sweet of you,” she said. “You’re awfully sweet, Matt. What is it?”
“That would spoil the surprise.”
“Couldn’t you give me a hint?”
“Well…” He thought for a moment. “It’s something small in size but not in stature.”
“Jewelry?” she asked immediately.
“No, not jewelry.”
“Something to wear, then?”
“No. No, you can’t wear it.”
“Matt, don’t tease me like this. What is it?”
“I’ll give you a broader hint. I’m not very good at buying presents; I mean, I’m always afraid I’ll pick out something that won’t be quite right. So I don’t really buy anything, I leave that up to the individual person.”
Money, Peggy thought-and said it aloud, “Money?”
Hughes misinterpreted the inflection in her voice. “You’re not offended, are you?”
God! “No, I’m not offended, baby. I… just didn’t expect anything like that. You’ve been so generous already.”
Which was true enough. Peggy had waited until their fourth evening together at the motel before bringing up the subject of money; she had done it very casually and very deftly, as always, saying that her dentist had told her she needed some work on her wisdom teeth but that she really couldn’t afford it and she supposed she could endure the minor toothache discomfort a while longer… As she had anticipated, he had been sympathetic and had readily offered to pay for the dental work, a token of his affection for her, wouldn’t even think of it as a loan; she had told him she couldn’t possibly, and then allowed him to talk her into accepting. And when she said that her dentist would not accept credit from her, that she would need cash, he gave her a hundred dollars that same night and insisted that she tell him when she needed more. She had needed more two weeks later, another hundred dollars, and tonight she had been going to ask him for an additional fifty-proceeding cautiously-and here he was telling her that he was going to make her a cash gift for Christmas. Wonderfully beneficent, wonderfully pliable Matt Hughes!
He said, “I don’t think I’ve been generous enough. And besides that, I want to do it, I want to give you something nice for Christmas.”
“You give me something nice every time we’re together,” she said, but the words were automatic, disassociated from her thoughts; she wanted to ask him how large the present was going to be-the way he talked, it was a substantial sum-but she did not want to seem overly expectant. Three hundred? Five hundred? Just how generous was he going to be?
“And you to me,” he said. “Tomorrow night, then?”
“Yes, Matt. Tomorrow night and any night you want.”
He drew her full against him, kissing her eyes as if in gratitude. Excitement stirred in her loins again, as much a result of anticipation of his Christmas gift as in response to his warm and naked masculinity. He clung to her, whispering her name, as she began to stroke him, make him ready again. And while one part of her mind concentrated on their rekindled passion, another part dwelled on the twenty-one thousand dollars she had saved thus far and the concomitant knowledge that if his present was as large as he had led her to believe, if she could prolong the affair with him and he continued to supply her with money, the time when she would finally be able to leave Hidden Valley was very close at hand. Another six or eight months, maybe even less; certainly no later than mid-fall of next year, before her twenty-second birthday, before the cold winter snows came.
Oh yes, long before the snows came…
Nine
Wrapped in mackinaw and muffler and waterproof boots, Lew Coopersmith had just finished shoveling thick powder drifts from his front walk when Frank McNeil came to see him shortly past nine Tuesday morning.
It had stopped snowing sometime during the night, and the air had a crystal quality, clean and sharp like the slender ice daggers which gleamed on the front eaves of the house. A high, thin cloud-cover shielded the winter sun; but visibility was good, and you could see portions of the white-laced peaks marking higher elevations to the east. You could also see the thickening black snowclouds which obscured their crests, and you knew-sourly, in Coopersmith’s case-that there would be another heavy snowfall later in the day.
He leaned on the long handle of his shovel as McNeil’s ten-year-old Dodge plowed through the snow on Alpine Street and drew up just beyond his front gate-thinking irascibly: Fine, can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have come calling this morning. With McNeil, he saw, was the cafe owner’s son; the two of them got out of the car and came over to the gate.
“Morning, Frank, Larry.” Coopersmith’s voice was bland, without particular interest. “Something I can do for you?”
“I sure as Christ hope so,” McNeil said. His eyes shone with dark outrage, and his blunt face was flushed. “Somebody broke into the cafe last night.”
“What?”
“That’s right. Broke the lock off the rear door and then propped the goddamn door wide open. Storeroom was filled with snow when Larry and me went in to open up a few minutes ago-snow all over everything.”
Coopersmith abandoned his careless manner. “What was taken, Frank?”
“Nothing. Not a single thing.”
“You positive about that?”
“Hell yes. First thing we did was check the register and my cash box. They hadn’t been touched.”
“No supplies missing, either?”
“No.”
“Vandalism?”
“Just the rear door, that’s all.”
Coopersmith frowned. “Any idea who could have done it?”
“Damn it, no. It doesn’t make a bit of sense.”
“You report it yet?”
“I wanted to talk to you first.”
In spite of his dislike for McNeil, Coopersmith felt mildly appreciative of the implied confidence. He said crisply, “All right, Frank. Let’s go have a look.”
He propped his shovel against the cross-slatted fence and went with father and son to the Dodge. McNeil started the car and drove the four blocks to the Valley Cafe, pulled into the narrow, snowpacked alley that ran behind the building. He parked close to the cafe’s rear entrance, and Coopersmith got out immediately and went to look at the door.
The lock, old and flimsy, had been cleanly snapped by means of inserting a crowbar or some similar tool between the door edge and the jamb. There were splinter and gouge marks in the wood there which told him that much. The door was closed now. Coopersmith said, “You wedge it closed from the inside, Frank?”
“No. Latch still holds, even with the busted lock.”
Coopersmith opened the door and stepped into the small, somewhat cluttered storeroom. The floor inside was wet, still mounded in places with the snow-melting now — which had blown in during the night. To one side was a half-filled crate of oranges; indicating that, McNeil said, “Crate there was holding the door open.”
“That where you usually keep it-by the door?”
McNeil shook his head. “It’s supposed to be over there with the other fruits and vegetables.”
“Way it seems, then, whoever did it had nothing in mind except letting a lot of snow whip in here.”
“Yeah. But what the hell for?”
“Could be a practical joke.”
“Some joke, if that’s it.”
“Or it could be somebody wanted to harass you a little.”
“Why’d anybody want to harass me, for Chrissake?”
“Well-you ruffle any feathers lately?”
“Not me. I get al
ong with everyone, you know that.”
Yeah, Coopersmith thought. He moved slowly around the storeroom, found nothing, and pushed open the swing door that led to the front of the cafe.
Following him, McNeil said, “Like I told you: nothing taken, nothing disturbed.”
They went back into the storeroom, and Coopersmith said, “Best thing for you to do is report what happened to the substation in Soda Grove; but if you want, you can tell them not to bother sending a deputy over. Tell them I’ll look into it-ask around, see if anybody saw anything last night, and then check in with them later on.”
“What about fingerprints, stuff like that?”
“Frank, nothing was stolen, nothing was vandalized. Now I’ve got a fingerprint kit at the house, and I can get it and come back here and dust the door and the orange crate and everything else in the place, wet as it is. But what’s the point? Like as not, whoever did it is a valley resident, and I can’t go around taking prints of everybody who lives here. Besides, cold as it was during the night, he was probably wearing gloves anyway.”
“I’m supposed to just forget about it, then, is that it? Who’s going to pay for the damned lock?”
“I told you I’d look into it,” Coopersmith said. “When I find out who did it, he’ll pay for the lock or he’ll find himself up in front of a county judge.”
“He’ll go straight to jail, I got anything to say.”
Coopersmith pursed his lips. “You want to do it the way I said, or you want to call in a deputy from the substation?”
“Oh, you handle it. I guess you know what you’re doing.”
“Thanks,” Coopersmith said dryly. “You going to open up now?”
“Might as well, I suppose.”
“Well, I’ll walk home then. Exercise’ll do me good.”
“You’ll be asking around right away, won’t you?”
“I will. And if I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”
Coopersmith started for the door, and McNeil said abruptly, “Listen, Lew, I just thought of something.”
Snowbound Page 6
