Alibi Creek Read online

  No doubt, within the next half hour one of the three would call to “chat.” The room was cold. Saul Duran’s brother-in-law, who constructed the building, had probably charged the county a bundle and scrimped on the insulation. Last winter the heat had gone out for four days and she’d had to call a plumber from Socorro. No one in town knew how to fix the furnace. She grabbed the closest folder to give the impression of impending business and went downstairs to the clerk’s office to have them send a memo saying the heat would be turned on the following day.

  In the hall she met the sheriff, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “Mornin’, Lee Ann.” He cleared his throat. “Ross Plank died last night, peacefully, in his sleep. The nursing home called Owen first thing this morning.”

  She hadn’t been particularly fond of the man.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Let me know when they schedule the funeral. Tell Owen I’ll contact the women’s auxiliary and arrange for a potluck at the community center. He and Rita will have enough on their hands.”

  She opened the file in her hand and lifted her head, as if suddenly remembering an item needing attention, flashed a weak smile, and hurried down the corridor.

  She could quit. Let them hire another patsy. Until now health insurance, retirement benefits, and a steady salary had justified sticking with the job. It hadn’t mattered much if Saul Duran gave a construction contract to his brother-in-law. Things had always been that way. When federal funds specified for Head Start had been used to create a position for Ed Richter’s niece in the treasurer’s office, she’d looked the other way, like everyone else. But what she’d termed “misdemeanors” were indeed criminal acts, and passive acquiescence amounted to active participation.

  In her dreams papers blew off her desk. Wind spewed data in all directions and her fingers reached for information beyond her grasp. The filing system was jumbled. Dates and titles made no sense. Numbers added up to incorrect totals, other pages were blank. Paper-clipped reports stamped Urgent and Top Priority had pages missing. Frantic, she leafed through them…1, 2, 3, 4…22…10, 11,…18, shuffling, re-counting.

  The Jeep’s squeaky brakes and bright headlights woke her at two a.m. The car door slammed and Walker muttered as he steered Danielle into Mother’s house. Lee Ann got into her robe and pulled a chair up to the small round table in the corner of the dining room. Lamplight picked up her thumbprints on the glass covering Jesus and a smudge where she’d once pressed her lips to his image. She opened the Bible to Ecclesiastes, as it spoke to the meaninglessness of life’s labors, the inability to change one’s fate, and acceptance of the intrinsic nature of all God’s creatures.

  As she often did as a child, she selected a page at random. One event happens to the righteous and the wicked; to the good, the clean, and the unclean. To him who sacrifices and to him who does not sacrifice. As is the good, so is the sinner; he who takes an oath as he who fears an oath. Ecclesiastes 9:2. The passage implied all would suffer indiscriminately during catastrophic earthquakes, hurricanes, or floods. The good and faithful would not be selected, given preference, or be saved. However, the passage might also mean that even under ordinary conditions, kindness and faith do not determine a person’s worth in the eyes of the Lord, that in light of all that may befall a person, to any degree, intention matters not a hoot, that God inflicts wrath or bounty indiscriminately, without preference for who will suffer and who will not. This couldn’t be right, for the Bible instructs how to act, and that God will be pleased if His instructions are followed. There would be no point in living faithfully if there was no payoff. Good deeds must merit special treatment—if not in this life, then the next—or all efforts to live devoutly would be in vain. Tears fell onto the passage. She swiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, but the tears kept flowing, wetting the page clear through to the one underneath, and the one beneath that.

  From the window, moonlight shone on Mother’s house, all the windows dark. Walker home almost a week. Dad dead sixteen years. At some point Mother and Dad must have accepted that environmental influences had little to do with how Walker turned out. Like everyone else, Dad had been baffled at Walker’s talent for getting into trouble, but played along, agreeing with Mother to bail him out of jams. Many were the nights Dad ordered Walker to sit on a stool, lecturing him on regard for others. As far as speaking the truth, Dad admitted no one did. From early on, Dax County folks learned to hide honest opinions under a façade of pleasantries and tuck condemning comments behind a neighborly smile. But damn it, the boy ought to have a sense of regard.

  Mother and Dad argued behind their bedroom door. He means no harm. He’s got to learn. This is a stage. It’s gone on too long. He’ll mature. He ain’t interested in being an adult. A sigh. Another sigh. But most often Dad laughed at Walker’s spunk and bravado, his daring, his defiance of authority, his confidence in being able to worm his way out of any scrape. What ingenuity! Such imagination! The two of them hung over the corral fence, Dad resting on his forearms, Walker letting go of the rail to imitate Pastor Fletcher slinking up the church aisle, his body concave as the hook on a coat hanger, or Ross Plank pushing his wife across the dance floor, rigid as a robot, or Grace following each sentence with her nose when she read up close, and Dad would roar. Pretty soon he’d grab Walker’s neck, stick a shovel in his hand and shove him toward the barn. Walker would heave a few clumps of manure and the minute Dad disappeared, plant the shovel in the rest and mount Lucky, gallop across the field and up Salida Canyon. How she’d despised him! How she’d fought giving in to those contemptible emotions!

  These days, folks sought explanations for reprehensible behavior—verbal or physical abuse during childhood the most common reason. Mother and Dad had their faults and idiosyncrasies, but they enjoyed their kids. They’d bicker over the date to plant the garden, how much household money to keep on hand, how rare to cook a steak, when to breed the heifers. Any subject would set them huffing and puffing, as if their particular point of view determined life or death, then one or the other would walk away or shrug their shoulders, the whole argument having amounted to nothing more than an exercise in who could banter better. Sunday morning, instead of dressing for church, Dad would be seized by an urge to organize the shop. Mother would dash about like a border collie herding the family together, fuming, in desperate need of a good sermon to settle her down.

  If anything, Lee Ann and Walker had been spoiled as kids. Each rode their own horse, raised their own animals, wore new clothes, owned a personal vehicle at sixteen, had been allotted a generous allowance, and been given the freedom to arrange social activities, with one exception. Church attendance on Sunday was mandatory. From the start, the Bible’s teachings from a God on high, delivered passionately by an emaciated pastor in a stark room, stuck to Lee Ann. Guided by the pastor’s words, lifted by hymns sung in unison, greeted by a congregation decked out in their Sunday best, the church encouraged the best in her. If she forgot those qualities during the week, the Lord reminded her every Sunday. The same sermon delivered in the same environment by the same preacher passed straight through Walker’s head, as if there were nothing in there for the message to latch onto.

  She straightened the picture of Jesus and turned back to Ecclesiastes. The tear-soaked pages had begun to crinkle and curl. She closed the Bible and placed a high school atlas from the living room bookshelves on top of it.

  Before breakfast, she set the iron on delicates and pressed a sheet of used wrapping paper. The creases disappeared. She opened the Bible and ran the iron over the corner of a wrinkled page. Faint lines showed and she increased the heat to wool.

  The phone rang and she took the receiver from Dee’s hand as he mouthed, “Harley.”

  “Lee Ann, sorry to bother you so early. Saul, Ed, and I would like to schedule a meeting with you today, as soon as possible.”

  “I assume this is regarding the windfall.”

  “Yes, we’ll fill you in on the figures and discuss
what we want you to say to reporters. We also need to go over the proposed bid for a youth center and some issues with the volunteer fire department.”

  “I’ll meet you at ten o’clock in the conference room. I don’t think there’s anything scheduled at that…” She grabbed the iron. Where it had rested, the paper was scorched and hot to the touch, the page brittle and scarred.

  21

  SATURDAY OCTOBER 6, 2007

  PLANK DEAD. WHOOSH. GONE.

  “It ain’t fair, Mother. A sweet soul like yourself suffering day in day out, caught in limbo, and that old fart just closes his eyes and crosses the finish line easy as a racehorse.”

  “Bubble.”

  “Yeah, Danielle’s somethin’, huh? I see she’s been watching TV with you this morning, munchin’ chips and drinking Cokes. Probably switched channels to something you can’t stand.” He picked up the remote and found TCM. “And I bet you’re pissed off she won’t pick up after herself. Doesn’t take much to carry a can to the trash and close a bag of Doritos. She never was one to pay attention to anything other than her body. Wait. Let me extend that to a man’s body. She’s got one now, but I can already predict the outcome. Our sly kitten will twist that guy into every possible contortion until he can’t breathe, sneak every last dime out of his pockets, and spend it on junk ’cause she can’t tell the difference between crap and quality. There’ll be squabbles and resentments, lyin’, cheatin’, bric-a-brac flyin’, until one of those weapons hits him on the head and he wakes up and pitches her out, far as he can, China maybe.” He patted Mother’s hand and turned up the volume. “Don’t you worry. She’ll be gone soon. There. Ray Milland in Lost Weekend. Never saw it. Dial M For Murder was one of Dad’s favorites. Remember? He liked Grace Kelly, but she ditched every guy in America and married a prince. Every woman wants a prince. Women are too cowardly to take on the world alone and the richer a man is, the greater the opportunity of never having to face life. A woman can invent all sorts of reasons for wanting a man—soul mate, true heart, good in the sack, but in the end, it boils down to one fact—a man will allow a woman to slack off dealing with survival. Fill a pill with vitamins, you still got but one pill. Hell, I got to go.”

  Keith was off somewhere, the ATV’s tires having flattened two strips of grassland toward the Randall Range. Walker tried the door to the trailer. The living room was empty, but for the couch and lounger, and of course, the brown throw. A shingle flapped on the roof and down the hall a branch scratched against one of the bedroom windows. The frills women collected mattered, and placemats and a few knickknacks might have cozied up the place, but Danielle obviously wasn’t into decorating the same dump twice. Under grimy kitchen wall cabinets, Keith’s red and black flannel shirt lay on the counter beside a leather wallet, loose change, and a checkbook. Walker shoved his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and stepped closer to the counter. Aside from Keith’s driver’s license, the wallet contained the usual credit cards and $643.00 in cash. He opened the checkbook. A balance of $1,266,000.57 written neatly in fine ballpoint pen popped off the page. He folded the checkbook and held it to his chest. Eyes closed, he rubbed the slick plastic cover, as if warming his hands, and slowly re-opened it. Yup. $1,266,000.57. Flipping back through the entries, he discovered $880,000.00 had been withdrawn just prior to Keith’s visit. The vet was ready, and able, to buy. Walker rushed outside and hollered. “YEEHAH!” A few grackles lit out from the trees. He threw his arms to the heavens, dashed the length of the trailer and back. Boy, he’d love to call Pat Merker, spill the news. Pat Merker. Merk the Jerk. The guy hadn’t lied. All their jabbering and plotting and big ideas were about to pay off. Hot damn. Hot tamales. Hot stuff. Hot to trot. Hot spot. Good shot. Hit the spot. Thanks a lot.

  Do not tell Jo. He drew an imaginary zipper with a silver tassel across his lips. Oh, but she’d get a kick out of this one. She’d be hurt that he hadn’t let her in on the scheme, wonder for years what became of him, because this time he’d disappear for good. No sneaking back for a midnight visit to laugh at the havoc he’d created. Couldn’t take the chance. This deal amounted to the grand finale, the culmination of forty-two years of practice.

  A cloud passed in front of the sun, casting the dirt in even light. In prison he’d ached for sun on his skin. Lying on his cot at night, blinking into black stale air, he’d clear his mind and drift to a speck of ground out on the plains and stand in the sun he’d taken for granted, the horizon far off. The only thing to discover in any direction would be more space, the air so dry, sweat evaporated before it dropped. And he’d zoom like an aircraft, arms pressed against his sides, head directing his body west toward rolling hills, until he caught sight of the Rio Risa trickling out of the Mariposa Mountains. He’d follow the river to where it met Alibi Creek, where he could damn near smell ponderosa pine baking in the July heat, get a headache from juniper pollen, spit dust, and squint against snow that stayed dazzling white. He’d land and bow to lizards, gophers, rattlers, and bull snakes, his ears straining to pick up the low bleating of a cow, a baby elk squealing for its mama, or a coyote calling its mate, and drift off to sleep with the love of place, the missing of place and the longing for place. This place.

  He reached into the bed of the pickup, took a beer out of the cooler and drove seven miles north, up through the rock cliffs onto the flats just this side of Arizona and parked between a couple of cedars and walked into the field. The final warmth of summer had put a hold on the season, refusing to let go. Flies and gnats buzzed lazily, about done with their frenzied dance until spring. His eyes fixed on a spot a hundred feet ahead and when he got there he tossed down his hat, lay on his back, arms tucked under his head. Pebbles poked his shoulders and rough clumps of grass tickled his neck, and a light breeze licked his cheek. He shut his eyes against the shocking blue sky and fell asleep.

  He met Jo on her usual perch at 5:10 sharp and took the Manhattan from her hand before she took a second sip.

  “Darlin’, let’s blow this joint, get some real food in a fine restaurant.”

  “Any restaurant classified as ‘fine’ is an hour and a half from here. I’m tired.”

  “C’mon. You don’t need to do a thing. I’m driving.” He poked the corners of her mouth into a smile. “That’s better. Say, ‘why Walker, I’d love to!’ like a pleasant lady.”

  She removed his fingers and sucked in her cheeks.

  “I’m no pleasant lady, and you know it.”

  “Sweetheart, I know just who you are and I appreciate every cell in your body. Tonight I aim to show you how much. This much.” He pulled her off the stool and wrapped his arms around her and squeezed with all his might.

  “I can’t breathe.”

  “Don’t sit down,” he said, grabbing her purse, then her hand, and dragging her out the door. “Larry’s Front Quarter, here we come!”

  “Damn you, Walker. Maybe I got plans tonight.”

  “This is the plan. And I’m your man. The night belongs to us.”

  They drove west into the last of daylight and he hooked his pinkie around hers until she relaxed.

  “Personally,” she said, pulling her hand away and lighting a cigarette, “I’ve got nothing against your sister, but everyone else rolls their eyes. Running around with a clipboard clutched to her chest like a coat of armor, supporting all that crap those commissioners dole out. We’re all waiting to hear the bullshit she hands to the press about the big federal handout. Nothing will change. Years from now, if we’re lucky, we’ll discover what the Three Stooges did with the money.”

  Walker drove in silence. He never spoke ill of Lee Ann, never defended her either. The favors she’d done him out-weighed expressing personal feelings one way or the other. He had his opinions, though. Lee Ann wasted time trying to live up to Christian ideals that didn’t exist. Any sane person would go nuts meeting those standards, even God Himself. Pious folks set the bar high to make sure there’d be a lot of room for failure and therefore, criticism,
which meant a lot of room for improvement spelled out in the Bible. Lee Ann cared too much what others thought. There wasn’t a person alive could please everyone. Trying to please everyone resulted in living carefully, self-consciously, and that amounted to keeping secrets about all sorts of ugly acts righteous people pretended not to have committed. Living carefully ruined spontaneity. Sure as a boot heel snuffed out a spark, the thrill of reacting in the moment couldn’t thrive smothered with caution. Taking up with Eugene was probably the one time in her life lust drew Lee Ann into a whirlwind of emotion too powerful to resist. As if to repent, she loaded herself with a slew of duties. He’d caught her whispering, probably still begging for forgiveness for the sin of betraying Wayne, that clumsy, morose, first husband she couldn’t stomach, a man with such a gray temperament folks skedaddled when they saw him coming. She should have dumped him the first week of their marriage, but oh, no. Lee Ann stood by her commitments.

  “You listening?” Jo said. “I’ve only got a twenty.”

  “This is on me.”

  He’d sweet-talk Larry out of the bill once they’d eaten.

  A lump the size of a wild plum, and growing, stuck in his throat and his tongue felt thick. Their last night together. Jo slipped her arms out of her jacket and opened the menu, candlelight flushing her chin and forehead, cheeks aglow. Why, her hair, which usually reminded him of a Brillo pad, looked soft as dandelion fluff. She’d dabbed her nose with makeup and swiped dusty rose lipstick across lips seldom bruised by kisses. Delicate, unadorned hands unwrapped the cloth napkin rolled around a steak knife and fork. Without missing a beat, she ordered a Royal Manhattan.