Blue Lonesome

13

He had just come out of the Western apparel shop on Main, wearing his new wide belt with its oblong Nevada buckle — not too big, not too fancy — when he spotted Maria Hoxie. She was maneuvering the Jeep wagon he’d seen at the parsonage into a space across the street. When she got out and headed west in no hurry, he jaywalked across at an intercepting angle. Before he reached her she entered one of the storefronts: All-Rite Pharmacy.

He followed her inside. It was an old-fashioned drugstore, the kind with a soda fountain along one wall — among the last of an endangered species, doomed to eventual extinction as surely as the great auk and the Great American Dream. Maria was the only customer; she had gone into the cosmetics section and was examining a bottle of something the color of mud. She looked flushed, a little wilted, her black hair windblown and sweat-damp at the temples. Preoccupied, too. She kept nibbling at her lower lip.

“Hello, Maria. Remember me?”

He hadn’t meant to startle her, any more today than in the church cemetery on Tuesday; but she reacted in the same sort of defensive fashion — wheeling, tensing, raising the bottle as if to throw it. Even when she recognized him it took her a few seconds to relax. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, “the Messenger.” She bit her lip again; her black-eyed gaze was almost accusing. “What do you want?”

“Nothing much. I just thought I’d say hello.”

“You know, you could’ve confided in me.”

“Confided? I don’t...”

“The other day. I’d have told you everything my father did.”

“Well, you seemed busy and I—”

“That poor woman. Don’t you think I care about what she did to herself?”

“Anna Roebuck?”

“Suicide. God have mercy.”

“Most everyone I’ve talked to thinks her death is a cause for rejoicing,” Messenger said. “You don’t feel that way?”

“No. No one’s death is a cause for rejoicing.”

“But you do think she was guilty, even if you didn’t hate her?”

“God knows who’s guilty and who’s not,” Maria said. “I don’t hate anyone. I was taught to love, not hate.”

“Did you love Dave Roebuck?”

She chewed her lip, ran a hand through her tousled hair. “No. I didn’t love him.”

“You and he were close once, though?”

“Close? No. He was—”

“What, Maria? What was he?”

“Wicked,” she said. “Satan made him, not God.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He hurt people. Everyone he touched.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Everyone he touched,” she said. Then she said, “I have to go now,” and backed away from him. She was at the door before she realized she still held the cosmetics bottle. She hesitated, flustered; started to turn back, changed her mind, put the bottle down on a display of plastic kitchenware, and then hurried out, half running, as if she were afraid Messenger might decide to chase her.

Strange one, he thought. Strange, confused mixture of child and woman, earthiness and piety. Seduced by Dave Roebuck, probably, and when he dumped her she was caught like the rope in a tug-of-war between opposing feelings: I was taught to love, not hate. If her rage at Roebuck had been strong enough, and her elemental side had won the inner struggle, she might have been capable of ignoring the biblical edict, Thou Shalt Not Kill. But the little girl, Tess? He didn’t see how Maria could have committed an atrocity like that.

All his speculations kept coming back to the death of Tess Roebuck. It was the central enigma and the key to the truth. How could anyone shatter an eight-year-old’s skull with a rock? Why would anyone change a dead girl’s clothing and then put the body down a well?

The saddle bar was just what he’d expected. Western decor dominated by saddles, bridles, and other tack room paraphernalia. Pool and snooker tables. Video poker and slot machines. Country music pounding from a jukebox. All that was missing was an electronic bucking bull. But then, that was the plaything of urban cowboys; real cowboys rode real bulls if they felt the need to prove their manhood.

He sat in a booth near the door, nursing a glass of beer and ignoring the glances and murmured comments of the bartender and the half dozen other customers. Whoever was playing the jukebox liked Reba McEntire; her voice and her music beat at him in shrill, atonal waves. It made him yearn for Miles Davis. There were plenty of things he liked about this desert country, but its typical watering hole wasn’t among them.

He’d been there fifteen minutes when Lynette Carey walked in alone. Her arrival was a small surprise. He hadn’t really expected her to keep their date, particularly not after the in-your-face tactics of her brother and Tom Spears. But she was her own woman; she honestly didn’t give a damn what anybody else in Beulah thought she should or shouldn’t do.

She slid into the booth across from him, looking as flushed and wilted as Maria Hoxie had. “Whew,” she said, “what a day. My legs feel like my ass weighs three hundred pounds. Where’s that Heineken draft you were gonna have waiting?”

“I’ll get it. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Told you I would.”

He went to the bar for her draft. The fat bartender and the customers were staring openly now, the bartender with thin-lipped hostility; he slammed the full glass down hard enough to slop foam out over the rim. Messenger smiled at him, thinking: To hell with you too, buddy.

Lynette drank thirstily, said “Ah!” and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she said, “Why did you think I wouldn’t come?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m something of a pariah in this town. Just like Anna Roebuck was.”

“What’s that? Pariah?”

“Outcast. Somebody no one likes.”

“You’re not so bad,” she said. “I like guys who do things, even if they’re not popular things. Most guys I know just sit around on their hams like vegetables.”

He smiled. “Hams like vegetables.”

“Huh?”

“Your brother doesn’t like me or anything I do.”

“Joe? What’s he got to do with you?”

“You haven’t talked to him today?”

“No. Why?”

“He found out you made this date with me,” Messenger said. “From someone who was in the café this morning, I suppose. He warned me to stay away from you.”

“Oh, he did, huh. Where’d you see him?”

He explained, briefly.

She drank more of her beer. Wire-thin anger lines bracketed her mouth now. “I’ve told him and told him,” she said. “Mind his business, not mine. But he doesn’t listen. Mule-stubborn, that’s Joe. And Skinny-Shanks Spears is worse. What’d they do, gang up on you?”

“They tried. Joe said if I bothered you he’d kick my ass purple.”

“Big tough guy. Scare you?”

“Some,” Messenger admitted. “From what I hear Joe’s a fighter. And he’s got a quick temper where you’re concerned.”

“Yeah, he’s been known to go off half-cocked.”

“Like he did with Dave Roebuck?”

Small silence. She broke it by saying, “Like that, yeah,” in wary tones.

“What set him at Roebuck’s throat the week before the murders — the fight in the Hardrock Tavern? You’d already broken off with Roebuck by then.”

“What if I had?”

“Why would Joe jump him to protect you? Why not before, while you were still seeing him?”

Lynette didn’t say anything.

Messenger asked, “Or did they have a fight before?”

“No.”

“Then why the one at the Hardrock?”

“Why ask me? Why didn’t you ask Joe?”

“I did ask him. He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Well, I’m not gonna tell you, either.”

“Why the big secret, Lynette?”

“Some things you don’t talk about, that’s all. Not even to friends, let alone strangers.”

“What could be that bad?”

“Plenty of things. They happen in Beulah, same as big cities like San Francisco. You like to think they don’t but they do.”

“Is it the reason you broke off with Roebuck?”

“Damn straight.”

“Something he did to you?”

“I told you, I’m not gonna say. Don’t ask me again.”

“But it made you hate him. You and your brother both.”

“I didn’t shed any tears when I heard he was dead, that’s for sure. If Anna hadn’t blown his head off—”

“What, Lynette? Would you have killed him?”

“No. I couldn’t kill anybody.”

“How about Joe? He could, couldn’t he?”

“What’re you getting at? You think Joe killed him and that poor kid?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sounded like you’re thinking it.”

“No. Just tossing out possibilities.”

“Well, toss that one in the garbage. He could’ve used a shotgun on that asshole, Dave, sure, but he’d never hurt a kid. He loves kids.”

“Anna loved kids, too.”

“Sure she did. She loved her daughter enough to bust her head with a rock and throw her into the well.” Lynette finished her draft, slammed the glass down the way the bartender had. “You know something? I see why people don’t like you, Jim. You’re like a burr under a saddle with your goddamn questions.”

“Mule-stubborn, same as your brother.”

“Keep it up,” she said, “and he really will kick your ass purple. You’re no match for him. Or Skinny-Shanks Spears.”

“I know it.”

“So why keep banging your head against a wall? You one of those freaks who likes pain?”

“What I like is having something to believe in. All I’m after is the truth.”

“The truth,” she said. “Shit, the truth.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you and me could’ve been good friends, Jim. Real good friends. But you just blew it. A guy with crazy ideas is a guy with a busted head, likely. And a guy with a busted head is no damn good to me.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I can use a friend right now.”

Lynette shrugged, started to slide out of the booth. Messenger put a hand on her arm.

“At least stay long enough to have another beer with me.”

“One’s my limit.” She shrugged off his hand. “Besides, I got to pick up my kid at the baby-sitter’s. So long, Jim, I wish I could say it’s been nice,” and she slid free of the booth.

“We’ll see each other again.”

“From a distance, if you know what’s good for you.”

She tugged her uniform skirt down and walked to the door. One of the men at the bar said something; the others laughed raucously. Lynette turned long enough to say, “Up yours, boys,” in a voice full of bitter dignity. Then she was gone.

The telephone rang five minutes after he let himself into his room at the High Desert Lodge. He was in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his heat-sticky face. He caught up a towel before he went out to answer.

A man’s scratchy voice asked, “This Jim Messenger?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“My name’s Mackey, Herb Mackey. You heard of me?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Well, I don’t know. I run a place down south of town a few miles. Mackey’s Rocks and Minerals.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Mackey?”

“More like what I can do for you.”

“How do you mean?”

“Asking around about the Roebuck murders, ain’t you? Don’t think that Anna Roebuck did it.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I got something you ought to see. Something you ought to hear about, too.”

Messenger sat on the edge of the bed. “Evidence that might prove Anna Roebuck innocent?”

“Better come out and see for yourself.”

“If you have evidence of some kind, you should take it to the sheriff—”

“No. You or nobody.”

“Give me an idea of what it is you have.”

“You got to see it. Unless you ain’t interested.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” Mackey said. “I ain’t said a word to anybody else about this and I ain’t going to.”

“But if you think—”

“I don’t think, mister. Thinking ain’t what I do best. You coming out here or not?”

“I’m coming. Where are you, exactly?”

“About six miles south, off the main highway. Side road to the west. You’ll see a sign at the junction — Mackey’s Rocks and Minerals. Make it about forty-five minutes. I got to go and get what I want you to see.”

“Forty-five minutes,” Messenger said. “I’ll be there. And thanks, Mr. Mackey. Thanks very much.”

Hunger drove him out of the room almost immediately. He hadn’t had any appetite until Mackey’s call; now he was ravenous. Sudden excitement had that effect on him, made him hungry for food along with whatever else he was anticipating. There wasn’t enough time for a sit-down meal, but he’d noticed a Jack-in-the-Box in a little shopping center near the high school; he could eat a burger and fries in the car.

But he didn’t get to the Jack-in-the-Box and he didn’t get to feed his hunger. He was opening the Subaru’s door when a familiar dust-caked station wagon turned off the highway into the motel lot, rattled to a stop nearby. The pint-sized stick figure of Reverend Hoxie popped into view.

“Going out, Mr. Messenger? I’m glad I caught you. Can you spare me a few minutes?”

Messenger said reluctantly, “Well, if it’s no more than fifteen.”

“Fifteen will be plenty.” Hoxie’s smile this evening seemed small and pasted on. Behind it was the kind of nervousness a person feels when he’s on a difficult or unpleasant errand. “In your room, where it’s more private?”

Messenger nodded and led the way inside. Hoxie glanced around, then sat gingerly on the edge of the room’s only chair. The bed or an upright lean against the dresser were Messenger’s only options; he chose the latter.

“What can I do for you, Reverend?”

“Well...” Hoxie cleared his throat. “I understand you had words with my daughter this afternoon.”

“We spoke briefly, yes.”

“Long enough for you to ask her embarrassing questions.”

“Embarrassing?”

“You intimated that she... that there was something between her and Dave Roebuck.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“She was upset and I made her tell me why. We both thought those vile rumors had been laid to rest, and now you’ve dredged them up again.”

“So you did know about the alleged relationship.”

“Oh, yes,” Hoxie said with bitterness, “from the first. More than one member of my congregation saw fit to repeat the rumors to me. There’s not a shred of truth to them.” Absently he smoothed the crosshatched gray hair on his skull. “Maria is a good girl in the purest sense of that term. As close to an angel as any God ever made. She would never allow a man like Dave Roebuck to soil her.”

“Then how did the rumors get started?”

“I have no idea. How does any false rumor find voice? This is a small town, Mr. Messenger, a closed community. People see and hear all sorts of things that are open to misinterpretation. And not everyone gets along with his neighbors. Not even a man of the cloth is exempt from pettiness.”

“Enemies, Reverend?”

“I’ve made a few in my life, God knows.”

“Who in Beulah, for instance?”

“I won’t provide fodder for any more rumors.”

“I don’t start rumors,” Messenger said. “Or repeat them. I asked your daughter some questions, nothing more. I didn’t accuse her of anything.”

“What right do you have to ask questions? You’re not a member of this community. You have no purpose here except as a catalyst, an opener of old wounds.”

“That’s your opinion. I won’t argue it with you.”

“How long do you intend to stay?”

“Until I’m ready to leave.”

Hoxie stood. “Then I’ll ask — no, I’ll demand — that you not bother Maria again. Not speak to her at all.”

“All right. But with a proviso.”

“And that is?”

“The rumors about her and Dave Roebuck really are false—”

“They are.”

“—and she had nothing to do with the murders.”

Hoxie flushed; his prominent Adam’s apple slid up and down the column of his neck like a ball in a pneumatic tube. “Are you suggesting she was involved somehow?”

“I’m not suggesting anything.”

“God help you if you are,” Hoxie said. “God help you if you do anything, anything at all, to harm or shame my daughter.”

It was not an idle threat. The little man’s face was implacable; he meant every word.