Full Measure

Chapter sixteen

The morning was the coolest of the month and Ted felt winter in his feet. His task was to strip off the herbicide-tainted paint he’d put on some eighty tree trunks. Archie patiently demonstrated how to use the pressure sprayer, cautioning Ted that a direct ninety-degree blade of compressed water would cut into the tree surely as an axe. Archie fired away at an angle, “lifting” off the possibly poisoned paint that Ted had applied. “If the bark starts coming up, your angle’s wrong.”

“I got it, Dad.”

“I’d like to get a full day of work out of you.”

“Moving the compressor will be pretty hard on my feet.”

“You think the compressor is heavy, Pat and I will be lugging bales and putting down straw.”

“The compressor is heavy, too.”

Ted grunted and as he pulled the heavy wheeled contraption tree to tree over the leafy, ash-frosted earth. He got the thing going but the pressure seemed insufficient so he put on a different nozzle. And sure enough, once he got the hang of it the paint came right off. He was surprised how thick it was and found it hard to believe he’d failed to triple rinse the spray canister. He had no knack for practical physical things. Ted put in his earbuds and cranked up Cruzela Storm. A voice like new motor oil, he thought, clean and smooth and durable, and a similar color, too. Her main theme was, keep going in adversity, keep your cool, and your faith. Her subtheme was, people will try to take what’s yours, so learn to stand up for yourself.

He moved beneath the spindly naked canopies. Lifting off the dried paint took longer than spraying it on in the first place, but Ted worked diligently. He stopped now and then to lift rocks to see what creatures were living underneath. He caught one big tarantula, one small scorpion, and an alligator lizard, and put them into separate cottage-cheese containers with air holes punched in their lids. He had always loved unlovable things. They were humble and expected nothing, though some of them packed secret stings and poisons. He set the containers in the shade of the truck and got right back to work.

Later, close to lunchtime, through the music streaming into him, Ted suddenly and clearly heard the sharp report of his father’s voice. He lifted off one bud.

“Goddamn son of a BITCH!”

Ted dropped the nozzle, yanked off the earbuds, and pawed open the low-hanging branches in the direction of the yelling. Through his sweat-and-soot-smudged goggles he could see Archie far downhill of him, and Patrick a hundred yards to the east. His father stood looking at Ted with both arms out, palms raised in an unmistakable question: What in the hell is this? Could he have found a cool snake?

Ted burst through the black limbs and hustled down the slope, sidling down the steep granite escarpments, his feet swaddled in pain but soon he was standing before his father, panting. He stripped off the goggles to see what Archie was holding in his outstretched hand. It was one of the thick slabs of dried paint that Ted had lifted from the tree.

“Paint, Dad!”

“This isn’t paint, Ted. It’s bark! Formerly living bark! You’ve killed thirty trees today, son. Congratulations.”

Ted took the white fragment and turned it over. The inside was colored a very pale green that suggested life. The whole thing was no thicker than half an inch. He held it up closer to make sure it wasn’t just paint. But he could see that it was not.

Patrick arrived and took the bark from Ted and saw the problem. “Took off a bit much here, brother.”

“I thought it was paint, Pat. I swear.”

“Christ all mighty, Ted!

“Screaming doesn’t help,” said Patrick.

“Nothing helps!”

“Then stop being an asshole,” said Patrick.

Archie glared at his sons, Patrick and Ted, in turn.

“I didn’t mean it to happen, Dad,” said Ted. “It was an accident.”

“You’re both worthless.” Archie snatched the painted bark from Patrick and backhanded it against Ted’s ample belly, off which it bounced. Then Archie shook his head and turned and headed muttering toward the trucks.

Ted closed his eyes and clutched his arms tight to his chest and began turning counterclockwise.

Patrick grabbed him by the shoulders and slowed him and held him in place. “Goddamnit, Ted — that won’t do you any good. You can’t just go away.”

Ted closed his eyes tight and waited for liftoff.

Ted switched jobs with Patrick and worked furiously through lunch, breaking apart the heavy bales and spreading the straw under the trees with a pitchfork. Occasionally he stopped to watch Patrick removing the paint from the tree trunks, and from this distance Ted couldn’t see what his brother was doing differently than he had. It looked as if Patrick had switched nozzles, and that was about all. But the real difference, thought Ted, is Pat won’t create a disaster. Pat will do it perfectly. Ted snapped through another nylon tie with the heavy cutters, threw the pieces into the back of the pickup, then rammed the pitchfork into the bale, broke off a load, and heaved it under a tree.

It was easy to think of a bale as someone who wished him harm, like one of the rapacious takers in the Cruzela Storm songs cranking in his ears, like Edgar or his foul-mouthed girlfriend or Evelyn Anders or his father. It felt good to impale them over the next hours, spreading them evenly around the trees that he had tried so hard to save and only managed to put at even greater peril. It was good to focus anger on a person, to have a face to use for a target. And thanks to me, he thought, when the rain comes, this soil and these trees will be protected by this straw. Just as when the fire had come, the Norris residence had survived because he’d trimmed back the trees and bushes around the house and outbuildings. And what exactly had Dad said about that? Not one word, Ted thought. Only his mother had had the good manners to thank him for what he’d done. And Pat. Patrick had said something right off about him doing a good job. Or had he?

Near sundown Ted carried the pitchfork back to the truck. He checked the creatures in their containers and set them up front. His phone rang. He checked the caller, took a deep breath and spoke in a low voice. “’Lo, Cade.”

He ditched family cocktails, showered and shaved, and drove to Pride Auto Repair. There were three cars in the lot, Cade’s white-and-aqua Bel Air, a Dodge Magnum, and a red Dodge pickup truck, late fifties, beautifully restored. Ted heard music inside, hard and reckless. He stood under the neon Model T sign and looked through the open front door. The overhead lights were strong and lit the room like a stage. Cade was in there, shooting pool with a man while two women sat on stools and watched. Cade wore a holster low on his leg like a gunfighter and a six-gun glinted in the leather. The women wore halter tops and small skirts and their legs shined in the overhead light. They held bottles of beer. The man playing pool with Cade was young, all muscles and freckles. He wore a black leather vest over his naked torso, a black cowboy hat, and had a large handgun on his belt, holstered high and back, like a detective. They all looked at him standing at the open door. Cade smiled. “What do you want, Ted, an engraved invitation?”

Ted stepped in. Cade bent to the table, formed his bridge, and sunk the seven ball with a clack so sharp it pierced the music. The strong young man ignored him but one of the women, the brunette, smiled and held up her beer. “Want one?”

“Sure.”

“The fridge is in the back, cold ones up front.”

“Can I get one for you?”

“Bring it on, big guy.”

“Anyone else?”

No one answered so Ted got two cold ones. He pressed them to the opener on the wall while he looked around the repair bay. There were two cars up on the lifts and two more waiting, hoods up. Back in the lobby he gave the woman the beer and pulled up a bar stool a respectful distance from her. The muscular man eyed him then looked back to the table. Cade leaned against the wall by the cue rack, twisting a cube of chalk onto his stick. The jukebox played hard fast music from a band that Ted wasn’t familiar with, something about brass knuckles, red blood and a flag that still waves. He leaned over for a look at the selection and saw that the old retro jukebox was in fact a newer one, outfitted to play CDs.

“I’m Joan and that’s Amber and Trevor,” said the brunette. She had a compact face and a pleasant smile and she was older than he had thought at first. “Friends of Cade’s from Idaho. Spirit Lake.”

“Are there really spirits in it?”

“Indian ghosts is the legend. It’s beautiful there. Cold in winter. We came to talk Cade into moving back but we’re already in love with this place and we only been here two days. This is like America used to be.”

“Before government took over.”

“Absolutely. Are you a friend of Cade’s?”

“I’ve known him my whole life, pretty much, so, yeah.”

“Then you know all about what happened here.”

“Yep, right out back. Mrs. Magnus was locking up and he surprised her.”

“Yes, and she wasn’t armed to defend herself.”

Ted nodded and saw the glance between Amber and Cade. Amber slid off her stool, shut and locked the front door, and made sure the blinds were closed. Joan set her beer on the counter and dug into her purse and produced an empty.45 caliber cartridge casing and a small glass vial. Looking intent, she unscrewed the vial and tapped some shiny white powder into the shell and sniffed it up her nose. She shuddered and grinned at Ted and loaded one for him. Ted peered down into the casing. There wasn’t much white stuff down there. “Crank?”

“Best there is. Cooked not all that far from here. Smooth and silky and it’ll keep you talkin’ into next week. Just kidding. There’s hardly any crash.”

“Really,” said Ted. He wanted to sound knowledgeable though he’d never tried methamphetamine for fear he might like it too much. He saw Cade and Trevor watching him. Joan smiled crookedly. He brought the shell to his nose and sniffed it up. There was an explosive burn that made his eyes water, then nothing.

“It’ll take a few seconds,” said Joan. She took the casing and put the works back into her bag. Ted watched her, listening to the billiard balls knocking around the table and trying to hear the muttered comments of Cade and Trevor. The singer on the CD screamed on about “cleaning up America and taking out the trash!” Suddenly Ted’s heart had shifted into a higher gear and he felt a great torque unleashed inside him, like horses coming down the stretch — power, clarity, and confidence.

“Woah,” he whispered.

“Woah is right,” said Joan. She had straight shiny hair held back with a barrette, and a cute nose and pretty hands. “You’d think the Magnus family would have gotten a little help after the mother was raped and murdered by a psychopathic killer,” she said, turning to Ted. “A black psychopathic killer. Instead, the monster got a fancy state hospital room and the Magnuses got bankrupted by the courts. Thank you, government. The liberal press didn’t cover that angle, though. Hardly a word of sympathy for the family because they believe in their own white race, right? Then later in court they made it sound like Jed Magnus was sending killers around the world to kill black men. Bankrupted him. Absurd.”

“Joan?” said Cade, settling in for his next shot. “Shut the fuck up, will you? That’s old news.”

“Which relates directly to our own present times,” said Joan.

“Be a dumb shit,” said Cade. “You have the right.”

“I was eleven when she was murdered,” said Ted. He really wanted to talk. Had to talk. The crank brought out old feelings. Suddenly it was like he was here, fifteen years ago, age eleven. The crank seemed to bore out his brain, clean away the clutter and increase the capacity of it. “I rode my bike down here from home the next day and the whole place was still behind crime-scene tape. The deputies were here to keep people from coming in, so I sat in the shade across the street and watched all the people wanting to see where the murder happened. People driving and walking, and tons of kids on bikes and scooters, like me. And news crews, dozens of them. And by the time—”

“I was eighteen, living in Spirit Lake,” said Joan. “Everybody knew about it because Jed’s newsletter was popular. When Jed moved the family there later, we were honored to have them. There was a nice welcome party, home-cooked potluck and a bluegrass band. People showed up, like they’re supposed to. The whole town. Half of them were retired cops from ugly cities. Like my dad. So don’t you diss me, Cade Magnus.”

On top of the crank, the beer hit Ted surprisingly hard, not having drunk alcohol for nearly six months. He hopped off the stool and got another bottle and strode back. He felt seven feet tall, sleek, and extremely intelligent. No foot pain at all. Cade banked in the eight ball, set his cue on the table, and raised a fist. “Ted, you’re up. Ladies, doubles?”

The women came off their stools and headed for the cue rack. Trevor set his black leather cowboy hat on the counter, crown down, and wiped his forehead with the back of one big freckled hand. His hair was red and cut close. His handshake was powerful and Ted watched Trevor’s tan eyes roam his face. His voice was soft. “I heard you had some trouble with a local gangster of the Mexican variety.”

“He robbed me at gunpoint.”

“You should take him to the next level, Ted — white man style. I can help. Do you know where to find him?”

“He hangs out on Carmella Street. Or along Old Stage, behind the McDonald’s. I’ve seen him there.”

“Not good enough. Can you get his home address?”

“Easy.”

“Give me your cell phone.” Trevor took Ted’s phone and started pushing buttons. “Here is Joan’s number. When you get it, give her the wetback’s address. Not his name, just his address. I’ve never heard of you and never seen you.”

“I get it.”

“You and me will fix it so he doesn’t want to bother you again.”

“Yes.”

“Mostly you are going to fix it. I won’t fight your fights for you.”

Ted was amazed that the white powder could bring him so much power, then more, and more, and more. It was like being plugged into a wall socket for an endless charge. “I don’t want you to fight my fights.”

“Tell me about the mayor.”

“I hate her politics. And maybe her, too.”

“Your cartoon was cool.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Maybe you should take her to the next level.”

“What does that mean?”

“Whatever you need it to mean. This band is Hate Matrix. They might give you some ideas.”

“Well, I’ve thought about certain things I could do.”

“Thought is for the weak — act. Make a list of people who need to be dealt with. Hold on to your anger. It’s the only thing that’ll get you through.”

Ted felt the power prowling around in him like a tiger looking for a way out. Wasn’t that tiger his life, his passion to do a big and meaningful thing? He was the tiger and the tiger could do the big thing. He smiled.

“As of right now none of this ever happened.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you mean. I’m a Rogue Wolf, Ted. I live free and hunt alone. You should, too.”

Ted teamed up with Joan. She won the lag and broke and took solids. While she played Ted couldn’t help but notice the beauty of her, the harmonious proportions, the fair skin and the light sheen of perspiration on her neck. She had Pegasus tattooed on her shoulder. He had another beer, and then another. Amber was lovely too, curvier than Joan, with wispy blond curls and a dazzling smile. The women raised their cues and beer bottles and bumped hips each time they passed by each other, and Ted was certain that their laughter was getting him higher than the crank and beer were. He concentrated as hard as he could on the shot-making, and the drugs gave him plenty of confidence and even some steadiness. Between shots he sat on a stool with a half smile and the cue propped up beside him, watching the women and letting their sweet scents drift over him, occasionally looking at Cade and Trevor. He liked these people. Sound judgments on society but no judgments of him. Like-minded individuals but not in lockstep with anything or anyone. Strong but fair. Rogue Wolves, he thought, live free and hunt alone.

Buoyed by camaraderie, meth, and beer, Ted drove west out Mission Road. Near the San Luis Rey River he pulled into the Riverview Stable’s parking lot and got out. He went to the railing, looked down into the arena, and saw that he was in luck. His heart did a little giddyup. Dora was there! Two months ago he had given her a ride into town after her car had run out of gas near here. And of course a ride back to her car after she’d bought a fuel can that he filled for her. Since then, once a week, Ted had come out to watch her teach the night students under the lights. He could tell she liked him. And he liked watching Dora’s mastery over the huge, unpredictable animals.

Now he saw a big chestnut mare ridden by a girl, cantering around Dora. He heard the hollow clop-clop of hooves and the music of Dora’s voice floating up toward him. The air was sweet from the river and the moon was a sliver caught in the sycamore branches. He padded softly down to the grandstand and sat in the front row and watched.

Dora was a pretty red-haired woman in her late twenties. Tonight she was wearing jeans and paddock boots and a red cowl-necked sweater. Her hair shined in the arena lights. Ted smiled with pride. As he watched the horse and rider circle her, Ted thought of the first time he’d gotten on a horse. Why it had reared up, nobody could say. But the gelding’s neck had broken his nose and he had landed hard on his back, his breath knocked out of him. When he came to his senses he was looking up at his mother. He could hear his father cursing and the departing thump of his boots and the more distant thud of hooves. Now he pictured his mother’s face, her beautiful face, the furrow of her brow and the throb of the vein in her forehead, and beyond her the blue sky and white clouds. The horse was named Feather and it was the last horse he’d ever touched.

The lesson ended with a quick hand of applause from Dora. Ted watched the girl lead her horse toward the boarding stalls. Her parents were waiting for her on the other side of the arena and the dad put his arms over his daughter’s shoulders and they all walked slowly past the dressage arena. Dora glanced at her watch as she came from the lighted arena toward him. With a giddy tickle in his heart Ted waited until she was close, then jumped from the darkened grandstand, stumbling slightly. “Hi, Dora!”

He heard the intake of her breath. She stopped abruptly and it took her a moment to identify him. “Ted? Ted? Don’t be jumping out at me like that!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, so what are you doing?”

“Watching, Dora. That’s all. I came to see you.”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m so sorry, I thought you would see me, even though the light’s not good.”

“Yeah, okay, well I didn’t see you. My heart’s still pounding. Jeez...”

Now Ted felt a twinge of fear too, a little tremble in his gut and a flutter in his heart, as if someone had just jumped out of the darkness at him. “You’re right, Dora. I should never have done that. I’m really sorry. Can I walk you to your car?”

She looked at him, but in the half-light Ted couldn’t read the expression on her face. “I guess,” she said.

He fell in beside her and she moved over and they headed for the parking lot. Ted looked up at the clubhouse and restaurant on the hill that overlooked the property. Through the windows he saw a few diners, candles on the tabletops, a waitress delivering something. He shifted his glance down to Dora to see her jaw set tight and her lips firm and her brow bent into a frown. “Dora, can I buy you a drink or dinner? I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’ve eaten, Ted. No thanks.”

“Glass of wine? Decaf?”

“No and no. I think you’ve had enough to drink, too.”

“Maybe a little too much. Good lesson tonight?”

She didn’t answer. Ted listened to the crunch of their feet on the decomposed granite walkway. He looked down at her petite, lace-up boots, then at his own special-order, extra-extra wide walking shoes which, even fitted with unbelievably expensive orthotics, let his collapsed feet slosh and yaw with every step.

“I asked you not to come here again, Ted. What part of that was I not clear about?”

Ted still felt her fear and now he was feeling her anger, too. He didn’t know why other people’s emotions got into him so quickly and strongly but they always had. They could drown out his own. “I just came by to say I won’t be coming by anymore.”

“That’s lame, Ted.”

“I know. I’m starting to get mad at me, too.”

“I’ll call the sheriff. You know that, right?”

“Please don’t.”

“This is the last time you come here, then. The next time I’m pulling out my cell phone and calling them on the spot. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, Dora, I do.” Do I ever, he thought. He needed to calm her. He cupped her upper arm very softly. “The moon is nice tonight, isn’t it?”

She tried to pull away but Ted’s grip automatically closed. A reaction. His hands were very strong and always had been. She yelped and wrenched her arm free and he heard the clink of keys. She whirled. He’d never seen her angry and the anger spoiled her face and he felt responsible. “Ted, you’re a nice guy, and I thank you again for giving me that ride weeks ago. But it doesn’t entitle you to follow me around the rest of my life, touching me. We’ve been through all this. You scare me. You’re drunk. You’re weird.”

They came to the car that ran out of gas, an old Jaguar Vanden Plas into which Dora quickly disappeared. The door locks clunked and the engine started and Dora backed up fast, gravel blasting up against the chassis. In seconds she was far down the road, making a left onto Mission and punching it hard up the hill.