“What’s going on out there?”
“Vultures,” she said bitterly. “Goddamn bone pickers.”
“Media?”
“Mostly. Some longnecker from town, too. One of those TV trucks drove in a while ago and I ran the bastards off. I put up with that trespass shit when Tess and Dave were killed, but not this time. Not this time.”
She hadn’t slept much either; that was plain. Lines of fatigue were shaped out around her eyes, and bloody-looking veins mottled the pupils. Her hair was uncombed: the topknot had a curl in it like Woody Woodpecker’s. The fact that she looked vulnerable this morning made her even more desirable. Male ego: man the protector, the comforter. Right. Put that thought into words, and she’d probably laugh in his face.
He wondered if, after all, he was in love with her.
He had no reliable measuring stick for his feelings. The only other woman he’d thought he loved was Doris, but with her it had been little more than body heat; they’d been at each other like rabbits before and for a while after their marriage. He’d been hurt when she divorced him, but it hadn’t been the kind of wrenching, lingering pain of something ripped loose from deep inside. No, he hadn’t really loved Doris; time had taught him that. His feelings for Dacy were stronger, more emotional. A sense of kinship and the sort of bond that could lead to oneness. But there was no use in kidding himself — the potential oneness might be all one-sided. And transitory and delusional on his part, an outgrowth of the passion they’d shared last night. Middle-aged body heat could fool a lonely man just as easily as teenage body heat could fool an immature one.
Take it slow, he thought. Don’t push it. There’s too much else going on right now.
“Where’s Lonnie?” he asked.
“Gone. He got up before I did, saddled his horse, and rode off. Christ knows where.”
Messenger closed fingers lightly around her arm. She didn’t draw away from his touch, but she didn’t respond to it, either. “Dacy, let’s go inside. We need to talk.”
“If it’s about you and me—”
“It isn’t.”
“Good, because this isn’t the time.”
“I know it.”
They went into the kitchen, Dacy leaving her Weatherby propped against the wall near the front door. She said, “Coffee’s on the stove. You look like you could use some.”
“The biggest mug you’ve got.”
“Cupboard above the sink.”
He found the mug, poured coffee. Thick and bitter — just what he needed.
Dacy said, “Something’s eating on Lonnie. And I don’t think it’s what happened to John T.”
“It isn’t. Not directly.”
“That mean you know what it is?”
“Yes. That’s what we need to talk about. He knows something that’s been cutting him up inside ever since Tess and his uncle were murdered. He spit it out to me last night, while you were in with Liz Roebuck.”
“Spit what out? What could he know?”
“He believes he’s responsible for Tess’s death.”
“He... what?”
“He’s not, I tried to convince him of that, but he’s too guilt-ridden to listen to the truth.”
“For God’s sake, Jim, don’t dance with me. Just say it.”
He told her. Exactly what Lonnie had told him.
She took it stoically. But when he was done she sank onto one of the dinette chairs and slapped the table, hard, with the palm of her hand — a gesture of angry frustration. “That poor kid. Both those poor kids. If he’d just told me...”
“He couldn’t,” Messenger said. “You’re too close; he was afraid you’d hate him.”
“As if I could. All my hate’s for the lowlife son of a bitch Anna married. If she did blow his head off she had every right. I’d’ve done it myself if I’d known.”
“She didn’t kill anybody. You don’t believe that anymore, after what happened to John T.?”
“No, not anymore.”
“Lonnie does. He’ll go right on believing it until the real murderer is exposed.”
“Maybe if I talked to him...”
“It’d do more harm than good. He can’t face you as long as he feels responsible.”
“He ask you not to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you?”
“You have a right to know,” Messenger said. “Too many secrets in Beulah as it is.”
“And it may have something to do with the killings and two heads are better than one. All right. But I don’t see how it could.”
“Neither do I, right now. One thing I’m fairly sure of: Tess didn’t tell her mother, in spite of what Lonnie believes.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Anna kept a pocket watch that Dave’s father gave him when he was a boy; it’s among her effects in San Francisco. She wouldn’t have held on to a memento like that if she’d known he was molesting her daughter.”
“Hell, no, she wouldn’t. Child abuse sickened her as much as it does me.”
“Would she’ve let on to you if she’d known or suspected?”
“Not right away, maybe. But sooner or later.”
Messenger said, “I wonder—” but he didn’t finish the thought or the sentence. Outside Buster began a new round of barking; and a few seconds later Messenger heard the rattle and growl of an incoming car.
Dacy was on her feet. She said, “If that’s another goddamn TV truck...” and hurried to the front door, scooping up her rifle as she opened it. He followed her onto the porch.
Not the media this time; the car that pulled up in front was a state police cruiser with two occupants. The driver was a beefy individual dressed in a Western-style suit, Stetson hat, and string tie. His passenger was Ben Espinosa.
Dacy leaned the Weatherby against the porch railing as the two men climbed out. “More bullshit,” she said to Messenger in an undertone. But her expression, now, was one of weary resignation.
The beefy man was a state police investigator named Loes. Despite his outfit, he was strictly professionaclass="underline" direct, businesslike manner and the diction of a college graduate. Espinosa was deferential to him. As he would be to anyone in a position of authority, Messenger thought. The sheriff looked haggard, and relieved to have the investigation out of his hands. But his gaze, whenever it cut to Messenger, showed an antipathy that bordered on hatred.
He blames me. The whole town does by now. Hypocrites. If I’m responsible for John T., they’re responsible for Anna. Blood on their hands long before there was any on mine.
Loes questioned Dacy and him in greater detail than Espinosa had. His attitude was noncommittaclass="underline" just a good, thorough cop doing his job without any bias. From the questions, Messenger determined that the authorities still had no idea why John T. had gone to his brother’s ranch at such a late hour, or whom he had met there. He put this into words, and Loes confirmed it.
“Mr. Roebuck was last seen at the casino around ten o’clock,” he said. “He didn’t go home from there. No one seems to know where he went.”
“Did his wife expect him?”
“She says she didn’t. He kept irregular hours.”
Dacy said, “It could’ve been a woman he met.”
“What makes you say that, Mrs. Burgess?”
“Nothing. It was just a suggestion.”
“Was he involved with a woman, to your knowledge?”
“Not to my knowledge, no. But it’s two miles from the valley road up there — two miles of bad road, especially at night. Why go all that way unless you wanted to make sure you were alone with whoever you were meeting?”
“A good point,” Loes said. “But I can make another just as good: There are hundreds of places around Beulah where a man and a woman could meet in complete privacy. Why would Mr. Roebuck pick his brother’s ranch, where his brother was murdered?”