“Thanks, anyway,” Wallace said.
I nodded. I turned and stepped toward the deputy and the door.
“Mister Hunt,” Wallace said.
I looked back at him. He was sitting up now, but still on the cot. He gripped the edge with his hands.
“I didn’t kill that guy.”
“Okay.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“All right, Wallace. You tell that to your lawyer.”
“Don’t you want to know why I didn’t kill him?” Wallace lay back down and stared at the ceiling.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said.
“I’ll wait outside,” the deputy said.
“No,” I said. But, of course, the young man was correct.
“I’ll be right on the other side of the door. Just knock.” He walked out. The door closed with that awful click.
“Okay, kid,” I said. “Why?”
“I don’t really know,” he said.
“Jesus.”
“I mean, I know, but—” he stopped. “Mister Hunt, I liked him. I really liked him. You know what I mean? Why would I have killed him?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, son.”
He closed his eyes and seemed to be crying.
“I’m sorry, Wallace. I just came to tell you about your brother.” I stepped over and tapped on the door. The deputy let me out.
THREE
I TOLD MYSELF, and therefore it was no doubt true, that I was not much impressed by Wallace Castlebury’s predicament. By my reckoning, killing another person made someone a bad man. I frankly didn’t believe that Wallace was innocent. And the law, though it seldom worked as advertised, was going to do for him what it could, probably a little more than it would have for me and a little less than it would have for Duncan Camp. That simply was the way it was, I told myself and reminded myself that I simply did not care.
The day had turned hot and the street felt like steaming food. I ducked into the library where it was air-conditioned. It was a routine stop once a week to read newspapers and magazines. I was able to at once counteract my chosen isolation and justify that choice. I read about the gay killing in the Denver Post, the Washington Post, the St. Louis Times Dispatch, and the New York Times. They all said about the same thing, with the Eastern papers offering the implication, if not outright accusation, that the crime was symptomatic of some rural or Western disease of intolerance. I thought, yes, it’s called America. I wondered why the reported rash of fifty rapes in Central Park was not considered a similar indicator of regional moral breakdown. I saw the dead boy’s name and it stuck with me for the first time and I felt a little ashamed by that. Jerry Tuttle. By all reports he was a small man, a gentle man, and like most murdered people, not deserving of what had happened to him.
“Mr. Hunt?” It was the librarian, Kent Hollis.
I looked up at his craggy face. “Mr. Hollis?”
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “I just made some.”
I had seen Hollis and said hello many times, sometimes on the street when Hollis took lunchtime walks with his wheelchair-bound wife. She was a big woman with a loud, good nature, but Hollis was quiet. I always noticed his delicate hands.
“French roast,” he said.
“No, thank you, Mr. Hollis.” I had always called the man Mr. Hollis because he always called me Mr. Hunt. I called to him as he stepped away. “Mr. Hollis.”
“Sir?”
“How long have I known you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Years. Many years.”
“My name is John. I’d like you to call me John.” I stood from the straight-backed chair and put my hand out. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Hollis took my hand and shook. “Kent,” he said.
“Kent,” I repeated his name. “How is your wife?”
“She’s fine.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Coffee?” he offered again.
“No, thank you. I’d better get back to my place before it falls down. I find I can’t get things done unless I do them.”
Hollis laughed.
“See you next week” I said. I left, considering the man and his devotion to his wife. I imagined that if Susie had lived, I’d be caring for her the same way.
I was out riding with Morgan. I held up on the far bank of the creek and waited while she coaxed her horse, Square, through the rivulet. She reined the horse left down the bank and turned through the water and up the opposite side. I liked the way she sat her horse.
“Why’d you name that animal Square?” I asked.
“He just never fit in with the other horses,” she said. “He’s too sweet. He lets them run all over him.”
“I’m not going to mention how tacky it is that you ride a Morgan horse.”
“I admire the restraint,” she said.
When we were higher, we let the horses go for a stretch, opening up into a lope across the big meadow. The air was cooler up there and it felt good on my face. The breeze pressed the ochre grasses down and the ground appeared to move in a gentle wave. We stopped at the edge of the meadow and studied the valley below. My house and barns were small in the distance. The Red Desert was far off to the left; I could just see the desolate edge of it.
“Don’t you just love it?” I said. “This has got to be the most beautiful place in the world. Just think, somewhere out there in that godforsaken desert are wild horses kicking up dust.”
“Dying of thirst and starving to death,” Morgan said.
“Wet blanket.”
We stepped on toward a higher spot.
“You ever going to run cattle again?” she asked.
“Probably not,” I said.
“Why?”
“I don’t like cows.” I shifted my weight in the saddle. “Mainly, I don’t like the businesses I had to sell cows to. Hell, I don’t even eat much beef anymore.”
“I like cows,” Morgan said. “They’ve got kind eyes.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Do you like my eyes, Hunt?” she asked.
“What, you think you’ve got cow eyes?”
“Do you?” she asked again.
“If I say they’re kind and gentle, that kinda makes them cow eyes,” I said. I didn’t know which way I was running.
“Do you?”
“Sure, I like your eyes, Morgan.” I pushed back my hat and looked at her eyes. “What’s this all about?”
“You know, I like Gus a lot,” she said, “but Gus is not the reason I spend so much time at your place.” She was looking into my eyes. “I like your eyes, John. I like them a lot.”
I could see she was near panic. “I guess I know that,” I said.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well, what?”
“Am I wasting my time?”
“What do you want from me?” I asked. “I’m your friend, right?”
Some jays screeched in a nearby pine.
“You’re my friend,” Morgan said. It was resignation. She dismounted, dropped her reins, and walked a few yards away.
I threw my right leg over the horn and slid off the saddle. “Morgan,” I said, slowly moving to her. I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her around. She felt soft just then and uncharacteristically frail. “It took a lot of courage for you to say that, I know.”
“Well, whoop-tee-do. Pin a medal on my underappreciated breast and let’s see who salutes.”
“Listen, I’m really very attracted to you,” I told her. “I am, Morgan. But, and I know you don’t want to hear this — but, I keep thinking about things.”