Triple Exposure

by Colleen Thompson

  “I heard it,” Rachel insisted.

  “You said you were upset when you recognized the voice, right? Probably a little scared, too—I know I would be.”

  “I was angry, mainly,” she said before admitting, “and yes, I was upset. So I’ll admit it’s possible I might have imagined that train whistle coming from the phone when I was really only hearing the one here. But you’ll have to admit I could be right about it, too.”

  “You might be,” said Harlan. “Now I want you to promise to call me if you hear or see anything suspicious. And I’m serious as a heart attack about that. Your stepmother says she’ll have my cojones if I cost her another child—”

  The brush flipped out of Rachel’s hand and clattered to the wood floor. She didn’t know which shocked her more, the idea that Patsy considered her her child, or the possibility that she’d once had another. Unable to contain herself, Rachel stammered, “You—you mean that you and Patsy had a—?”

  She cut herself off, appalled by what she’d blurted out. “I’m sorry. I’m sure that wasn’t any of my business.”

  “Patsy and I were never blessed with children.” Regret hung like a pall over Harlan’s voice, though Rachel knew he had three strapping sons—all talented football players at the high school—by his second wife. “As for the rest, it’s all old business. I shouldn’t have brought it up. And if you’re thinking of asking Patsy—I wouldn’t poke that particular anthill. She was always the type to keep the past in the past and her private troubles private.”

  Rachel couldn’t disagree with his assessment, but the longer she said nothing, the more disloyal she felt. Finally, the dam burst. “She’s been a good stepmother to me.”

  “I always knew she would be.” In the background, a radio squawked, and he excused himself abruptly—but not so quickly that Rachel didn’t hear his regret.

  She didn’t bother trying to go back to sleep. Six days after her accident, she’d had all the recuperation time she could handle. For one thing, resting gave her too much time to worry about the logistics of the lawsuit against her and wonder if Psycho Bitch was lingering just outside her window. For another, her grandma had been using Rachel’s convalescence as a daily excuse to purchase fresh-baked pastries from a local coffee shop. Though the frosted pan de huevo and mouth-watering pumpkin empanadas were ostensibly meant for her granddaughter, Benita was sampling enough that it was playing hell with her blood sugar. Today, Rachel determined, her grandma was going to start back on the right track.

  Forty minutes later, Rachel, now dressed after a quick shower, carried a steaming tray into Benita’s bedroom—a mushroom omelet with heart-healthy whole wheat toast and a mug of strong black coffee, along with a small paper cup containing her morning medications. As Rachel set it on the bedside table, she gently touched the rounded hump of blanket-shrouded shoulder. “Here you go, Grandma. I brought you a surprise.”

  James Dean—sleeping on a towel beside her grandmother—rolled onto his side and raised his nose to sniff. Slightly slower to react, Benita blinked sleepily at Rachel. “What’s this?”

  “Breakfast in bed. You’ve taken such good care of me this past week, I figured you deserve it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll grab something from The Roost on my way to the airfield.” If she didn’t put in an appearance now and again, Patsy assumed her stepdaughter was anorexic, in spite of the eight pounds Rachel had gained since her return home. Slowly, her appetite was returning. Food even tasted good, especially if she didn’t try to eat alone.

  Her grandmother pursed her lips, forming crinkled spokes around a central hub. “You’re going back to work already? Didn’t the doctor say you needed bed rest?”

  Rachel shook her head. “He didn’t call for bed rest. Remember what we talked about?” She distinctly recalled repeating the instructions last night. “He just asked me to take it easy until the headaches stopped. They’ve been gone for two days, so I’m more than ready to start earning my keep again.”

  As Benita struggled to sit up, Rachel tucked an extra pillow behind her back. Next, she folded a light throw that had slid off the bed during the night and fetched Benita’s blue-rimmed glasses from the dresser. Though Rachel would do anything for the grandmother who had done so much for her, their new relationship felt strange, almost parental, with their roles reversed. Now and again, her grandmother perceived the change, too—and resented it enough to bristle, becoming as ornery as the little dog that eyed her breakfast.

  This morning, however, she merely looked unfocused. Wrinkling her brow, Benita complained, “You know I don’t like mushrooms, Cora. I bought them for you. Remember? You were telling me you had a craving.”

  Slowly, Rachel bent her knees until she was at her grandmother’s eye level. Since the questions that came to mind—What year is it? Can you tell me the name of the president?—would insult and infuriate her grandmother, Rachel opted for the gentlest of smiles. “If you keep insinuating I’m pregnant, Grandma, I’m going to get a complex about this weight I’m gaining.”

  Behind the big, square lenses, Benita blinked, confusion swimming in her brown eyes. And Rachel felt fear quickening inside her.

  Then Benita blinked again and shook her head in obvious amusement. After pinching off a corner of her toast for J.D., she gave an oddly girl-like cackle. “Goodness, Rachel. I certainly don’t think you’re…in a family way. Why, you’re not even married yet—and if you don’t mind me offering a little advice on that front, men don’t like a girl so skinny. A strapping fellow like your Mr. Pike might be afraid he’d snap you right in two.”

  Rachel breathed again, happy to have stumbled back in familiar, if exasperating, territory. “He’s not my Mr. Pike. Remember what I told you? He’s just a regular customer of Patsy’s, so he decided to do her and Dad a favor while he was in Alpine anyway.”

  Her grandmother laughed. “My goodness, Rachel. Isn’t thirty-two a little old to be so naïve?”

  The Roost was packed this morning, every table occupied. Patsy was scrambling, so busy that Rachel pitched in for a time to help her.

  With the dozen or so diners served, Patsy stuck out her lower lip and blew a stray strand of gray hair off her forehead. “Didn’t plan on putting you to work,” she said, “but thanks for lending me a hand. How ’bout I fix you some pancakes, now that we’re caught up.”

  Would you have been happier with kids of your own? Would it have been easier, more natural to love them? “Maybe just a scrambled egg, if you don’t mind.”

  Patsy nodded, and then set to work as Rachel poured hot water over a tea bag she’d dropped into a mug. Lili waved her over from the small corner table where she was finishing her meal.

  “Hey, girlfriend.” Lili looked up from her coffee. “It’s good to see you back in action. Feeling better?”

  Rachel pulled up the only unoccupied chair and sat down, though Lili’s plate was empty. “Loads better, thanks. You need me to top off that coffee?”

  “I’m good.” Lili studied her intently.

  “What?” asked Rachel. “Did I grow an extra nostril, or are you trying to figure out how to get me to take your flights today?”

  “Nothing like that.” Lili slid a glance at Patsy, who was looking their way, before returning her full attention to Rachel. “I was wondering something, that’s all.”

  Rachel fixed her tea and waited for Lili to continue. “Are you going to ask me, or do I have to forcibly drag it out of you?”

  Lili’s shoulders sagged, and she sighed. “I was just wondering if you’re ever going to dish about what’s up with you and Zeke Pike. I tell you all about my love life, but you—you’re holding out on me, sister.”

  From girlfriend to sister, all in the course of one short conversation. Shaking her head, Rachel answered, “I didn’t tell you anything because there’s nothing to tell.”

  “Really? What about that day he stormed over looking mad enough to strangle you? Man doesn’t get that mad at
a woman unless there’s sex involved.”

  Leave it to Lili to assume that. “I took a picture of him, that’s all. For the May showing on Marfa artists.”

  Confusion rippled Lili’s normally smooth forehead. “I remember you saying something about that, but why would—”

  “He was angry it’s been published in a lot of papers. He didn’t know about it, and it’s gotten him way more attention—personal attention—than he’s comfortable dealing with.”

  Lili grinned and waggled dark brows. “So was he naked or something in this picture? And where can I get a copy blown up to poster size?”

  Rachel tried for a smile, though the thought of photographing someone nude without his consent made her queasy. “No, he wasn’t naked.” Only half. “But I have to admit, he looks pretty sizzling in it.”

  “And he’s complaining about that? Most guys would think that was the best thing since online porn.” Lili shook her head. “But one thing’s for sure. Zeke Pike isn’t most men. If he so obviously weren’t, I’d think he was gay. For one thing, it would help my self-esteem, after all the times I’ve tried to interest him in—”

  “Sorry, but he’s definitely not gay.”

  Lili’s stare sliced, razor-sharp. “So there is something going on between you. I knew it.”

  Rachel set down her tea. “Before you get upset, you should know—”

  “I’m not upset.” The words were clipped and brittle. “Why would you think that?”

  Rachel could point out the angry little vee that had etched itself between Lili’s eyebrows, but instead she merely stared back.

  “I’m just worried, that’s all,” Lili snapped. “Here’s this strange man. Nobody knows where he’s from, what his background is, who his family might be. For all we know, he could be some kind of perv, or maybe on the run from—”

  “Aren’t you the same person who told me you’d tried everything but stripping naked to distract him from his lunch?” Rachel started, then raised a hand when Lili reddened, rising from her seat. “You have to admit, it seems a little…off, you warning me about a man you’ve been gunning for yourself.”

  “Only a little harmless flirting, that’s all.” Lili’s voice rose, loud inside a space that had suddenly fallen quiet. “What you’re doing—that’s dangerous, with a man like that.”

  In no mood for such dramatics, Rachel said, “Oh, come on.”

  Patsy maneuvered among chairs and tables, one broad hip leading like the prow of a great ship. As she set down a plate heaped with Rachel’s breakfast—two eggs sunny side up, along with a short stack, home fries, and a fruit cup—she flicked a watery blue look at Lili. “Everything okay here?”

  “Sure,” Rachel answered for her. “And thanks, but I thought you were bringing me a scrambled egg.”

  Patsy’s smile was sardonic. “You order what you order. I bring what I bring.”

  Rachel gave a dry laugh. “Guess that about covers our whole relationship.”

  “Guess it does at that.” Patsy dredged up a fleeting half-smile before sailing toward the register to ring up a pair of private pilots.

  Tearing her eyes from her stepmother, Rachel looked back to Lili, who was fishing a five from her small purse.

  “Patsy put you up to this?”

  Lili looked up sharply. “What? Why would she—”

  “Seems awfully strange”—Rachel cut into an egg with the side of her fork—“everyone being so interested in my friendships.”

  Lili pushed the folded five beneath her empty mug before she stood. Frowning down at Rachel, she said, “Maybe people are worried about you, that’s all. On account of everything you’ve been through. You don’t have to get all weird about it, Rachel. If you’re dumb enough to want to saddle yourself with a loser, on top of all your other problems, go ahead and be my guest. After all, everybody knows you’re the boss around here, not me.”

  She was so clearly upset—and so ridiculously loud about it—that every eye followed her until the door shut behind her with a furious jingle. Afterward, there were a lot of furtive glances Rachel’s way, glances she ignored as she picked at a completely tasteless breakfast.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

  —Henry David Thoreau,

  from Walden, I: Economy

  With the sun-drenched afternoon winding toward its close, Zeke spoke in hushed tones, calming the mule as he rubbed antibiotic ointment into a long gash on the animal’s dun-colored left shoulder. But his gentle fingers belied a molten core of fury—fury at whatever cowardly shitheel had sneaked in here during his absence two days earlier. He suspected the same son of a bitch who’d tried to shoot him at the viewing area, though he couldn’t fathom any reason the man would follow him to his home. Nor could the irritatingly dismissive deputy, the many-chinned Leo Varajas, who had come to see him about his report.

  “Witnesses from the viewing station figured that fella who ran off got spooked on account of how you startled him. Probably just another of those strange loner types we get around here.” The deputy’s look, as he’d peered through wire-rimmed glasses, said he counted Zeke himself among that number. “Nothing to do with some kind of random pasture accident.”

  “Kind of like these random bullet holes?” Zeke had asked him, with a nod toward his damaged pickup. But even after Zeke had mentioned seeing the stranger at the airfield on the day of Rachel’s crash, the deputy had merely given a skeptical shrug and gone on about his business.

  A mockingbird stopped singing, and then swooped off its perch in a scrubby little piñon pine. The abrupt silence gave Zeke a moment’s warning before he heard approaching footsteps on the curving gravel drive.

  After patting the mule—he had learned his lesson about startling a tethered equine with an unexpected outburst—Zeke turned, intent on welcoming the intruder before he was seen. A few moments later, he snorted amusement at Rachel’s mangling of an old country standard nearly beyond recognition.

  “Crazy…I’m crazy for climbing that locked gate,” she sang, making up for the caliber of her per formance with sheer volume. “Crazy, crazy for bringing you steee-www…”

  He smiled, shaking his head even as he took note of both the small Band-Aid on her forehead and the brown paper sack she carried. “Damned good thing you’re a photographer and not a singer.”

  “Who says I’m not a singer?”

  When Gus the mule laid back his ears and whipsawed through a loud bray, Zeke laughed.

  Rachel fisted her free hand on a slim hip and directed her attention to the animal, “Who asked you?”

  “Patsy Cline, most likely,” he deadpanned. “It’s a known fact that mules’ hooves are sensitive to the vibrations of dead musicians spinning in their graves.”

  Rachel attempted a none-too-convincing pout before breaking into laughter.

  “So how’s the head?” He touched a spot above his eyebrow.

  “Hard as ever,” she reported. “When I heard you’d stopped by The Roost to use the phone on Monday, then hadn’t shown up for lunch the past couple days, I got worried maybe something had happened—or somebody’d asked you to stay clear.”

  Apparently, she hadn’t heard about the shooting incident. It didn’t surprise him, for Castillo himself had said he wouldn’t trouble her about it unless his investigation turned up hard evidence to link the still-missing stranger to the crash. But her words made the corner of Zeke’s mouth twitch downward. “I’ve been going to The Roost for years. Why would anyone ask me to stop?”

  Rachel hesitated before saying, “Patsy doesn’t seem to like the idea that we’re…getting friendly.”

  “She’s told me as much a couple times, but she’s never made me feel unwelcome. Even if she doesn’t think this is smart.” He pointed from her to him, indicating their connection. “And she’s right about that, Rachel.” A hell of a lot more right than I can tell you.

  Rachel looked down and idly kicked at a few pe
bbles, raising a puff of powdery dust from the dry ground. “And Lili Vega’s warned me off, too.”

  “Lili? That doesn’t make sense. I’ve maybe spoken six words to her in the last…um, ever.”

  “I thought maybe Patsy put her up to it. Or else she’s got big plans for you.”

  “Lili’s practically a kid. And besides, every time I see her, she’s hanging on some flyboy. A different one each week.”

  “Patsy, then,” Rachel concluded, “which frankly makes me wonder why she thinks the two of us are any of her business.”

  “Is that why you’re here, Rachel? To show your step-mama she can’t tell you what to do?”

  When Rachel’s gaze snapped up to meet his, he could see her mulling the question. He wanted her to say no, to tell him she was here because she wanted to be more than “friendly.”

  But the mule lowered his head and bumped Zeke’s shoulder, Gus’s way of asking for a scratch. Zeke recapped the antibiotic ointment and wiped his hand on a rag before rubbing the dun neck. And in that small interruption, the answer to his question slipped away.

  Instead, Rachel stepped closer, peering at the mule’s cut. “Poor thing. What happened to him?”

  “I’d sure as hell like to know that myself. On Monday, after I walked back from Patsy’s, I found him and both the horses loose. They’d broken the gate open from the inside. Found blood spattered on the ground there.” He pointed to the spot.

  “Whoa.” Rachel’s attention snapped back to the enclosure, where both Cholla and the pinto mare were idly snuffling the dirt for wisps of hay. “Are those two all right?”

  “Just spooked. Took me forever to catch the three of them, even with a bucket of sweet feed. And Gus here was a bloody mess. That’s why I drove back to Patsy’s. I had to call a vet from Alpine.”

  “You don’t have a phone?” she asked.