The Matriarch

by Hawes, Sharon;

  “Do you think somebody might have thrown her into that counter?”

  “A possibility. The autopsy will help me with that.”

  “What would the motive be? Who would want her dead?”

  “I haven’t a clue, Al. That’s your department.”

  “Yeah, well, let me have that report ASAP, Doc.”

  “Of course.” Dr. Beaumont leaves, and Al sits behind his desk, thinking.

  The bodies are stacking up like kindling. He remembers the Murphys talking to him about a Victor Hammond. Has he turned up yet? Could there be something to that Murphy kid’s claim? What if there was some … mysterious kind of force at work here? Al uses that word in his head, because he doesn’t want to use the word “supernatural,” but how can he explain the murders of two honest and proper men by their equally honest and proper wives? Especially when there had been no previous indication of marital trouble. How to figure it?

  Al’s uniform is uncomfortable in this heat. He needs some time in front of the fan in his office at home with his collection of porn, and a drink. It’s always restorative, a half hour or so with porn. He unbuttons his shirt down to mid-chest, trying to get some relief from the hot, humid air. A buzzer sounds, and a light on his phone bank lights up.

  “Yeah?”

  “I know you said to hold your calls, Sheriff,” the deputy says, “but a guy, a Richard Bloome, says he’s got info about the murders you’ll want to hear.”

  What could that faggot druggist have to say that anybody would want to hear?

  But Al decides to take the call.

  10:40 a.m.

  Time. It’s marching on. She’s growing. Perhaps there are no more figs out in Diablo, but that won’t stop The Tree. I suspect she’s powerful in ways that I haven’t even thought of.

  I use a crow bar for leverage and force the storeroom door in Dante Russo’s barn. “Who’s watching this place now?” I ask Frank as I push the door open.

  “Neighbors, I guess. I don’t know. Not much here, really, with the cattle gone. I don’t know what’s going to become of it now, with Carla’s trouble and all. They didn’t have any kids … just the nieces.” He shakes his head sadly.

  “This here’s where Dante kept all his feed and additives.” He motions toward the back of the small dark room. “Should be with those grain sacks back there.” Frank pulls the string on a light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and the dim yellow light picks up several cloth bags stacked against the far wall. Lester and I begin tugging the sacks out under the light where we can see them better. The first two are filled with a blend of grains.

  “That’s it,” Frank says of the third. He kneels and wipes dust from the print on the cloth sack.

  LIVESTOCK BOOSTER by COLE CHEMICAL, INC., the label reads. It shows a line drawing of a hefty bull looking very pleased with himself. We turn the sack over and find a brief paragraph with ingredients and directions for use. It explains that this booster, a synthetic testosterone in salt form, should be dissolved in a stabilizing oil such as cottonseed and then injected into the steer. Figures are listed showing the amounts recommended, based on the approximate weight of the animal. I notice the stuff is potent—a little goes a long way.

  I rip the sack open slightly and take out a handful. It’s white and feels like coarse table salt.

  “So,” Lester says, “we need some kind of oil to dissolve this stuff. But we’ve got to be able to spray it.”

  “Yeah, and oil will likely clog up the sprayer,” I say.

  “Yeah, it might,” Lester agrees, and Frank nods his head.

  I sit back on my haunches as a wave of fatigue washes over me.

  Why is everything so fucking complicated?

  “Let me have a taste a’ that stuff, Cassidy,” Frank says. He takes a bit from the sack and tastes it with his tongue. “Salty,” he says. “Tastes like salt.”

  “So …” I say, “what about using water? Salt dissolves in water, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, water!” Lester says, excited.

  “Yeah,” Frank says. “Especially warm water like what will come outta the spigot today!”

  We’re all grinning at each other like idiots.

  “They probably want the customer to use oil, because that will add to the weight of the steer,” I say. “Let’s go find water and a bucket and try this stuff out.”

  Frank nods, grins, and goes out onto the walkway of the barn. I marvel at the old man’s energy and enthusiasm.

  “Lester,” I say, walking out onto the walkway, “haul that sack out here, will you? I’ll go get the sprayer out of the Ranger.”

  We make a booster-rich paste in a bucket with water. I gradually add more water, swishing it through the paste until the small white crystals begin to dissolve. We soon have a pale solution that I pour into the spray can. I attach the hose and nozzle. I test the different settings on the nozzle, and it works well with each.

  “It works!” I say, so grateful I might burst into tears. Lester is jumping up and down like a fool. At last we’re having some luck.

  “Hold on a minute, boys. Let’s not be dancin’ a jig just yet,” Frank says, with a frown. “Tell me again, Cassidy, how you figure to get this stuff into that tree.”

  “Well … because of all that milky sap coming into her leaves and branches when we tried to burn her, I think her—skin, so to speak—has a two-way channel, you know? I think … I hope we can spray this solution right into her system through that two-way channel—her pores. We can kill her that way, because I believe she’s allergic to testosterone.” Frank looks at me like he’s not quite sure I’m making sense.

  “Why won’t she just send out some more of her milk to do battle with the testosterone?” Lester asks me, and Frank nods.

  “Maybe she will. But maybe the testosterone solution is strong enough to repel her milk.”

  Now they’re both looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I really don’t know what we’ll do if I’m wrong,” I say and feel that teary weakness in my belly again. I can’t imagine reporting all this to Al Schmidt will help us at all. And The Tree is probably sending out her roots to new locations right now.

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” Lester says. “If we’re right or wrong.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s not exactly a sure thing.”

  “No, but it’s as good as we’ve got right now,” Frank says, “so let’s give it a try.”

  I shake my head, dazed. My uncle is actually supporting me, and that feels really good. “Thanks Uncle—”

  “You see that big three gallon sprayer back there in the storeroom?” he asks me.

  “No, I—”

  “Well, it’s there. Let’s fill it up and take it with us.” Frank is grinning. “If one sprayer’s good, two’s got to be better, right boys?”

  We decide to check up on the girls and what they may have learned from Lindee and Carla, and then take off for The Tree.

  11:15 a.m.

  “As a reputable pharmacist,” Richard Bloome is explaining to Acting Sheriff Albert D. Schmidt on the phone, “I have a duty to the community as well as to myself. I must report any conversations I have with anyone concerning illegal drugs—hence my call to you, Sheriff.”

  The word ‘Sheriff’ rolls off the druggist’s tongue real natural-like, Al is pleased to notice.

  “I’m fairly certain there’s nothing to this,” Richard continues, “but I’m duty bound to inform you.”

  “Get to it, man,” Al says. “What have you got?” He listens in amazement then as Richard tells of his suspicions that the Murphys, the Russo girl, and the preacher lady are trying to find a synthetic androgen to administer to Carla Russo and the Banyon woman.

  “What the fuck is a synthetic androgen?”

  “It’s a steroid, Sheriff,” Bloome states. “Giving steroids to humans is illegal.”

  Al’s stomach cramps in frustration. “I’m well aware of that,” he says slowly, trying to keep from yelling into the ph
one. “But why do they want to give it to those women?” Al doesn’t mention the fact that only one of those women is still alive.

  “They have some hare-brained idea,” Bloome pauses to chuckle, “that the testosterone in steroids will cure them.”

  In the loaded silence that follows, Al presumes Richard is waiting for a laugh, but Al can’t oblige. He’s too fucking confused. Jesus Christ but he wishes he could cool off! Maybe then he could think.

  “When I guessed their purpose,” Richard continues, “they tried to tell me the whole steroid thing was just a bet they were trying to settle. Well, that’s nonsense!”

  “So … where would they get that steroid?” Al asks.

  “Well, they knew athletes take them sometimes. And I mentioned, probably un-wisely, that they’re used sometimes in raising cattle. As I said, Sheriff, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing to this, but—”

  “Yeah, yeah, Richard.” This guy can ramble on for hours! “You did right, reporting this. Thanks.” Al hears Richard take a breath, and he hangs up quickly. He sits drumming his fingers on the metal top of his desk.

  Interesting development, but what does it really mean? He pulls a scratch pad near him and makes some notes.

  Two men are dead, Dante Russo and Arty Banyon—each apparently murdered by his own wife. And then that wild story about Victor Hammond being murdered and buried. All of this bloodshed—according to that punk Cassidy Murphy—because of some crazy women being made into killers by eating figs from a crazy tree in Frank Murphy’s horse pasture. Carla Russo kills herself, and Shelly Russo is found dead in the Murphy ranch house under suspicious circumstances. And now Murphy and his pals are trying to find steroids to give to the women.

  The constant, Al sees, is Cassidy Murphy. He’s already been implicated and questioned concerning a death in Oregon. Trouble hovers over that boy like flies on shit.

  And, damn it all to hell, why doesn’t Manny call?

  Al smiles. All that sincere crap about Cassidy being so fucking pleased to come in Monday morning and answer any questions. Al will just see how pleased that kid will be to answer some questions ahead of time. Like right now.

  I’d sure as shit like to get that Cassidy asshole alone with me again! I won’t be so damned gentle this time, punk!

  He dials the Murphy house. No answer. No problem. Al will take a spin through town and look for Cassidy’s Ranger. Failing that, he’ll hit the fitness center at the edge of town—maybe the kid will try there for a steroid connection.

  A thirty-five minute search turns up nothing. There’s no sign of the Ranger or the Murphys in town or at the gym and still no answer from the Murphy house.

  And why doesn’t Manny call?

  Al decides to drive out to the ranch house. He might learn something there just by nosing around.

  He’s feeling somewhat better now, because he has a valid target—that hotshot Murphy kid. Al remembers the giant kick he got out of decking that guy, the beautiful smack of his fist against Cassidy’s face!

  I’m gonna arrest him! Yeah, why the fuck not? I’m not gonna just play around with the idea, fuck no! I’ve got enough against that fucker to haul him in—no problem.

  Al feels so good about his decision that he decides to go home for a shower and a change of uniform before he hits the Murphy place. Maybe Gin will be in the mood.

  Not likely. But that hasn’t stopped me yet. I’ll nail Cassidy right after I nail Gin!

  Al grins to himself and turns the squad car toward his house.

  11:50 a.m.

  “The world is her agenda,” Charlotte’s explaining, and I wonder if she’s still in shock. “It’s for her children.”

  I gun the Ranger over the bridge, armed now with five passengers, two spray cans filled with booster testosterone, two refill cans, and a Pit Bull puppy. Frank and I wear our loaded revolvers, and Lester has the sawed-off shotgun. Charlotte and Dott are with me in the front and Lester, Frank, and Louie are in the back, the bed of the truck.

  “She comes from another time, another world,” Dott says, and I decide we’re probably all in shock. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe shock is a good place for us to be, considering the task ahead.

  “You wanted to know the why of the tree’s agenda, right Cass?” Dott asks. “Here’s my opinion. The tree is completely female. She propagates all on her on—don’t ask me how—and no male seem to be involved. To her, human males are destroyers. The enemy. That’s from something in her past that Lindee talked about. The ‘children’ must be her seedlings, and Lindee says they need land to grow.” Dott leans forward, looking past Charlotte at me. “I think they’re male killers too, just like the Mama Tree. Cass … we’ve simply got to win today!”

  A somber group, we now stand with the Ranger behind us facing The Tree. Almost all evidence of the fire is gone. The Tree has repaired herself. She’s gaudy green and ready for anything. She’s in such robust good health, I feel like David with his slingshot, and I know she’s laughing at us. Vine-like tentacles hang from her larger branches and move back and forth in the non-existent breeze.

  “She’s thumbing her nose at us, boys,” Lester says, grinning. “Let’s get her!”

  Jesus, when did he get so ballsy? I’m scared right down to my boots.

  “Okay, here’s a plan. Dott and I will man the sprayers while Lester and Frank will help with the refills—I’m certain we’ll need them. Frank, you and Charlotte keep an eye on The Tree and tell us if she’s sprouting machine guns or anything—”

  “Oh sure, give me a nothing job like that.” Frank pulls on Louie’s leash and hauls the pup up closer to his thigh. “Lordy-God, Cassidy—”

  “You didn’t let me finish. You watch The Tree and us, Frank, cause I’m sure we’ll need you and your gun. You have to be at the ready. And, we need you to help Lester with the refills.” Frank glowers at me. ‘You’ll stand just a little back of us so we can yell for you when we get low on the spray.”

  Frank is still frowning at me, but he straightens as if at attention. Louie is standing quietly at his side. The two of them are like soldiers on the brink of battle. And that’s just who they are, I realize. That’s who we all are.

  I walk over to Charlotte who stands mute, looking at The Tree. I take her hand, and she resists at first but then allows me to pull her close. I’m elated. I feel her body soften against mine.

  I look up and see The Tree waving at us.

  I release Charlotte and help Lester and Frank unload the spray cans and the refills. Everyone is silent. They seem to be waiting for me to sound the charge.

  How did I get this duty, anyway? I don’t have a clue what’s the right thing to do!

  I smack my forehead with the heel of a hand. “Fuck it! We haven’t eaten.” They all give me stricken looks. “We’ve had practically nothing to eat today. No wonder we’re all so tired. Jesus, how stupid!”

  They stand staring at me, as the hot sun sucks up our energy. Dott walks over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “I know what you mean, Cass,” she says in a soft voice. “Me too. I’m pooped, scared, and hungry. But here’s the thing. In a situation like this … we don’t need food.”

  She’s humoring me. Treating me like a child.

  “Nerves, Cass. You can run very well on nerves. We’ve all got those today, more than enough. You’re letting your mind do a job on your body.” She moves her hand to my neck, massaging it—her fingers surprisingly strong. “Your body was doing just fine, Cass, until your mind got in the way.”

  “Time for trust now, boy,” Frank says, his voice booming. “Time to trust yourself.” He comes over to me with Louie, and the dog licks my hand. “Take a breath,” Frank orders me. “A deep one.”

  I do what I’m told. And then take another. Whether I actually believe Frank and Dott, or I’m just so fucking angry at the situation I find myself in, some adrenaline kicks into me, and I feel better … stronger. Frank swats me on my back, and my fatigue fades into excitement.
I’m ready.

  Dott and I shoulder the sprayers and begin walking toward The Tree. Frank follows, pulling along a can of refill, Louie at his side. Charlotte and Lester stay back a few yards.

  We come within ten yards or so of the overhang of The Tree’s foliage. As we draw near, The Tree breathes and trembles with life. The stench of burned and rotting figs is overwhelming—it grabs at my throat.

  She knows what we’re going to do. How will she react?

  Have these pitiful beings learned nothing? I move my limbs and tentacles about, seeking the most favorable battle posture. Let them have their pathetic try. Puny creatures at best these humans—as if they can possibly mount a significant defense against me. My energy is high, my resolve strong.

  The children I am producing in this new home of mine must have the room and the care to grow. To grow into others like me.

  I am not alone. I have my tentacles, my warriors. Many are not yet fully grown, but they are ever so loyal to me, and so very strong.

  And I now have something else going for me. My anger has blossomed into a fiery rage.

  The Tree gathers herself. She brings her limbs closer together and lowers them to form a thick, living barrier. Her masses of vines and branches seem to alter themselves into substantial green tentacles that quiver and reach out for us. We slow down a little, but I know if we pause now, we might never find the courage to continue.

  “Dott … I think … we should split up.” I force air into my lungs. “That will distract her, possibly weaken her.” I motion Dott a few yards to the right. “I’ll take the left,” I say, and notice Lester is near Dott along with his sawed-off shotgun and a can of refill. The smell of burned decay grows stronger as I come closer to The Tree. It’s a reek that slides down my throat into my belly, and I hope to God I don’t throw up. I take another few steps forward.

  That’s close enough!

  I look over at Dott and Lester who have stopped walking and are watching me. I grin at them. “Let her have it!” I yell. Dott and I begin madly pumping our sprayers, and they seem to be working beautifully. A gray mist of testosterone soon engulfs The Tree. I’m overjoyed!