Clea's Moon

by Edward Wright

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Out on the street, ten minutes later, Mad Crow raged at him.

  “What was that all about? You said you wouldn’t get in the way. Then you start mixing it up with that guy—”

  “That was Falco.”

  “I thought it was. You went crazy, you know that? Vinnie said I got to keep you out of his sight. He’s mad. John Ray, I can’t afford to get on his bad side, I told you that.”

  “He was pushing me. He said he killed Scotty.”

  “What?”

  “Well, he just about said it. He came close enough to satisfy me. The son of a bitch did it. He thinks I can’t do anything about it. Maybe he’s right.”

  The Indian leaned up against his Cadillac, looking grim. “He could have killed you right there,” he said. “Both of us, maybe.”

  “You should have stayed out of the way.”

  “And let you take him on? Oh, sure. You would’ve chewed him up, just like you did little Junior. Only difference was, this guy carries a gun.”

  Horn glared at him. “You saying I should be afraid of him?”

  “I’m saying you didn’t show good sense in there. Sometimes you get all crazy, other people got to look out for you.”

  “You should have—”

  “Stayed out of the way, I know. You really think I should have turned loose of you, let you at him?”

  Horn glared some more, then let out a deep breath. “No,” he said finally. “I guess I ought to thank you.”

  “There’ll be another time.”

  “You know something?” Horn said. “I killed a few men in the war, one or two up close. I still think about it, have bad dreams. I looked in Falco’s eyes just now, and I knew he could kill me dead and go eat a good meal and get laid and sleep like a baby. And it’s people like that scare me.”

  “That’s not Sierra Lane talking,” the Indian muttered.

  “I know.”

  * * *

  He found Maggie with one of her ranch hands in the tack room off the stables, repairing a worn latigo on a saddle. “Where’s Clea?” he asked.

  Maggie looked up briefly, then resumed work. “Went for a walk. Addie showed up, and the two of them went off a while ago. Looked like they had a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Where?”

  “Now don’t worry. They took the north road, where it parallels the fence for about a couple of miles. I told them to turn around when they get to the bend in the road. They’ll be back soon.” She looked up at him again. “Relax, John Ray.”

  “I’m relaxed. When did Addie get here?”

  “Couple of hours ago. She hitched a ride with some delivery man, and he acted like it was a privilege to bring her all the way out here.”

  “That’s Addie. She’ll never be without a ride. Or anything else she needs. It’s good of you to put up with all of us campers here, Maggie.”

  “I don’t mind. Addie even brought an overnight bag, so I guess she plans to stay a while.”

  He told her what he knew about Addie, including the time the two girls had run off together, and he finished by telling her about the night down on Central Avenue.

  “I’d never have guessed they were the same age,” Maggie said.

  “Addie’s a year or two older.”

  “More like five, I’d have guessed,” she said. “No matter how old she is, though, she knows a few things. Including men. You should have seen the looks she got from Miguel and Tomas. And she could tell.”

  “A heartbreaker.”

  She nodded, smiling, still focused on the cinch strap. “Why did you call her? I thought you didn’t want—”

  “Didn’t want word to get around about Clea being here. I still don’t. But I haven’t been able to get through to her, get her to open up to me about why she ran away. I won’t take her home until I know. She and Addie were always close, and something tells me Addie can help. She said she’ll try.”

  “Hope you’re right.”

  “How’s the mare?”

  “She’s ready. Told me so.”

  He went outside and sat in one of the worn chairs on the patch of grass in front of Maggie’s converted bunkhouse. Before long, he heard girls’ voices and turned to see Clea and Addie coming down the road. He went to meet them.

  “Hi,” Addie called out.

  “Hi, girls.” Clea wore Maggie’s dungarees and cotton shirt, while Addie wore well-pressed slacks and a pastel blouse. Both were sweating in the mid-afternoon heat.

  Clea seemed even more than usually subdued. “I think I’ll go wash up,” she said, heading for the cottage. When she was out of earshot, he asked Addie: “Anything?”

  She shook her head. “I tried,” she said. “I asked her over and over. She just shakes her head. You can tell there’s something bothering her. She’s changed a lot. But whatever it is. . . .”

  “Well, I hope you’ll keep trying. Will you stay with us for a while? You girls can share the bed, I’ll be on the couch, and Maggie’s been sleeping in the stable lately.”

  “Sure,” she said readily. “I’ll call Mama and let her know. She’ll yell at me, but I’m used to that. And now I better go wash up too.”

  “Do me a favor,” he called after her. “Tell Maggie I’ll be back for dinner.”

  * * *

  He pulled up in front of the Fairbrass house in the Hancock Park neighborhood, on a quiet street shaded by sweet gum and coral trees. The houses were solid and patrician, done in the city’s usual mix of architectural styles. It was the middle of the afternoon, warm verging on hot. He had found the address easily in the phone book and, after some hesitation, decided not to ring the number first. He wanted to avoid letting Paul Fairbrass know he was coming. Fairbrass would insist on being there, and Horn wanted Iris to himself. Much the way he had butted heads with Falco, he wanted to confront Iris abruptly with his questions. The answers could determine whether it was time for Clea to come out of hiding and go home.

  The house was an impressive two stories, white, in what some people would call French chateau style. He rang the bell several times and got no answer. After a minute he went along a walkway that led to the back, and there he found Iris in the garden. She was on her knees, working the dirt with a trowel, and she wore a loose-fitting blouse and pants and a wide-brimmed hat against the sun. Not far away, where the garden bordered a spacious backyard, a middle-aged oriental man stood on a ladder, pruning the limbs of a pepper tree.

  “You always did like digging in the dirt,” he called out. “Digging and planting things. Remember our fruit trees?”

  She sat back on her heels, raised the brim of the hat, and looked at him. There was no welcome in the look, only resignation.

  He walked over. “You don’t look glad to see me.”

  She shrugged. “If you had good news, you would have called right away,” she said. “Also, since Paul asked you to deal with him, you probably know I wouldn’t have invited you over just for a visit. So why are you here?”

  “I talked to Clea.”

  “What?” She put down the trowel, got up distractedly. “When? Is she all right?”

  “She sounds all right,” he said. Start lying, but make it good. “She must have heard I was looking for her, and she telephoned. Wouldn’t tell me where she was. She just said she doesn’t want to come home.”

  “I don’t understand.” Iris pulled off her hat and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, then looked at her hand, realizing she’d left a streak of dirt across her face.

  “I don’t either. I was hoping you could help me.”

  She looked at him suspiciously, and he knew the conversation was going to be difficult. “If we could go inside where it’s cooler, maybe I could explain,” he said.

 
She hesitated a moment, then motioned him toward the back door. They entered the kitchen, where she indicated they could sit at a breakfast table. The kitchen was large and sunny, with bright yellow walls and shiny appliances, including a built-in dishwasher. He imagined Clea sitting at the table, eating her favorite breakfast of toast, cereal, and bananas. Two doors led to the rest of the house, but they were closed, and he could see no farther. Mrs. Bullard sat me down in her parlor, not her kitchen, he felt like saying. And her house is even nicer than yours.

  She went to the freezer, extracted an ice tray, and began cracking the cubes loose. A minute later, she placed a tall glass of ice water in front of him.

  “You remembered I like lots of ice,” he said, taking a long drink. A telephone rang somewhere farther back in the house. She excused herself and went to answer it.

  He sat there for a few minutes and, when she didn’t return, he went to look for her. He found her in the living room, talking on the telephone while standing at a table beside one of the front windows. He eavesdropped on her conversation as he browsed around the room, but the talk seemed to be about something she had bought at a store, something she wanted to return, so he stopped listening. His real reason for following her, he admitted to himself, was curiosity about her house, about the new life she and Clea had entered into with this man Fairbrass. The living room was elegant and well-furnished, if a little too feminine for his taste. As Iris stood with her back to him, he studied her in the context of the room, the comfortable furniture, the family photos on the table next to her. He had always thought of her in their old world, but he could see that this was her world now. She looks right at home.

  When she hung up, he pointed to a framed photo of Clea on the table. “Your husband gave me a copy of that, to help me look for her,” he said. “I think it’s the best picture of her I’ve ever seen.”

  “Paul took that,” she said. “We all like it.”

  “Scotty told me he was at the party where you and Paul met.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I remember Scotty was there. It was a big party, at Mr. and Mrs. Bullard’s place. I was there, of course, because I was one of the old company girls. When the invitation came, you had just. . . you know, had just gone. I wasn’t handling it very well, you being in prison, and I guess I was grateful for the chance to get out, see people, so I went.”

  Her expression told him she hoped to avoid talking about the divorce. He hadn’t the heart for it either. They went back to the kitchen, and Iris waited for him to resume.

  “Clea said she doesn’t want to come home,” he said. “It’s pretty clear to me nothing’s going to happen until I find out why.”

  “Will you talk to her again?” Iris asked. “I mean, do you think she’ll call you again?” She reached over to the counter beside her and picked up a pack of Viceroys, extracted one, and lit it. Her motions were measured and precise and seemed designed to give her time to gather her thoughts.

  “I think she might. I have the feeling we can clear all this up in a few days. But I’m not going to do anything more to find her until I know. . . .” He paused, searching for the words.

  “Know what?”

  “Know if she has anything to be afraid of here.”

  She inhaled deeply and blew the smoke off to the side, then lowered the cigarette to a square ceramic ashtray in front of her, where she shaped the ash carefully, even though it was still short. Her expression had not changed.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Look, Iris, I think we’re running out of time. Don’t ask me how I know. I’ve got to find out what’s wrong. You need to be honest with me about your girl. If you’re not, I don’t know what will happen.”

  “If I don’t tell you what you want to know, I may not get her back. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No. You might still find her. Your husband might. The police might. But I think your chances are better with me, because she trusts me. And I’m starting to feel stubborn, because I think there are things you haven’t told me. She’s afraid of something.” Go on, tell her. “I think she’s afraid of Paul.”

  Her eyes went wide, and her mouth gaped. Then, improbably, she laughed. “Afraid of Paul?” She laughed again, louder this time, and the laugh turned into a coughing fit. She reached for his glass and took a drink.

  “Oh, John Ray, you’re so wrong,” she said finally. “Paul’s an angel to her. He loves her as if she were his own. I really think he would die for her.”

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny.”

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re so wrong. Whatever problems Clea had here, whatever made her run away, it had to do with me, not Paul.”

  “Prove it.”

  “What?”

  “Convince me.”

  She stared at him, her look almost hostile. Then she got up and went to a cabinet, where she found a bottle of scotch. She poured herself three fingers in a small glass and sat down facing him, both hands wrapped protectively around the glass. She didn’t offer him a drink.

  She said nothing, just stared, and he could almost hear her thinking. Got to keep her talking, he thought. Or she might decide to throw me out. “You know, you really haven’t changed all that much,” he said to her. “Just little things. One is, you’re drinking better stuff now. Must be nice to have a husband who can afford—”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, John Ray. If I married Paul, it was because I loved him, and I knew he loved me and Clea. It is nice to be able to afford things, and I won’t apologize for enjoying them. And no, I don’t usually drink in the middle of the day,” she said, looking down at her glass. “You’re making me nervous, that’s all. I don’t drink nearly as much as before. I decided I never want to get into that kind of behavior again. I have a husband and a daughter who expect me to

  be. . . .”

  “Upright.”

  “I said don’t be sarcastic. What do you know? I’ve changed more than you can even guess. I look back at the kind of person I used to be—angry about things, going on binges, fighting with you, neglecting her—and I just want to forget that woman.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself.”

  She said nothing, just looked into her glass. Somewhere in the house, he could hear the ticking of a large clock. A minute went by, then two. He pulled something out of his pocket and slid it across the table toward her. It was a snapshot, face down. She didn’t pick it up, but the grim set of her face told him she knew what it was.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” he asked. “You don’t have to look at it again. Just tell me you know it’s her.”

  Her face twisted, became helplessly ugly as she fought the emotion. Then it took her over and she began to cry silently. Her eyes glistened and overflowed as she looked down at the photo she couldn’t pick up. He handed her his handkerchief and let her cry as he talked.

  “I’ve learned a lot of things,” he began, even as he admitted to himself that all his ideas fell short of absolute certainty. “About Wendell, and how he used to take Clea up to the Bullards’ lodge in the mountains, where old man Bullard and some others would get together. It was always one young girl or another, some as young as Clea in this picture. I don’t know why Wendell did it. Maybe it was because he was just a nobody behind a hotel desk, and he wanted old man Bullard to owe him something. Maybe he liked rubbing elbows with men who were more successful than he was. Whatever it was he wanted, he was willing to use his little girl as the admission fee. . . .”

  “Don’t,” she said in a tiny voice. She reached out and laid a hand over the photo, patting it gently, almost caressing it, as a mother would soothe a frightened child. “Don’t.”

  “And I learned that along with Scotty’s father and your husband, there were a couple of others. One was an old gangster named Vincent Bonsigniore. The other, I’
m pretty sure, was someone named Calvin St. George, who runs a bookstore in Hollywood and who was the one who took the pictures up at the lodge.”

  He pocketed the picture without turning it over. “If you knew it was her, why did you lie to me when I showed it to you after Scotty’s funeral?”

  “Why didn’t I admit to you I knew that someone had been abusing my daughter years earlier? How could I? You don’t know how much I blamed myself for what happened. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to confess everything to the world. I never wanted you to know. And I don’t want Paul to know. You have to promise me—”

  “I’ve got no reason to tell him.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise. Now you need to tell me some things. First of all, it was Wendell, wasn’t it?”

  “You just said—”

  “I need to hear you say it. Was it Wendell?”

  “Yes.” Her face was grim.

  “Did you know about it while it was going on?”

  “No. Not really. But let me just tell you; it’s easier that way.” She picked up her glass, put it back down, took a deep breath, and began.

  “I heard Clea crying one night and went to her. Wendell was always a sound sleeper. She told me she’d had a nightmare. I comforted her for a while, and then she began telling me a story about a trip with her father one day while I was at work. It sounded like a little girl’s fantasy, but there were some details that bothered me. A few days later, I found some photos in one of his drawers—I admit I was snooping. They were awful, with little girls. They were probably the same pictures Scotty gave you. And I found one of Clea, the same one you showed me.

  “I went a little crazy. I confronted him that night. He admitted everything. He. . . he came apart. Right in front of me. It was like watching someone dissolve down into nothing. He told me he’d always had this weakness for young girls, and that he knew other men who had the same fascination, and that they. . . .”

  “I know,” he said.

  “He said he’d sinned and was ready to accept his punishment. Actually used those words, even though he’d never struck me as any more religious than the next person. But he had some kind of strange loyalty to those other men and wouldn’t name them.”