Beyond This Point Are Monsters

by Margaret Millar

  “None that I could see,” Loomis said. “I didn’t argue with him, though. It seemed a touchy subject.”

  “Why?”

  “People often identify with their pets. I got the impres­sion that Mr. Osborne thought someone was trying to poi­son him.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Loomis. You may step down now.”

  Leo Bishop was called as the next witness. His reluc­tance to take the stand was evidenced by the slowness of his movements and the look of apology he gave Devon as he passed her. When he responded to Ford’s questions about his name and address, his voice was so low that even the court reporter, who was sitting directly below the wit­ness box, had to ask him to speak up.

  Ford said, “Would you please repeat that, Mr. Bishop?”

  “Leo James Bishop.”

  “And the address?”

  “Rancho Obispo.”

  “You are the owner as well as the operator of the ranch?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the location of your ranch in relation to the Osborne ranch?”

  “It’s just to the east and southeast, with the river as the boundary line.”

  “In fact, you and the Osbornes are next-door neigh­bors.”

  “You might put it like that, though it’s a long way be­tween doors.” A long way and a river.

  “You knew Robert Osborne, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “Had known him for many years.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell the court when and where you last saw him, Mr. Bishop?”

  “On the morning of October thirteen, 1967, in town.”

  “The town of Boca de Rio.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you explain the circumstances of that meet­ing?”

  “One of my green-carders showed up for work suffer­ing from stomach cramps. I was afraid his symptoms might be the result of an insecticide we’d used the previous day, so I drove him into Boca to a doctor. On the way I saw Robert’s car parked on Main Street outside a cafe. He was standing on the curb talking to a young woman.”

  “Did you honk your horn or wave at him, anything like that?”

  “No. He seemed busy, I didn’t want to interrupt. Be­sides, I had a sick man in the car.”

  “Still, it would have been the natural thing to do, taking a second or two to greet a close friend.”

  “He wasn’t a close friend,” Leo said quietly. “There was a generation between us. And some old trouble.”

  “Would this ‘old trouble’ have any bearing on the pres­ent case?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Ford pretended to consult the pages of yellow foolscap on the table in front of him, giving himself time to decide whether to pursue the subject further or whether it would be wiser to stick to the main theme he’d chosen to present. Overkill might be a mistake in view of Judge Gallagher’s skeptical mind. He said, “Mr. Bishop, you’ve been present in the courtroom all morning, have you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you heard Mr. Estivar testify that he hired a crew of Mexicans to work on the Osborne ranch at the end of September, and that these men disappeared on the night of October thirteen . . . As a grower you’re familiar with the pirating of work crews, are you not, Mr. Bishop?”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, in the summer of 1965 you had occasion to report that a crew which you’d hired to pick melons had disappeared during the night following a payday.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Now, on the surface, what happened to your crew and what happened to Mr. Estivar’s crew appeared to be simi­lar. There was, however, an important difference, was there not?”

  “Yes. My men were located by noon the next day. A grower near Chula Vista had simply convinced them they could do better at his place, so they left. But the men from the Osborne ranch were never found. Chances are they crossed the border before the police even knew a crime had been committed.”

  “When did you learn that a crime had been committed, Mr. Bishop?”

  “I was awakened about one-thirty in the morning by a deputy from the sheriff”s department. He said Robert Os­borne was missing and the surrounding ranches were be­ing searched for traces of him.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I got dressed and joined the search. At least I tried to. The deputy in charge sent me back in the house.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Valenzuela.”

  “Why did he refuse your offer of assistance?”

  “He said a lot of searches had been messed up by amateurs and this wasn’t going to be one of them if he could help it.”

  “All right, thank you, Mr. Bishop. You are excused.”

  Ford waited until Leo returned to his place in the spec­tators’ section, then asked the clerk to call Carla Lopez to the stand.

  Carla rose and walked slowly to the front of the room. In the hot dry air her pink and yellow nylon shift clung to her moist body like a magnet. If she was embarrassed or nervous she managed to conceal the fact. Her voice was bored when she took the oath, and the huge round sun­glasses gave her an Orphan Annie look of complete blankness.

  “State your name, please,” Ford said.

  “Carla Dolores Lopez.”

  “Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Miss. I’m getting a divorce, so I took back my maiden name.”

  “Where do you live, Miss Lopez?”

  “431 Catalpa Street, San Diego, Apartment Nine.”

  “Are you employed?”

  “I quit my job last week. I’m looking for something better.”

  “Did you know Robert Osborne, Miss Lopez?”

  “Yes.”

  “A few minutes ago Mr. Bishop testified that he saw Mr. Osborne on the morning of October thirteen talking to a young woman outside a cafe in Boca de Rio. Were you that young woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who initiated the conversation?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Who started talking first?”

  “He did. I was just walking along the street by myself when he pulled up to the curb beside me and asked if he could speak to me for a minute. I had nothing better to do, so I said yes.”

  “What did Mr. Osborne talk to you about, Miss Lopez?”

  “My brothers,” Carla said. “They used to work for him, my two older brothers, and Mr. Osborne wanted to know if they might want to come and work for him again.”

  “Did he give any reason?”

  “He said the last crew Estivar had hired was no good, they had no experience, and he needed someone like my brothers to show them how things were done. I told him my brothers wouldn’t be caught dead doing that kind of labor no more. They didn’t have to squat and stoop like monkeys, they had respectable stand-up jobs in a gas sta­tion.”

  “Did Mr. Osborne make any further remarks about the crew he had working for him?”

  “No.”

  “He gave no indication, for instance, that he suspected they might have entered the country without papers?”

  “No.”

  “Did he use the terms wetback, mojado or alambre?”

  “Not that I remember. The rest of the talk was personal—you know, like between he and I.”

  The girl’s long silver-painted fingernails scratched at her throat as if they were trying to ease an itch deep inside and out of reach. It was her first sign of nervousness.

  “Was there anything in the conversation,” Ford said, “which might have bearing on the present hearing?”

  “I don’t think so. He asked me about my baby—I wasn’t showing yet but the whole town knew about it, it being that kind of town�
��and he said his wife was having a baby too. He seemed kind of jumpy about it. Could be he was scared it would turn out like him.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, there was a lot of gossip about him when Mrs. Bishop drowned. Maybe some of it was true. Or maybe he just had a jinx like me. I’m an expert on jinxes. I’ve had one ever since I was born.”

  “Indeed.”

  “For instance, if I did a rain dance there’d probably be a year’s drought or even a snowstorm.”

  “The court must deal in facts, Miss Lopez, not jinxes and rain dances.”

  “You have your facts,” the girl said. “I have mine.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  the exodus from the courtroom for lunch was faster and more complete than it had been for the morning recess. Devon waited until only the bailiff remained.

  He glanced at her curiously. “This room is locked up during the noon hour, ma’am.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “If you’re not feeling well, there’s a ladies’ lounge in the basement where you can get coffee and things like that.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Agnes Osborne had driven back to her apartment to rest, suffering more from weariness than from hunger. With her out of the way Devon thought Leo might be waiting for her in the corridor and they would have lunch together. But there was no sign of him. The corridor was deserted except for a pair of tourists taking pictures out of one of the barred windows and, in an alcove beyond a row of telephone booths, the ex-policeman, Valenzuela, talking to a short stout Mexican woman who was holding a baby on her left arm. The child was sucking on a pacifier and regarding Valenzuela with mild interest.

  Valenzuela, so dapper earlier in the day, had begun to show the effects of the increasing heat and tension. He’d taken off his coat and tie and under each arm of his striped shirt there was a dark semicircle like a stain of secret guilt. When Devon approached he looked at her with disap­proval, as though she were someone from a remote corner of his past and had no right to be popping up in the pres­ent without warning or permission.

  As she walked by she nodded but didn’t speak. Every­thing had been said between them: “I’ve done what I could, Mrs. Osborne. Searched the fields, dragged the reser­voir, walked up and down the riverbed. But there are a hundred more fields, a dozen more reservoirs, miles and miles of riverbed.” “You must try again, try harder.” “It’s no use. I think they took him into Mexico.” The following spring Valenzuela phoned Devon and told her he’d quit his job in the sheriff’s office and was now selling insurance. He asked her if she wanted to buy any and she said no, very politely . . .

  A few blocks from the courthouse she found a small hamburger stand. She sat at a table hardly bigger than a handkerchief and ordered a burger with French fries. The odor of stale grease, the ketchup bottle with its darkening dribble, the thin round patty of meat identical to ones she’d eaten in Philadelphia, New Haven, Boston—they were all so normal and familiar, they made her feel like an ordinary girl who ate lunch at hamburger stands and had no business with bailiffs or judges. She ate slowly, prolong­ing her stay in the little place, her role of ordinary girl.

  After lunch she began her reluctant return to the court­house, pausing now and then to stare out at the sea. “I think they took him into Mexico,” Valenzuela had said. “Or maybe dumped him in the sea and a high tide will bring him in.” A hundred high tides came and went before Dev­on stopped hoping; Mrs. Osborne had never stopped. Devon knew she still carried a tide table in her purse, still walked for miles along the beaches every week, her eye on specks in the water that turned out to be buoys or harbor seals, pelagic birds or pieces of floating lumber. “In salt water this cold it would take a week or two for gases to form in the tissues and bring a body to the surface.” The first week passed, and the second, and fifty more. “Not everything that goes into the sea comes out again, Mrs. Osborne.” With each tide things floated into shore and were stranded on the beach—driftwood, jellyfish, shark eggs, oil-soaked grebes and cormorants and scoters, lob­ster traps, plastic bottles, odd shoes and other pieces of clothing. Every scrap of the clothing was collected and taken to a room in the basement of the sheriff’s depart­ment to be dried out and examined. None of it belonged to Robert.

  Devon turned away from the sea and quickened her pace. It was then that she spotted Estivar. He was sitting alone on a bus-stop bench under a silver dollar tree. At the slightest stirring of air the silver discs of leaves twitched and jumped, eager to be spent. Their quick gay move­ments altered the lights and shadows, so that Estivar’s face from a distance appeared very lively. As she drew closer she saw that it was no livelier than the concrete bench. He rose slowly at her approach, as though he was sorry to see her.

  She said, “Aren’t you having lunch, Estivar?”

  “Later. The others wanted a picnic at the zoo, they left me a sandwich and an avocado. Will you sit down, Mrs. Osborne?”

  “Yes, thanks.” As she sat down she wondered if the bench had been made of concrete because it was a durable material or because its cold roughness would discourage people from remaining too long. “Don’t you like the park?”

  “Live things shouldn’t be put in cages. I prefer to watch the sea. All that water, think what we could do at the ranch with all that water . . . Where is Mrs. Osborne?”

  “She went home to rest for a while.”

  “I know she resented some of the things I said on the stand this morning. But I couldn’t help it, they were true, I was under oath. What did she expect from me? Probably some of those nice lies she believes herself.”

  “You mustn’t be too hard on her, Estivar.”

  “Why not? She’s too hard on me. I heard her at recess this morning talking to the lawyer. I heard her clear across the room speaking my name like a dirty word. What’s she got against me? I kept that place going for her when her son was too young to be any help and her husband was too—” He drew in his breath sharply, as though someone had given him a warning poke in the stomach.

  “Too what?”

  “He’s dead, it doesn’t matter any more.”

  “It does to me.”

  “I thought you’d have found out on your own by this time.”

  “I only know he died by accident.”

  “That was the verdict.”

  “Didn’t you agree with it?”

  “If you go around looking for accidents, asking for them, they can’t be called accidents any more. Mr. Os­borne’s ‘accident’ happened before ten o’clock in the morning, and he’d already drunk enough bourbon to para­lyze an ordinary man.” Estivar spread his hands in a little gesture of despair. “It wasn’t a case of bad luck killing him when he was just forty-three years old, it was a case of good luck keeping him alive that long.”

  “When did he become an alcoholic?”

  “I’m not sure. Between the two of them they managed to keep it secret for years. But eventually it reached a point where a new crew would take one look at him and label him a borrachín.”

  “Is that why Robert spent so much time with you as he was growing up?”

  “Yes. He’d come over to my house when things got too rough. I didn’t say any of this on the witness stand, natu­rally, but I told Mr. Ford last week. He was asking me a lot of questions about the Osbornes. I had to tell him the truth. I knew she wouldn’t, she never told anyone. She had this game she played. If Mr. Osborne was too drunk to come out and work, she said he had a touch of flu or a migraine or a toothache or a sprained back. Once he had to be carried in from the fields, out cold and reeking of whiskey, but she claimed he must have suffered a heat stroke, though it was a winter day with a pale cool little sun. She couldn’t bring herself to admit the truth even while she was hiring my boy, Rufo, to haul away the bottles every week.” He raised his head, frowni
ng up at the round silver leaves as though they represented the dollars and half- dollars Rufo had been paid to dispose of the bottles. “It was silly, the whole cover-up business, but you couldn’t help admire how hard she worked at it and what guts it took, especially when he got quarrelsome.”

  “How did she handle him then?”

  “Oh, she tried lots of things, same as any woman mar­ried to a drunk. But eventually she developed a routine. She’d maneuver him into the living room one way or an­other, close the doors and windows and pull the drapes. Then the arguing would start. If things got too loud she’d sit down at that piano of hers and start playing to cover them up, a piece with good firm chords like ‘March of the Toreadors.’ She couldn’t admit that they quarreled any more than she could admit that he drank. Everybody caught on, of course. Even the men working around the place, when they heard that piano, they’d look at each other and grin.”

  “What about Robert?”

  “Lots of the arguing was about him and how he should be brought up, disciplined, educated, trained. But they would have argued even if the boy had never been born. He was just a peg to hang things on. When he got older, ten or eleven, I tried to explain this to him. I told him he hadn’t caused the trouble and he couldn’t stop it, so he might as well learn to live with it.”

  “How could a ten-year-old understand such a thing?”

  “I think he did. Anyway, he used to show up at my place when he sensed trouble on the way. Sometimes he didn’t make it in time and he’d be caught between the two of them. One day I heard the piano music start in real loud and I waited and waited for Robbie to show up. Finally I went over to the ranch house to find out what was happen­ing. She had forgotten to pull the drapes across a side window and I could see the three of them inside the room. She was at the piano, with Robbie sitting on the bench beside her looking sick and scared. Mr. Osborne was propped up against the mantel, the veins in his neck stick­ing out like ropes. His mouth was moving, so was hers. But all I could hear was the bang bang bang of that piano, loud enough to wake the dead. ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.’”

  “What do you mean?”