“You made a mistake. Not Felipe.”
“I’m sure.”
“Felipe was nowhere near here at that time. He’d left the ranch three weeks earlier.”
“He came back.”
“No. He went to Seattle, he was in Seattle working at an aircraft factory. He wrote letters. Ask my family about the letters.”
“He was in here, Mr. Estivar, just as sure as you’re in here yourself right now. He told me he’d run out of money and he was going out to the ranch to get some from you as soon as he could hitch a ride. I don’t know what occurred after he left.”
“Nothing,” Estivar said. “Nothing.”
“All I know is, Luis Lopez happened to walk past the place and looked in the window and saw Felipe sitting here at the counter. He came in and started an argument about his sister, Carla. Pretty soon it turned into a real fight. Luis had a bloody nose by the time I kicked both of them out on the street.”
Estivar stared into the empty cup. He couldn’t recall drinking the coffee or eating the doughnut, but they were both gone and a leaden lump was forming in the middle of his chest. Luis had a bloody nose. He knew now the source of the blood on Felipe’s shirt sleeve, the type O which Ford thought indicated the presence of a third man. There weren’t three men in the mess hall that night. There were only two—Robert Osborne and Felipe.
“Not that it matters,” Disco said, “the Osborne case being over and Valenzuela not around, not even a cop any more. But I figure it could have happened then, if it happened at all. I mean, it’s just a theory.”
“What?”
“Luis drew the knife and Felipe took it away from him.”
“No,” Estivar said. “No.”
But he was sure now that it was true and that Valenzuela kept quiet about the knife because he thought he was protecting Carla’s brother. Instead, he had protected Felipe. When Valenzuela came back and found out the truth he’d be wild with rage. He’d go looking for Felipe and he’d find him. Valenzuela had been a cop, he knew all the angles, the corners, the hiding places—the bars and back alleys of L.A., the ramerías of Tijuana and garitos of Mexicali, the flyblown fondas of El Paso.
There was no place that Felipe would be safe.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
she awoke before there were any sounds from the kitchen below. In the half-light she dressed quickly in her ranch clothes, jeans and sneakers and a cotton shirt. When she opened the drapes to crank the window shut against the coming heat, she could see Tijuana in the distance, the cathedral gradually turning from dawn-pink to day-yellow, the wooden shacks clinging grimly to the sides of the hill like starving children to a teat. She could see, too, part of Leo’s ranch. Something was burning in one of the fields. The column of smoke rose thin and gray, a signal of despair.
She left the house by the front door to avoid waking Dulzura. The tomato fields teemed with the hungry birds of morning, but on the other side of the road the mess hall and bunkhouse were empty and silent, as though no one had ever lived there and nothing had ever happened. North of the mess hall were the acres of canteloupe where the migrants were at work, bodies bent, heads lowered and hidden under identical straw hats. None of them looked up or sideways; the direction of survival was down.
Jaime was late this year in harvesting the pumpkins for Halloween and the field was strewn with big orange heads. Although no faces had yet been carved on any of them, Devon felt that they were watching her, a hundred toothed grins and sets of geometric eyes. In the sky above her a vulture circled looking for carrion. Alternately flapping and floating, he kept coming closer and closer to her as if he thought she might lead him to something dead—a small dog by the side of the road, a woman wet from the river, a young man bleeding. She turned with a little cry, half rage, half grief, and began walking rapidly back to the house.
Dulzura, barefooted, was at the work counter measuring out coffee. “Mr. Ford called,” she said. “I went upstairs to get you and you were gone.”
“Yes. What did he want?”
“He left two messages. I wrote them down.”
The messages, printed in large careful letters, were on a sheet of paper beside the telephone: Meet Ford in court 1:30 for judge’s decision. See morning paper page 4A and 7B.
Above the story on page 4 there was a picture of a car smashed beyond recognition, and another of Valenzuela in uniform, looking young and confident and amused. The account of the accident was brief:
A former deputy in the sheriff’s department, Ernest Valenzuela, 41, and his estranged wife, Carla, 18, were killed in a one-car accident late yesterday afternoon a few miles north of Santa Maria. The car was traveling well in excess of a hundred miles an hour according to Highway Patrolman Jason Elgers, who was in pursuit. Elgers had been alerted by an attendant at a gas station in Santa Maria where Valenzuela had stopped for refueling. The attendant said he heard the couple quarreling loudly and saw a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the front seat.
The ex-deputy was killed instantly when his car smashed through a guard rail and struck a concrete abutment. Mrs. Valenzuela died en route to the hospital. They leave a six-month-old son.
The other newspaper item was a box ad on page 7. It offered $10,000 reward for information on the whereabouts of Robert K. Osborne, last seen near San Diego, October 13, 1967. All replies would be kept confidential and no charges of any kind would be pressed. The numbers of a P.O. box and of Mrs. Osborne’s telephone were given.
She put the paper down and said to Dulzura, “Valenzuela is dead.”
“I heard it on the radio,” Dulzura said, and that was Valenzuela’s epitaph as far as she was concerned.
during the morning Devon called Leo’s house half a dozen times before getting an answer at eleven o’clock when he came in from the fields for lunch. He sounded tired. Yes, he’d heard the news about Valenzuela and Carla—one of his men had told him—but he didn’t know about Mrs. Osborne’s advertisement or about the time set for Judge Gallagher’s decision.
“One-thirty this afternoon,” he said. “Do you have to be there?”
“No, but I’m going to be.”
“All right, I’ll pick you up—”
“No, no. I don’t want you to—”
“—about twelve-fifteen. Which doesn’t leave much time for arguing, does it?”
She was waiting when he drove up to the front door. Before she stepped into the car she glanced up and saw the vulture still circling in the air above the house. He was riding so high now that he looked like a black butterfly skimming a blue field.
He noticed her watching the bird and said, “Vultures are good luck.”
“Why?”
“They clean up some of the mess we leave behind.”
“All they mean to me is death.”
Once inside the car she couldn’t see the bird any more, but she had a feeling that when she returned it would be there waiting for her, like a family pet.
Leo said, “I haven’t heard any details about Valenzuela’s death, or Carla’s.”
“The newspaper called it an accident and that’s how it will go down in the record books. But it won’t be right. He was drinking heavily, they were quarreling, the car was going more than a hundred miles an hour—how can all that add up to an accident?”
“It can’t. They just don’t know what else to call it.”
“It was a murder and a suicide.”
“There’s no proof of that,” Leo said. “And no one wants proof. It’s more comfortable for everyone—the law, the church, the survivors—to believe it was an act of God.”
Devon thought of Carla telling the judge earnestly about her jinx—“Like if I did a rain dance there’d be a year’s drought or maybe a snowstorm”—and of the last time she’d seen Valenzuela outside the courtroom. He wa
s standing alone at the barred window of the alcove, somber and red-eyed. When he spoke his voice was muffled:
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Osborne.”
“What about?”
“Everything, how it’s all turned out.”
“Thank you.”
“I wanted you to know I hoped things would be different . . .”
She realized now that he’d been talking about himself and his own life, not just about hers or Robert’s.
“Devon.” Leo spoke her name sharply, as though he’d said it before and she’d failed to hear it.
“Yes.”
“Whenever I see you these days we’re in a car or some place where I can’t really look at you. And we talk about other people, not about us.”
“We’d better keep it that way.”
“No. I’ve been waiting for a long time to tell you something, but the right moment never came around and maybe it never will. So I’ll tell you now.”
“Please don’t, Leo.”
“Why not?”
“There’s something I should tell you first. I won’t be staying here.”
“What do you mean by ‘here’?”
“In this part of the country. I’m putting the ranch up for sale as soon as I can. I’m beginning to feel the way Carla did, that I have a jinx and I must get away.”
“You’ll come back.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where will you go?”
“Home.” Home was where the rivers ran all year and rain was what spoiled a picnic and birds were seagulls and hummingbirds and swallows, not gaviotas or chupamirtos or golondrinas.
“If you change your mind,” he said quietly, “you know where to find me.”
her brief reappearance in court was, as Ford had told her it would be, merely a formality, and the moment she’d been dreading for weeks came and went so fast that she hardly understood the Judge’s words:
“In the matter of the petition of Devon Suellen Osborne for probate of the will of Robert Kirkpatrick Osborne, said petition is hereby granted and Devon Suellen Osborne is appointed executrix of the estate.”
As she walked back out into the corridor tears welled in her eyes, not for Robert—those tears had long since been shed—but for Valenzuela and the girl with the jinx and the orphaned child.
Ford touched her briefly on the shoulder. “That’s all for now, Devon. There’ll be papers to sign. My secretary will send them on to you when they’re ready.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything, Mr. Ford.”
“By the way, you’d better call Mrs. Osborne and tell her the court’s decision.”
“She won’t want to be told.”
“She must be, though. That ad has put her in a very vulnerable position. If she knows Robert has been officially declared dead, she’s not so likely to pay some con artist ten thousand dollars for phony information.”
“Mrs. Osborne has always been quite practical about money. When she buys something, she gets what she pays for.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Devon telephoned from the same booth she’d used two days previously. This time Mrs. Osborne answered on the first ring, a sharp impatient “Hello?”
“This is Devon. I thought I’d better tell you—”
“I’m sure you mean well, Devon, but the fact is you’re tying up my line and someone might be trying to reach me.”
“I only wanted to—”
“I’m going to say goodbye now because I’m expecting a very important call.”
“Please listen.”
“Goodbye, Devon.”
Mrs. Osborne hung up, hardly even conscious that she’d told a lie. She wasn’t expecting the call, she’d already received it and made the necessary arrangements.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
the next step was to get the house ready for his arrival. He wouldn’t come before dark. He was afraid to move around the city in daylight even though she’d told him no one was looking for him, no one wanted to find him. He was safe: the case was over and Valenzuela was dead. It was sheer luck that she’d chosen to buy this particular house. The California mission style suited her purpose—adobe walls as much as two feet thick, heavy tiled roof, enclosed court, and more important than anything else, iron grillwork across the windows to keep people out. Or in.
She returned to the front bedroom and her interrupted task of fixing it up. The cartons, marked Salvation Army in Devon’s small square printing, were nearly all unpacked. The old map had been taped to the door: BEYOND THIS POINT ARE MONSTERS. Robert’s clothes hung in the closet, his surfing posters and college pennants decorated the walls, his glasses were on the top of the bureau, the lenses carefully polished, and his boots were beside the bed as if he’d just stepped out of them. Robert had never seen this room, but it belonged to him.
When she finished unpacking the cartons she dragged them to the rear of the house and piled them on the service porch. Then she brewed some coffee and took it into the living room to wait until the sun set. She’d forgotten about lunch and when dinner time came she felt light-headed and a little dizzy, but she still wasn’t hungry. She made another pot of coffee and sat for a long time listening to the little brass horses dancing in the wind and the bamboo clawing at the iron grills across the windows. At dusk she switched on all the lights in the house so that if he was outside watching he could see she was alone.
It was nearly nine o’clock when she heard the tapping at the front door. She went to open it and he was standing there as he’d been standing a hundred times in her mind throughout the day. He was thinner than she remembered, almost emaciated, as if some greedy parasite had taken up residence in his body and was intercepting his food.
She said, “I thought you might have changed your mind.”
“I need the money.”
“Come in.”
“We can talk out here.”
“It’s too cold. Come in,” she said again, and this time he obeyed.
He looked too tired to argue. There were dark blue semicircles under his eyes, almost the color of the work clothes he wore, and he kept sniffling and wiping his nose with his sleeve like a child with a cold. She suspected that he’d picked up a drug habit along the way, perhaps in some Mexican prison, perhaps in one of the local barrios. She wouldn’t ask him where he’d spent the long year and what he’d done to survive. Her only questions would be important ones.
“Where is he, Felipe?”
He turned and stared at the door closing behind him as if he had a sudden impulse to pull it open and run back into the darkness.
“Don’t be nervous,” she said. “I promised you on the phone that I wouldn’t press charges, wouldn’t even tell anyone I’d seen you. All I want is the truth, the truth in exchange for the money. That’s a fair bargain, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“Where is he?”
“The sea, I put him in the sea.”
“Robert was a very strong swimmer. He might have—”
“No. He was dead, wrapped in blankets.”
Her hands reached up and touched her face as though she could feel pieces of it loosening. “You killed him, Felipe.”
“It wasn’t my fault. He attacked me, he was going to murder me like he did the—”
“Then you wrapped him in blankets.”
“Yes.”
“Robert was a big man, you couldn’t have done that by yourself.” Her voice was cool and calm. “You must come and sit down quietly and tell me about it.”
“We can talk here.”
“I’m paying a great deal of money for this conversation. I might as well be comfortable during the course of it. Come along.”
After a moment’s hesitation he
followed her into the living room. She’d forgotten how short he was, hardly bigger than Robert had been at fifteen, the year he suddenly started to grow. Felipe was twenty now, it was too late for him to start growing. He would always look like a boy, a sad strange sick little boy with a ravenous appetite and poor digestion.
“Sit down, Felipe.”
“No.”
“Very well.”
He stood in front of the fireplace, pale and tense. On the backgammon table between the two wing chairs the game was still in progress but no one had made a move for a long time. Dust covered the board, the thrown dice, the plastic players.
She saw him staring at the board. “Do you play backgammon?”
“No.”
“I taught Robert the game when he was fifteen.”
Backgammon wasn’t the only game Robert had learned at fifteen. The others weren’t so innocent, the players were real and each throw of the dice was irrevocable. During the past year she had spent whole days thinking of how differently she would handle things if she had another chance; she would protect him, keep him away from corrupters like Ruth, even if she had to lock him in his room.
She said, “Where have you been living?”
“Tijuana.”
“And you saw my reward offer in the paper?”
“Yes.”
“Weren’t you afraid of walking into a trap by coming here tonight?”
“Some. But I figured you didn’t want the police around any more than I did.”
“Are you on drugs, Felipe?”
He didn’t answer.
“Amphetamines?”
His eyes had begun to water and he seemed to be looking at her through little crystal balls. There was no future in any of them. “It’s none of your business. All I want is to earn the money and get out of here.”
“Please don’t shout. I hate angry sounds. I’ve had to cover up so many of them. Yes, yes, I still play the piano,” she said, as if he’d asked, as if he cared. “I make quite a few mistakes, but it doesn’t matter because nobody hears me, and the walls are too thick . . . Why did you kill him, Felipe?”
Beyond This Point Are Monsters Page 17