Neil McMahon - Lone Creek

It was still there, inside the alcove of the service entrance-one of those old intercom systems with a doorbell-type button and a little round grille to talk into. It looked like it hadn't been used since I'd last seen it at age eleven or twelve.

Without any faith, I pressed the button. I waited half a minute, pressed it again, waited a few seconds longer, and was just stepping out of the alcove when a raspy, static-edged growl made me jump.

"Am I hearing things, or is somebody there?"

Even with the crackling, it was easy to recognize the voice.

I leaned down to talk close into the chest-high grille.

"It's Hugh Davoren, Reuben. I wondered if you could spare a minute."

There was a brief pause. I didn't think he was ever taken by surprise, but this probably came close.

"Well, hello, Hugh. I'll be glad to visit with you, but goddamn, I don't believe I've used this thing in twenty years. Let me try buzzing you in. If it don't work, ring again and I'll come down."

The buzzer jumped to life with a sort of snapping sound, like it was startled to be roused out of its own long sleep. The service door opened at my push.

I walked through a back storage room and then the main hallway. The interior of this place hadn't been fancified or restored-the woodwork was scarred; the plaster was chipped; and the marble floor, while clean and polished, was badly worn. The elevator creaked like something in a spooky old movie, and by the time it came down from his apartment, picked me up, and got back again, I could have climbed the stairs faster. Reuben certainly had the money to upgrade, and he would have drawn higher prices for the spaces he rented out. But maybe the antiquated feel was part of what he was hanging on to.

The top-floor hallway was like a smaller version of the lobby below. Reuben hadn't converted it-just built his digs around the perimeter. It was lined with paneled, transomed doors that once would have served individual offices. All were long disused except for one toward the east end that was open, revealing a parallelogram of dim light from inside.

When I got there, I could see right off that this was the room Reuben mainly lived in. A comfortable blaze of split larch was burning in a stone fireplace. An antique rifle and a pair of crossed sabers, probably dating back to his grandfather's Civil War days, were on display above the mantel. The walls were hung with several paintings, and these were the real thing-fine old oils, a couple of them looking like they might have been genuine Charlie Russells or Frederic Remingtons. A rich antique Persian rug covered most of the hardwood floor.

Reuben was sitting in a worn old recliner, tilted back with his feet propped up, facing the panorama of the lighted city and the dark countryside beyond. He was grizzled now, his beaky face lined and worn, but he still possessed the power that wasn't so much dynamic as a kind of gravity. A line from Julius Caesar used to come into my head when I thought of him: "Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus."

Nobody had ever questioned Reuben's fairness or integrity, but nobody had ever accused him of being a particularly nice guy, either. He drove a hard bargain, and he had no objection to walking over people if that was what it took. He rewarded loyal service like Elmer's, but he demanded a lot in return. The vast majority of the time, he got what he wanted.

He had been a tough act for his sons to follow, and he hadn't been easy on them when they didn't measure up. He hadn't been easy on his wife, Beatrice, either, and there were people who thought that had hastened the onset of her Alzheimer's disease. Eventually, she'd gotten to where she had to be watched every minute-she'd do things like run away on foot in her nightgown, in winter, and everybody would have to go out searching for her, fearful that she'd freeze to death. When Reuben sold the ranch to the Balcombs, he'd finally put her in a home.

He raised a hand in greeting as I stepped into the room. I'd expected a combative edge, but his look seemed oddly gentle. He was wearing a maroon robe with velvet lapels, and slippers. His knotty calves were mottled with blue veins.

"I apologize for intruding on you, Reuben," I said.

"If I didn't want you here, I'd have told you. Get yourself a drink."

One wall of the room was taken up by a handsome old bar that must have been salvaged from a saloon and reassembled up here. The back bar was ornate hand-carved cherrywood, stocked with every kind of liquor, but a dark green bottle of Lagavulin scotch was set out in front. He was rolling an old-fashioned glass of it slowly between his hands. That appeared to be his only other company. Reuben wasn't the kind of man to want people caring for him when he was wounded. He'd run them off and hole up alone until he got through it.

I took another old-fashioned glass from a shelf and poured a splash of the scotch. It tasted like bottled smoke, and burned from my insides out, right through the evening's cold and wet.

Although he'd hardly ever known me as anything but a kid and we hadn't run into each other for a couple of years, Reuben started right off like we were old friends continuing a personal conversation.

"I'm confused, Hugh. I don't like admitting that."

I took another, bigger, swallow of scotch.

"When you're young, you sketch a picture of who you figure you're going to be," he said. "You color it in as you go along, and of course, it don't turn out like you thought. You look back and see a lot of things you could have done better, and some you wish like hell you hadn't done at all. But I always had the notion that a man was entitled to that, if he put himself out hard enough in other ways."

I caught only a glimmer of his meaning. Clearly, he'd given it a lot of thought.

"I'm afraid that's beyond my grasp," I said.

"Mine, too, I guess. Maybe that's what I'm supposed to learn-I never ought to let myself think like that in the first place."

I groped for another response that wouldn't sound entirely stupid, but came up empty. Reuben kept rolling his scotch glass between his hands. He didn't seem to be drinking so much as using it as a crystal ball.

"All right, you didn't come here to listen to an old man drool in his whiskey," he said. "I assume it's about Kirk."

"This is touchy, Reuben."

"I've got a pretty good layer of callus, son."

"I stopped by to see Josie," I said. "She said Kirk's been making all his money by panning gold."

Reuben's face swung toward me. His expression was probably just about the same as mine had been when I'd heard that from her.

"And she believes it?" he said.

"She seems to. I don't think she's, you know, overly critical."

His lips twisted sardonically and his head sank back against the chair.

"She didn't know where he was going to do the panning, or at least she wouldn't tell me," I said. "I wondered if you had any idea."

Reuben stayed quiet for a good long minute-eyes open and seemingly gazing out the window, but he was obviously weighing this further. He was too realistic not to have accepted by now that Kirk had met with either an accident or violence. My coming here and asking about this was a red flag on top of the suspicion already hanging over me. And he no doubt saw already that I hoped to divert that suspicion by coming up with other reasons why Kirk might have gotten in trouble-by linking him to something illegal, which would harm him if he was still alive and reflect badly on the Pettyjohn family in any event.

"Well, maybe that explains something," Reuben finally said.

He spoke on at some length-measuring his sentences carefully but without any gamesmanship, and answering my occasional questions without reluctance. I'd been pleasantly surprised that he hadn't dismissed me outright, and I was almost startled at his being so forthcoming.