James Burke - Swan Peak

“Just when do you plan on doing that, Jamie Sue?” a voice said behind her.

She turned and looked into her husband’s face. “What have you done with Jimmy Dale?” she asked.

“ I haven’t done anything with him. I’ve never even had the pleasure of meeting him. But tell me, why is it you think I might have harmed him? You weren’t planning on going somewhere with him today, were you? You haven’t been screwing him in the bushes, have you?”

She had stepped into his trap. “I’ve never understood your mean-spiritedness, Leslie. Your brother orders things done to his enemies, but only when he’s forced to. You enjoy offending and hurting people just for the sake of hurting them. Maybe the war did that to you. Maybe it’s because you married someone who doesn’t love you. But you’re a sad man and an object of pity. Not because of your deformity, either. You’re pitied by others because of what you are, and that’s what you’ve never understood about yourself.”

She lifted Dale off the horse and set his weight on her hip, momentarily shifting her attention away from Leslie. When she looked at him again, his head was tilted sideways, the shriveled skin alongside one cheek and his neck stretched free of wrinkles, like a large piece of smooth rubber.

“I have the sense you’re at a point of decision in your life,” he said. “Standing at the crossroads, wading across the Jordan, that kind of thing. You know, Scarlett O’Hara gazing out upon the wastes?”

“What decision? How can I make decisions? You’ve fixed it so I can’t go anywhere.”

“Would you like to go for a late dinner tonight? I’ll have Harold drive us in the limo to Bigfork or Yellow Bay.”

“Who lives inside you, Leslie? Who are you?”

“Not interested in dinner tonight? The lake is lovely when the rain is falling on it. Last chance, Jamie Sue. I wouldn’t ignore the importance of the choice you’re about to make. There are maybe three or four choices we make in our lives that determine our fate. A random turn off a freeway into the wrong neighborhood, buying a burnt-out sweet-potato patch that sits on top of an oil pool, taking off the night chain because we trust the Fuller Brush man. You took a chance and married a man who is physically repellent to you. Want to back out? I don’t mind. Want to roll the dice and see what happens? Tell me. Tell me now.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice dropping in register, a cold hand squeezing at her heart.

“It’s all a matter of choice. You want to believe you can walk away with half of our wealth. You also want to believe you can walk away with all your knowledge about how things really work, how we jerk around others, how our enterprises are nothing like they seem. Pick up the dice and drop them in the cup. Everyone should have a second chance. It’s easy enough. You’re a brave girl. Shake the cup and rattle them out on the felt.”

She looked into the moral vacuity of his eyes and for the first time felt genuine mortal fear of the man she had married. She started to speak, but her words caught in her throat.

“A country-and-western band should be entertaining the folk at Yellow Bay,” Leslie said. “We can watch the folk at work and play in the fields of the Lord. It’s Saturday night for the folk, and their messianic songstress will be there to brighten their lives.”

“I think you’re going to hell,” she said.

“We already live there, my dear. You just haven’t realized it.”

He reached out with his mutilated hand and touched little Dale’s cheek.

AFTER THE CARGOvan stopped, someone slid open the side door, and Candace felt a rush of cool air and mist in her face. Through the loose space in the tape, she saw a framed-up two-story building, half of it walled with logs. A yellow backhoe was parked in the trees, its lights on, a pile of dirt glistening by the steel bucket. A work-booted man in a rumpled black suit walked heavily across the clearing and grabbed Jimmy Dale Greenwood by the shirt and the back of his belt and dragged him across the ground to the edge of a pit. Then he used one foot to shove him over the edge.

The three men who had kidnapped and bound Candace were still inside the vehicle, smoking cigarettes, uncomfortable with what they were becoming witness to, trying to figure out a way to extricate themselves and still get paid by their employer.

“Put her in the house,” the driver said.

“What for?” Layne, the blond man, said.

“We don’t know what for. That’s the point,” the driver said. “Let’s put her in the house and get out of here. We delivered the Indian. That was our job. We didn’t see the rest of it. The girl brought herself here. It’s not on us.”

“What about el geeko?” Layne said.

“What about him?” the driver asked.

“We just gonna drive off?” Layne said.

Candace could hear the men in front turning around in their seats to visually confirm the naked fear they had heard in Layne’s question. The man in the front passenger seat said, “Yeah, just drive off. What, you worried about our friend’s feelings out there?”

“I’m for it if you guys are,” Layne said. “I was just saying…”

“Saying what?” the driver asked.

“That guy has got a long memory.”

Candace could hear no sound in the van except the drumming of the rain on the roof.

“Put her in the house, Layne,” the driver said.

“Me?” Layne said. “Put her in there yourself. I ain’t touching her.”

But their argument was moot. The man in the rumpled suit returned to the van and lifted Candace up like a bale of hay by the twine. He carried her to the edge of the pit and swung her out into space, where for a moment she saw the sheen of the fir and pine trees in the lights of the backhoe, just before she plummeted into the pit.

She thudded on top of another body, her bones jarring inside her. She thought she had landed on Jimmy Dale Greenwood, but he was lying against the wall of the pit, his face turned from her, his hands jerking furiously against the tape that was still cinched around his wrists. Then she realized a third person, someone she didn’t know, was in the pit with them.

The mist was drifting down into the excavation in the lights of the backhoe. The person she had landed on was a man. His face was staring straight into hers, and neither his eyes nor his mouth were taped. His hair was brown and shaggy, like dark straw piled on a scarecrow’s head. She was perhaps six inches from him, and she kept expecting him to blink, to send her a signal of some kind, to show recognition of their common humanity and plight, maybe even to give her a glimmer of hope.

Then she saw the dark hole in his hairline, and she realized his eyes hadn’t blinked, that his slack jaw and his parted mouth were not those of a man preparing to whisper a secret to her. Below one of his eyes was a chain of scar tissue, the socket recessed, mashed back into the skull. Where had she seen him?

At the Wellstones’ front gate , she told herself. They had killed their own security guard.

“We figure we’ll head on out,” she heard Layne say.

“No, you won’t,” the black-suited figure standing by the lip of the pit replied.

“Our work is done, bub,” Layne said.

“What’d you call me?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re saying I’m nothing?”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“Then what did you say?”

“I called you ‘bub.’ It’s just a word.”

“Then you won’t mind taking it back.”

“So I take it back. It’s just a word. No offense meant.”

“Where’s that leave you now?”

“Say again?”