Bentley Little - The House

He wished he still had The Power.

There was a roaring, rumbling, clattering sound behind him, and Mark turned to see an old red pickup truck bumping along the road, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. The operator of the vehicle seemed to be driving erratically, swerving from left to right in order to avoid known potholes and sections of washboard, and Mark moved to the edge of the road, trying to stay out of the truck's way.

With a sliding, dirt-churning stop, the pickup braked to a halt next to him. He waved the swirling dust away from his face, coughing, and saw through brown cloud that the driver was rolling down the passenger window.

Mark moved forward, squinting.

The man was wearing a stained tank top. His lined face was red, his hair thin and greased, combed back.

Classic Arizona alky.

Was it someone he knew? Hard to tell. The desert aged people, the sun and the hard scrabble lifestyle combining to add years not yet lived to younger features and faces, but he thought there was something familiar about the man.

"Where you going?" the driver asked.

"The McKinney ranch."

"Kristen's place? Ain't no one out there. She passed on a few days ago."

"I know. I'm her brother."

The alky squinted. "Mark? Is that you?" He laughed, shook his head. "Didn't recognize you, boy."

He knew now who the man was. Dave Bradshaw's older brother, Roy.

"Hop on in. I'll give you a lift."

Mark opened the dented door and climbed into the pickup, pushing his backpack onto the seat between them. He nodded to the driver. "Thanks, Roy. Much obliged."

"Never expected to see you here again. Heard you hit the road and were never comin' back."

"Yeah, well ..."

Roy shifted into gear and the truck, lurched forward.

"It's a shame about Kristen. A damn shame."

Mark swallowed, took a deep breath. "Is there going to be a funeral?"

"Already over. Nearly everyone showed up. Kristen was quite a popular gal 'round these parts. Not like your parents." He glanced over at Mark. "No offense."

"None taken." They drove in silence for a few moments, Mark listening to the clatter and roll of the truck on the rough road. "Who found her, Roy? Who . . .

discovered that she was dead?"

"Guy who delivered bottled water. She didn't answer the door, he had a hunch and dialed 911. Course, by the time they got out there she was gone."

"Was it--"

"Heart attack. Don't usually happen that way to someone so young, but . . ." He trailed off, shook his head. "It's a damn shame." He reached over Mark's leg, popped open the glove compartment, pulled out a half finished bottle of rye. "Like a little drink?"

Mark shook his head.

Roy drove for a few seconds with his knees as he expertly opened the bottle, taking the wheel again with his left hand as he used his right to tilt the bottle to his lips. "Aaaah!" he sighed, grinning.

"Dave still in town?" Mark asked.

"Hell, no. Moved to Phoenix after Mom passed on.

It's just me and the old man now."

"How're things going here?"

"They're going."

What he really wanted to ask about was Kristen, her funeral, the details of her death, but some of his parents'

reticence must have rubbed off on him, because he didn't feel comfortable discussing personal matters, family matters, in public. Especially not with someone like Roy.

Ahead, through the dirty windshield, to the right, the bulk of the house was growing ever bigger, ever closer.

Giant.

Roy took another swig from his bottle. "You know,"

he said. "I never did like your house. Never understood why Kristen stayed after your parents passed on. She could've sold it, moved somewhere else, somewhere nice."

Mark didn't understand either, not really, and a slight chill caressed his spine. He licked his lips. "Is Mr. Billings still there?"

Roy frowned. "Billings? Never heard of 'im."

"Hired man? Used to work for my father? Had a retarded daughter?" He tried to jog Roy's memory, but the other man just kept shaking his head.

"Don't ring no bell."

That wasn't entirely surprising. As Roy said, his parents hadn't exactly socialized with their neighbors, and it had been a long time ago. Maybe his father had eventually fired Billings. Or laid him off. Or Billings had simply moved on.

And taken his retarded daughter with him.

"Fuck me in the ass."

He tried to imagine the girl as a teenager; as an adult, but he couldn't. She'd have to be in her mid-twenties now, but Mark could not picture her as anything except the child he remembered.

"Your father does it."

"Kristen didn't live alone, though. She had help--"

"No. Far as I know, she lived by herself."

"No other people came to the funeral? No one you didn't recognize? No . . . hired help?"

"No one 'cept her friends from Dry River." He looked over at Mark. "How'd they ever get in touch with you? I heard tell Frank Neeson was tryin ' like hell to find your sorry ass but no one knew where you were.

Weren't even in Kristen's phone book or nothing. Guess he finally tracked you down, huh?"

"Yeah," Mark said, not wanting to explain.

"Didn't tell you much, though, did he?"

Mark shook his head. "No."

They reached the ranch gate, and the pickup skidded to a stop. "Here's where I let you off," Roy said. He peered through the open passenger window at the black gabled building. "Still don't like that house," he said.

Mark opened the door and pulled his backpack by one of the shoulder straps. He hopped out and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of a sleeve.

"Thanks for the lift," he said. "Appreciate it."

"I'll be coming back this way in about an hour or so.

Want me to stop by, give you a ride?"

Mark looked up at the hot blue sky, nodded.

"Sounds good."

"Bewaitin ' for me by the gate here. I'll give three honks. If there's no sign of you, I'll head on."

"All right." Mark waved as the pickup took off, but even if Roy had been looking, he wouldn't have been able to see through the dust. Coughing, Mark backed away from the road and turned away. Before him was the closed gate and beyond that the drive that led to the house.

He lifted the latch, swung the gate open, closed it behind him, and stood there for a moment. He was afraid. He'd known that already, of course, but the emotional reality of it had not penetrated until now. He stared at the dark structure, and though the front of the house was facing the sun, there was no glare off the windows. The entire facade of the house was the same flat black, its specific features differentiated only by slight variations in tone. It was as if the building swallowed the sunlight, absorbed it, and Mark noticed that the bushes and plants that were in what would be the perimeter of the house's shadow were all brown and dead.

He was just being overly dramatic. The plants were dead because there was no one here to water them.

Without daily attention, everything except cactus and sagebrush died in the desert, and Kristen was no longer here to take care of the property.

That meant that Billings was gone.

It felt as though a weight had been lifted off his chest.

From what Roy had said, it sounded as though the assistant was no longer here, but Roy was obviously not the most reliable of witnesses and Mark had always been a hope-for the best and expect the-worst kind of guy. There was no way Billings would have allowed the plants to die, though, and to Mark that was as good a proof as any that the assistant was gone.

That meant his daughter wouldn't be here either.

"Fuck me in the ass."

His gaze swept involuntarily to the window where he'd last seen the girl, but it was as flat and lifeless as the rest of the house and he saw nothing there.