He rubbed the towel on his mouth again, then on the back of his thick neck.
"I can't keep anything down. I think I got a peptic ulcer," he said.
"Where is she?"
"In the main bathroom." He looked up at me with his poached face and swallowed.
"Get yourself together."
"I came back from Missoula, she was like that. I can't take this shit."
But I wasn't listening to him. I walked down the hall to the bathroom. When I looked inside I had to clasp one hand on the door-jamb. The safety razor lay on the tile floor, glued thickly to the surface with her blood. She was nude and had slipped down in the tub on her side so that only half her face floated above the soapy red water. There was a deep incision across the inside of both forearms.
Oh Lord God, I thought, and had to take a deep breath and look away.
She had bled until she was almost white. I sat on the edge of the tub and touched her soft, wet hair with my fingertips. It felt like wet feathers.
Written in lipstick on the bathroom mirror were the words:
C,
Checking out, Bye-bye, love,
I ran my hand through my hair and stared numbly at her. Then I saw the tiny scratches and the red discolorations, like pale strawberry bruises, like love bites, on her neck and shoulder. I took a sheet out of the bedroom and draped it over her, then went back into the living room.
Clete was pouring another scotch and milk at the table. The smoke from his Camel curled up over the nicotine stains on his fingers. The skin around his eyes flexed abruptly when he saw my expression.
"Hey, you get that look out of your face, man," he said.
"What were you doing in Missoula?" I said.
"I pick up cigars for Sal's old man. There's only one store in Missoula that carries his brand."
"Why tonight?"
"He told me to."
"Why haven't you called the locals?"
"They're going to bust me for it."
"For a suicide?" I watched his face carefully.
"It's no suicide. You know it's not."
"Clete, if you did this"
"Are you crazy? I was going to ask her to marry me. I'm seeing a therapist now because I'm fucked up, but when I was straightened out I was going to see about taking us back to New Orleans, living a regular life, opening up a bar maybe, getting away from the grease balls."
I looked steadily into his eyes. They stared back at me, hard as green marbles, as though they had no lids. The stitched scar that ran from the bridge of his nose through one eyebrow looked as red as a bicycle patch. Then his eyes broke, and he took a hit of the scotch and milk.
"I don't care what you believe," he said.
"If you think I got jealous over you and her, you're right. But I didn't blame her for it. I got a condition I can't do anything about right now. The therapist says it's because of all that stuff back in New Orleans and because I'm working for grease balls and pretending I like it when actually I wouldn't spit on these guys. But I didn't blame her. You got that?"
"She told you?"
"What's to tell? There's ways a guy knows. Butt out of my personal affairs, Streak."
"I put a sheet over her. Don't go back in there till the cops get here." I picked up the telephone. The moon had broken through a crack in the clouds over the mountains on the far side of the lake, and I could see the froth on the waves blowing in the wind.
"You saw the bruises?" Clete said.
"Yes."
"Most of the locals aren't real bright. But when the coroner does the autopsy, they're going to pick me up."
"Maybe. What's the point?"
He drank out of the cup again, then drew in on the cigarette. His breath was ragged coming out.
"You're not big on sympathy tonight, are you?" he said.
"To be honest, I don't know what I feel toward you, Clete."
"It's Sal. It's gotta be. I'm going to be on ice, he's going to be playing rock 'n' roll with Dixie Lee and the Tahoe corn holers I'm going to nail that fucker, man. I'm going to blow up his shit. I'm going to do it in pieces, too."
"What's his motive?" I set the receiver back down.
"He doesn't need one. He's psychotic."
"I don't buy that."
"She was on to something. It's got to do with oil, with Dixie Lee, maybe with dope. I don't know. She believed in spirits. She thought they told her things. Then yesterday she saw Sal chopping up lines for Dixie Lee and a couple of the Tahoe broads, and she told him he was a fucking cancer, that one day his kind were going to be driven into holes in the earth. Can you dig that? Holes in the earth."
"Where are the Dios now?"
"They said they were going to a play up in Bigfork."
"Have you heard Sally Dio say anything about a guy named Charlie?"
"Charlie? No. Who is he?"
"A hit man out of Vegas."
"Wait a minute, they picked up a guy at the airport in Missoula last night. I thought he was just another one of Sal's butt wipes I offered to drive in and get him, but Sal said I needed a night off."
"What did he look like?"
"I don't know, I didn't see him."
The clouds over the lake were silver where the moon had broken through, and the water below was black and glazed with light.
"I'm going to call the cops now, then I'm taking off," I said.
"I don't want my name in it, all right?"
"Whatever you say." Then he said, "You're pretty cool. A cool operator. You always were. Nobody shakes ole Streak's cookie bag. They could strike matches on your soul and not make you flinch."
I didn't answer him. I walked out into the misting rain and the broken moonlight and drove my pickup truck back down the lake-front road toward Poison. The cherry trees in the orchards were dripping with rainwater in my headlights. The wooded hills were dark, and down on the beach I could see a white line of foam sliding up on the sand. With the windows up I was sweating inside the cab. I passed a neon-lit bar, a boat dock strung with light bulbs, a wind-sheltered cove where the pines grew right down to the water's edge, a clapboard cottage where people were having a party and somebody was still barbecuing in the darkness of the porch. Then I turned east of Poison, at the foot of the lake, and headed for the Jocko Valley, and I knew that I would be all right. But suddenly the clouds closed over the moon again, the sky became as black as scorched metal, and a hard wind blew out of the ice-capped Missions. A curtain of driving rain swept across meadow, irrigation canal, slough, poplar windbreak, and willow-lined stream. Lightning leapt from the crest of the Missions to the black vault of sky overhead, thunder rolled out of the canyons, and hailstones the size of dimes clattered on my truck like tack hammers.
I pulled to the side of the road, sweat boiling off my face, my windows thick with steam. The truck shook violently in the wind. My knuckles were round and white on the steering wheel. I felt my teeth grinding, felt the truck's metal joints creak and strain, the tailgate tremble and reverberate against the hooked chain; then a shudder went through me that made my mouth drop open, as though someone had clapped me on both ears with the flats of his hands. When I closed my eyes I thought I saw a copper-colored stream beaten with raindrops, and in it a brown trout with a torn mouth and blood roaring in clouds from its gills.
The next morning I walked down to the old brick church next to Alafair's school. The sun was brilliant in the bowl of blue sky above the valley. High up on one of the mountains above Hellgate Canyon, I could see horses grazing in the new grass and lupine below the timber, and the trees along the river were dark green from the rain. The current looked deep and cold between the sunbaked boulders that protruded from the water's surface. Someone had planted a garden by the side door of the church, and yellow roses and spearmint bloomed against the red-brick wall. I went inside, crossed myself at the holy water fount, and knelt in a pew close to the altar. Like almost all Catholic churches, this one smelled like stone and water, incense, and burning wax. I think that fact is no accident inside a Catholic church. I think perhaps the catacombs, where the early Christians celebrated mass, smelled the same way.