"I keep thinking about how careful he was, setting that up," I said. "Somehow, that's the worst part of it."
"I been thinking that, too. I don't guess you got a look at a brand."
I shook my head. "They were so torn up and buried in junk, I probably wouldn't have been able to see one anyway. But why would somebody else's horses be in there?"
"I just got this creepy notion. A story I heard about smugglers using dogs as mules. Sewed up dope inside them and run them across the border, then cut them open."
That gave this nightmare a new twist I hadn't imagined.
"Kirk?" I said, thinking of his meth habit. He could sure run that Cat-he'd grown up with it. He could have spotted me at the dump, gotten alarmed, and blown the whistle about the lumber. But I was still convinced that Balcomb was at least in on it-that that was what he'd been driving at when he grilled me-and that Kirk wouldn't kill animals like that.
Madbird had his own reasons for doubting Kirk.
"He ain't got the brains," he said. "Besides, he wouldn't have to pull something like that to run meth. Half the fucking double-wides in this state got labs in them. Heroin or coke would be more likely."
I tried to envision Wesley Balcomb, with his glossy lifestyle and elegant business operations and aristocratic wife, involved in the violent and dangerous world of dealing dope-especially at this level of viciousness. If he was at a complete remove, just putting up money, then maybe-but not hands-on dirty like that.
"Goddammit, it's just too much grunt work," I said. "You know what I mean? Up to your elbows in blood and guts and shit, having to lug stuff around and clean up-that's not how guys like him make money."
Madbird grunted assent. "Yeah, I don't buy it either."
We didn't talk much for the rest of the drive. When we got to my truck, Madbird pulled up next to it and we transferred my tools.
When we finished, he said, "I'm nervous about giving advice, 'cause it could backfire. But I guess if it was me, I'd try a bluff. See which way he jumps."
"Bluff how?"
"Tell him you got the pictures of them carcasses. Say you always keep a camera handy from being a news dog, so you had it when you found them. Then you went back later and figured out where they were killed. Show him those pictures if he wants proof. With all that together, he might figure it ain't worth fucking with you any more."
I was still standing there as Madbird fired up his van and pulled away. Then he slowed and leaned out the window.
"Hey, Hugh," he called. "You better be ready to jump, too."
17
Indian ways, Irish blood, and alcohol don't necessarily make for a very smart mix. But it can be a potent one.
Back when the job had first started, Jack, my boss, had given me a printout of phone numbers for the architects and managers and ranch offices and everybody's cells. I'd had to contact one or another pretty often, usually to hassle something out, so I kept it in the truck's glove box. It included the Balcombs' home number. I'd never called that one and never dreamed I would.
It was getting toward midnight when I found a quiet phone booth outside an Albertson's grocery store.
A woman answered after four rings.
"Yes?"
I could tell from that one syllable that she was Laurie.
"This is Hugh Davoren, Mrs. Balcomb. I need to talk to your husband."
There was a slight hesitation.
"Do I know you?" she said.
"We spoke, earlier today. You were out riding and I was in a pickup truck."
"Oh, yes, with the faux dueling scar."
"Yeah."
"It's rather late to be calling."
"This is important."
She paused again, as if she was trying to imagine what, in my life, it possibly could be.
But she said, "I'm remembering you more clearly now. Somebody told me something about you."
"Huh. They must have been pretty hard up for gossip."
"You weren't quite honest with me this afternoon. Stanford, is that right?"
I blinked in surprise. I hadn't known what to expect, but it wasn't this.
"I don't recall lying about it," I said.
"Oh, I think the 'aw, shucks, ma'am' routine was a kind of lie."
"I've learned I get along better if I don't answer questions until they're asked."
"All right, I'll ask one," she said. "Why are you making your living out here hauling trash?"
Out of nowhere, I remembered her riding toward me across the meadow, looking for all the world like Celia, by some miracle grown up into her full womanly beauty.
"The guy hauling trash is me, Mrs. Balcomb. The other guy was a suit I tried on that never fit. He's long gone and we're both glad of it. Is your husband around?"
For a few more seconds, again, nothing happened. I was getting the feeling that her hesitations had a meaning beyond anything I could grasp.
It seemed strange that she'd have heard that about me, and stranger still that she'd bring it up.
"I'll get him," she said.
Balcomb took his time coming to the phone-back in his dick-swinging mode of making people wait.
"Mr. Davoren," he said, in his cool, smooth tone. "How interesting to hear from you. This number's supposed to be unlisted. I can see I'll have to change it."
"This is getting out of control, Balcomb. Let's stop it right now."
His sarcasm edged up a notch. "Out of control?"
"Somebody came onto my land and burned that lumber."
"Oh, for God's sake," he said, now with weary patience.
"You don't believe me, come up and take a look."
"I don't believe you about anything, Davoren, and I'm most certainly not going to waste any more time on you. Even if what you claim is true, my first suspicion would be that you burned it yourself."
"Me? Why the hell would I do that?"
"Because you thought it might make me feel sorry for you. I advise you to forget about any more such naive little ploys. You committed crimes and you took my property. You're going to pay for that."
"Then it's going to cost you, too," I said.
Balcomb actually sounded amused. "Yes, I thought that would be coming next. When lying and whining don't work, your kind shift to threats."
I was starting to think real hard about driving right through his fucking high-security fence and dragging him out of his house.
"Remember when you asked me if I saw anything unusual?" I said. "I probably should have mentioned-the most unusual thing I didn't see was two shotgunned and gutted horses in the ranch dump."
There came a pause, like with Laurie, but the feel was a whole different order of business. Everything seemed to stop dead.
"I haven't told anybody yet," I said. "But I'm ready to head straight to the Independent Record and give them the story. They'll have it all over the wires by morning."
He wasn't shaken for long. He knew the carcasses were safely hidden now. His tone changed to the steely one of a man who had tried to be tolerant but had run out of patience.
"Really, Davoren. This has gone from distasteful to sick. I won't dignify that with a response. But if it was anything but another outrageous lie, you'd have said something earlier."
"I kept my mouth shut so I could find out more without tipping anybody off," I said. "I went back a little while ago and followed the Cat's tracks to the shed where those horses were killed. Oh, sorry-weren't killed. Never even existed, right?"
This time he was silent as stone.
"There's a kicker, Balcomb," I said. "Sure, I'm a liar trying to get off the hook, but I'm a liar who happened to be a journalist for seven years. The Sacramento Guardian-you can check it out if you want to waste the time. I always keep a camera with my other gear, out of old habit. So I've got a bunch of photos I didn't take. The whole shittarree-the carcasses, the tipped-over hay bales, the loose piece of siding."