He let the gray pick his own way down the bare mountain, around boulders and across ravines. The land was dark now but the sky still silver. When they hit the road he pushed the gelding to a gallop. He could barely make out the emergency airstrip now, couldn’t see the faded orange windsock drooping or filling in the gusting wind. Descending fast, thankful the gray was sure-footed, he began to worry that Mark had been early, hadn’t seen him and had gone on, though he hadn’t heard a plane. Or maybe Mark had changed his mind and had made other plans.
Pulling the gray up near the old barn, in among a small cluster of scrubby willows, he dug a second hole. It was harder digging among the roots and in the dark, but then he hit a patch where ground squirrels had made tunnels, and it went faster. When he had a saddle-sized hole he laid the blanket in and laid the saddle on top, the skirts and cinch and stirrups folded in, hoping the rodents would leave it alone, hoping he’d buried it high enough above the wash so the hole wouldn’t flood. He didn’t cover the hole, but waited quietly beside the gray, his chest heaving. The sky above was darkening now, too, the far mountains humping in heavy, deep blackness. Alone and wondering if Mark would come, he was gettingfidgety when he heard the faint drone of the plane and saw its lights high above the mountains.
Only then did he remove the gray’s bridle, point him in the direction of the ranch on beyond, and slap him on the rump. The good gelding snorted and took off at a gallop, glancing back once at Lee. Lee laid the bridle in the hole with the saddle and trenching tool. With his boots he scraped sand and dirt into the hole, coveringthem well, stamped them down, then scuffed leaves and dry grass over the bare scar of earth. As the Stearman’s lights grew large and descended, he walked out, staying clear of the strip.
The plane bounced once on the wind and touched down. He waved both arms over his head as it taxied toward him, though he guessed Mark could see him against the lighter sand. Near him the plane paused, idling.
Walking on out, Lee had to grin. He’d done it. A third of a million bucks, hidden, and all his. Maybe in due time the losers would be reimbursed for some of it by the U.S. government. He didn’t know how this bank insurance worked, but as wasteful as Washington was, they wouldn’t miss the money. Feeling good, he stepped up on the Stearman’s wing walk and eased down into the hopper, where Mark had added a heavy blanket for his comfort. Lee fastened his seat belt, gave Mark a thumbs-up, and they were off, Mark heading clear across the country, for Wichita and then Florida, Lee choosing the shorter distance to establish his alibi. At the time the post office guard was first tied up and robbed, Lee would have had to be four hours or more away, hitching with an unknown trucker, heading for the roulette and blackjack tables of Vegas. And Mark, if anyone ever thought to make the connection, which wasn’t likely, would have been much farther away, gassing up the Stearman at small, country airports where the young pilot always paid cash, an unrecorded flight not likely to ever be traced.
31
Becky managed a visit with Morgan the next day while Sammie was in school but when she picked the child up, Sammie guessed at once where she’d been; she was so agitated at being left out again, at not seeing her daddy, was so completely focused on telling Morgan something deeply important to her, that Becky gave in at last; she knew that stubborn determination wouldn’t go away. When she looked into Sammie’s dark and grieving eyesshe was filled, herself, with Sammie’s same driving need to tell him whatever was so urgent, so very meaningful to her. Sammie might be only nine, but she was not like other children; her perceptions awed and frightened Becky, and Becky had to listen to her.
But there was one thing that Becky made her promise not to tell Morgan. Her daddy knew nothing about Falon’s breakin and his attack on them, he didn’t know about any of the trouble they’d had with Falon. She had always thought, long before Morgan was arrested and put in jail, that if Morgan knew how Falon had behaved he’d be so enraged he might kill Falon. She had kept silent to protect Morganand now, with Morgan locked up, what good would it do to tell him, it would only create more hurt, more desperate and helpless rage.
“Grandma made carrot cake today,” Becky said. “We’ll stop at her house for a little snack first, then we’ll go to see Daddy. On one condition,” she said, looking down at Sammie. “You remember to keep your promise not to tell Daddy about Falon coming to the house?”
Sammie looked up at her.“You mean, the last time?”
“I mean all the times, as we agreed. Clear back, long ago. Even that time when—”
“When he killed Misto,” Sammie said.
Becky nodded.“You know I’ve never told him, it would be too upsetting.”
“You were afraid of what Daddy would do.”
Becky nodded.“And right now, Daddy has enough to worry him without hearing about that ugliness.” She knew there’d be a police report from when Falon broke in the last time. She just hoped they hadn’t told Morgan about that.
Sammie looked up at her a long time, but said nothing. She was still quiet when they pulled into Caroline’s drive, she didn’t say a word as they went inside. Sitting at the big kitchen table as Caroline cut a piece of carrot cake for her and poured a glass of milk, Sammie hadn’t said a word.
“Can you promise that?” Becky said. “Will you promise—for Daddy’s sake?”
Sammie ate some cake, took a sip of milk.“I promise,” she said at last, but in a reluctant little voice. Becky looked sternly at her. Sammie blinked, and looked down. “I promise,” she said more boldly. Caroline watched them in silence. “I promise,” Sammie repeated, and then she tied into her milk and cake.
The evening light was softening as they pulled into the courthouse parking lot. Sammie was still quiet as they went inside, the child walking very determined, very straight in her light summer jacket, her chin up, her eyes straight ahead. Whateverwas on her mind, whatever she needed to tell Morgan, no matter how shaky Becky felt at the emotional disaster it might cause, this couldn’t be avoided. Whatever Sammie had to say, Becky half expected a meltdown that would leave Sammie tearful and leave Morgan intolerably shaken.
Maybe her mind was filled with a dream she hadn’t told Becky, a worse nightmare even than the last one where Morgan was thrown in jail—that trauma would stay with them for the rest of their lives, she couldn’t imagine what would be worse than that prediction.
For a moment, she wondered if this had to do with Morgan being drugged, wondered if Sammie had seen something in a dream where Falon was giving him a drug as well as alcohol?
She had already talked with their doctor about that. Dr. Bates had visited Morgan in jail, had questioned him, had done what small, simple tests there were to do, had looked at Morgan’s pupils, had checked his heart, even smelled Morgan’s breath.
He said whatever Morgan had been given could have been an overdose of some prescription medication. He said there wasn’t much in the way of testing, if they didn’t know what they were looking for, particularly this long after the dose had been given. Dr. Bates said that, because Morgan didn’t drink, a sufficient amount of bootleg whiskey could have knocked him out overnight, could have left him uncertain andgroggy, the way the police found him. But he didn’t see how Morgan could have been forced to drink so much without trying to refuse, without remembering. He did say that some bootleg whiskey contained additives to make it more potent, but usually that was found in the bigger cities, not in moonshine from these small, backwoods stills.