Love Mercy Part 19

"What?" Mel shone the light directly on the markings. They were about six feet off the ground.

"You know, those sticks we use to mark heifers."

Mel stared at the colored figures.

After a moment, she slapped the side of her leg and laughed. "That crafty old codger. It's Morse code!" She only knew that because her dad had tried to teach it to her when she was a little girl. Occasionally he used it to communicate with his a.s.sistant during his magic shows. She slipped her pistol into her jacket pocket. "August really did pull one over on us. I bet he's laughing his socks off right now."

"Maybe," Love said, pressing her lips together. She pulled a tiny digital camera out of her Levi's jacket. "I'll take some photos, and we'll see what he has to say."

"Good idea." Mel's voice was casual, but inwardly she was cursing herself again. Why hadn't she thought of bringing a camera? What if it hadn't been a joke, and the writing was something important? She was losing her edge, her ability to be prepared for situations. It made her slightly afraid, knowing that Patrick was out there, likely more devious and prepared than she was.

When they arrived back at the ranch house and walked into the warm cinnamon-scented living room, Magnolia was playing "O Tannenbaum" on the old upright piano, and everyone was attempting to sing it in German. The laughter at their silly attempts to p.r.o.nounce the German words sounded better to Mel's ears than any famous singer she'd ever heard in Vegas.

"h.e.l.lo, ladies," Rocky said, handing Love a box of old, glittery ornaments. "Grab a cup of cider and join the festivities." He turned to Magnolia and grinned. "Maybe "Feliz Navidad" will be easier for this group."

Love and Mel waited for August to say something about their ride to Big Barn. But August didn't even seem to notice they'd been gone. Finally, Mel couldn't stand it any longer. She got another cup of cider and sat down next to August on the sofa.

"Things are okay at Big Barn," she said. She elbowed him gently, grinning. "You really got us this time, August."

August tilted his head. "Do say? When'd you go up there?"

Mel inhaled slowly, feeling her grin fade. "About half an hour ago. Love and I went to check out the writing on the wall."

August scratched his whiskered chin. "That barn's needed painting for years, but it won't really pay to do it. Old place is falling down. We really should doze it." Mel studied his expression. Not a speck of guile. He had no memory of telling them about the writing.

Mel looked over at Love, not knowing what to do.

Love shook her head: Let it go.

So Mel did, simply because it seemed something too big to face right at this moment. For the next hour, it felt like she'd fallen down Alice's dark rabbit hole into another world, a world where normal people lived, where Christmas trees were decorated together, not alone because your parents either had gigs or were out drinking, and people sang Christmas carols as if there were some truth to them. Though she had a hard time believing that a little baby who would be the world's savior was actually born in a manger over two thousand years ago, when Magnolia sang "O Holy Night," Mel's chest grew tight, and she wished there was someplace to put this feeling that seemed too ponderous and swollen to live inside her.

It was past five p.m. and dark when they finished decorating the tree and everyone started searching for jackets and scarves, ready to head home. Mel felt a stab of panic in her gut, not wanting to face her little house with its freshly painted garage door. Had Patrick come back and repainted the accusing words? She couldn't imagine him trying it in daylight. He'd surely notice that her neighbors were retired folks. He'd know that people like that would call the police without hesitation. Patrick had a rare opportunity last night during the parade. He was smart enough to know that. But who knew what else he might do?

On the drive home she came to the uneasy conclusion that she'd have to have it out with Patrick. How else could she convince him that she truly didn't have any of Sean's graft money? She wished that she had someone to talk it over with, someone who could a.s.sess the situation with a practical, unemotional eye. She swallowed hard and turned down her street. She wanted to talk to Cy. A tiny sob burst from her throat, surprising her.

"d.a.m.n it, Cy." She felt her chest start to heave. "Why'd you have to go and die on me? Why?" She heard the word reverberate through the truck's cab. "We needed you. I needed you." She glanced up at the cab's ceiling, then back to the road. "Some G.o.d you are. You stole the only person . . ." She stopped, feeling ridiculous. Who did she think was listening? And what she was about to voice wasn't actually true. The only person who loved her. She knew that Love cared about her, as did Magnolia and Rocky, August and Polly and even the Muppet Brothers. The truth was, if she was sitting in some cosmic witness chair, she'd have to admit to whomever was questioning her, for the first time in her life, she belonged. She was a part of a community.

She pulled into her short driveway and cut the engine. Next door, the Biermanns, a German couple who once owned a popular bakery in the San Fernando Valley, were having a party. Their blue and gray salt-box house was lit up like a Macy's department store window, and people overflowed the little house into their small sailboat-themed front yard.

"Hey, Mel," Fritz Biermann called. "Come on over and have some Christmas cheer." He held up a punch cup of red liquid.

"Thanks, Fritz," she said. "But I think I've had enough holiday cheer tonight. Rain check?"

"You bet," he said. "We'll be eating leftover spinach dip for two weeks."

She knew that the party next door would not likely be late. The Biermanns and all their friends were always in bed by ten p.m. It was one of the peaceful things she liked about this neighborhood. Patrick wouldn't try anything with all of those people as witnesses. She checked her answering machine. No messages. Same with her cell. She turned her cell off . . . then back on. If he was going to call or text, it would be wiser if she didn't ignore it.

She changed out of her jeans and sweats.h.i.+rt into a pair of sweats and another brick red Cy's Feed and Seed T-s.h.i.+rt. When Bill bought the feed store and changed the name, he offered Love the stock of T-s.h.i.+rts printed with the old name. Love asked Mel if she wanted them. Mel took them gratefully, all thirty-two. Somehow, wearing one always made her feel closer to Cy.

Though she knew there was a party going on next door, every time she heard an unfamiliar noise, she started, like a puppy on its first night away from its mother. When the last person said good-bye around nine thirty, she actually felt calmer. It became quiet, like normal, so any noise out of the ordinary would be obvious. She sat in her recliner with her .38 on the end table next to her. She wished she had a good watchdog, one as alert as Ace. It would allow her to sleep in peace. She didn't realize she'd dozed off until her doorbell rang, jolting her awake. She jumped up and grabbed the gun. The digital clock on top of her television read ten after ten.

When she looked out the security peephole in the door, the porch was empty. Was Patrick playing some kind of crazy cat and mouse game with her? She felt sweat dampen the small of her back. Had she dreamed the doorbell ringing? Now that she thought about it, it hadn't sounded like her doorbell here-a high, old-fas.h.i.+oned ding-dong-but a cheery tring-tring, like the doorbell of her grand-mere's house in Idyllwild. It must have been a dream.

She went into the kitchen to pour herself a drink. She searched every cabinet and drawer looking for something stronger than vanilla extract. Cursing under her breath, she remembered now that she'd finished her last bottle of whiskey a couple of weekends ago when she had a head cold and had made herself a couple of hot toddies.

She pulled on jeans and boots with the intention of walking the four blocks to Larry's Liquors and buying a fifth of Jack Daniel's. She dug through the box shoved under her bed until she found her old holster. She strapped it on and pulled on her barn jacket.

When she stepped outside, she hesitated. Maybe she should drive. She'd be less vulnerable inside her truck. A flash of anger warmed her chest. How dare Patrick O'Reilly make her afraid to walk the streets of her own town. Still, she wasn't stupid. Walking made her too easy a target. Before she got to Larry's, she pa.s.sed the Rowdy Pelican. She suddenly craved company, not people she knew well, just people to sit next to and drink, make comments about the latest football game and how stupid politicians were.

She took one of the five empty stools at the Pelican's knife-scarred wooden bar. The bartender tonight was new, a woman with bleached pink blonde hair pulled back into a high fifties-style ponytail. A red ruby protruded from the side of her nose, and her unnaturally long fake eyelashes reminded Mel of low-end Vegas hookers, the ones who lingered around the convention center. She always felt sorry for those women; most had kids at home, turned tricks because they were desperate for drugs or needed food for their babies. She understood desperation, didn't look down on them the way Sean and his buddies did. She'd always suspected that had she not accidentally stumbled into a job fair years ago and started chatting with a Las Vegas Metro Police officer, she might have ended up in the same place as those hookers.

The woman served Mel a whiskey and water with a polite nod, then went back to her conversation with a young man in a Frank's Sea Charters sweats.h.i.+rt. Mel was glad there was no one in the bar she knew.

Her solitude lasted about five minutes.

"Excuse me, is that stool taken?" a man's husky voice asked.

Without turning to look, she said, "Nope." She took a sip of her whiskey. If he started talking, she'd politely shut him down by moving to a booth. It was a slow night, and half the bar's eight booths were empty.

"Thanks," he said. "Nice seeing you again."

His comment caused her to swing her head to look. She cursed to herself. She hadn't recognized Ford Hudson's voice. And he wasn't wearing his ubiquitous Stetson but a navy watch cap.

"Don't get too close," he said, pulling off his knit cap. "Getting a cold. Thought a hot toddy might help me sleep."

She didn't answer. Why did this guy turn up everywhere she went? If it wasn't being absolutely paranoid-a condition she might be only two shakes away from-she'd swear he was following her. Where in the heck did he live?

"I live in Morro Bay," he said, freaking her out. "I've actually lived all over the county since I moved here fourteen or fifteen years ago, but about six months ago I finally settled down and bought myself a place here in Morro Bay. I like how it doesn't seem to change, even when the rest of the county is becoming like a mini Orange County. Or maybe Santa Barbara's a better comparison."

She looked away and stared at the counter in front of her drink.

He called to the ponytailed bartender, ordering a double Irish decaf coffee. "I'd ask you if you come here often, but I know you don't, because I do, and I've never seen you here before."

"I come here some," Mel said.

"Guess we haven't crossed paths."

"Guess not."

She sipped her drink, letting the conversation falter, hoping he'd take the hint and move on.

When she finished her drink, he gestured at the bartender again. "Another of whatever this lovely lady is drinking." In seconds, another gla.s.s of whiskey was in front of Mel.

"What if I don't want this?" she asked in a tight voice, even though she did.

"Then the bartender can dump it in the fake fern," he said. "But I'm guessing you do. I hate Christmas. No, wait, let me rephrase that. I don't actually hate Christmas. I hate the hullabaloo surrounding it. Just puts a big ole crack in my heart. What about you?"

She hesitated before picking up the drink he'd bought her. If she drank it, there was the implication that she would owe him conversation or, at the very least, politeness.

"It's just a drink," he said softly, again reading her thoughts. "No obligation. I swear."

She didn't look at him but took a sip. Silently they watched the television over the bar. It was showing flickered replays of the National Finals Rodeo a few weeks ago in Las Vegas. There was a collective groan from the bar patrons when a young man was dragged by a black and white spotted bull across the dusty ground like a dog's ragged play toy. One of the crazy-brave rodeo clowns distracted the enraged bull, and the young man limped toward an open gate.

"Double ouch," Hud said to her. "Those dudes are insane. There's got to be better ways to make a living."

"Not to those boys," she commented, remembering the young men she'd warned and sometimes arrested during that crazy two weeks during National Finals. "But they are the craziest bunch I've ever seen, bar none."

Hud shook his head. "Yeah, and a good plenty of them are from Texas."

She glanced over at him, almost smiling. "A good plenty?"

He grinned. "Sorry, I swear as I get older my grandpa Iry's words seem to come out of my mouth more often than not." He looked down into his coffee. "Lost him last year. My mama the year before that. Miss them like crazy."

"Sorry," she said stiffly, s.h.i.+fting on her stool.

He sipped his drink and didn't look at her. "Thanks. My mama'd been sick a long time, didn't really know me. Iry . . . well, he was the one person who always seemed to understand me. I guess I miss him for selfish reasons."

"Maybe," she said, thinking of Cy. It never occurred to her that missing him would be selfish. But she understood what this guy was trying to articulate.

He looked up at the television screen where another young man in red chaps with green and purple sparkly fringe was trying to stay on a bull. "When did cowboys get so fas.h.i.+on conscious?"

She'd almost finished her second drink and was starting to feel a bit more friendly toward people, even this annoying sheriff's detective. "Glitz sells. I think it changed when National Finals moved from Oklahoma to Vegas."

He shook his head in mock sorrow. "A sad day in cowboydom."

For some reason, that made her laugh. "Did you say cowboy dung?"

He grinned at her. "You've got yourself a real nice laugh, Miss Melina LeBlanc."

She felt her stomach warm at his words. Or maybe it was just the whiskey. "Mel."

"Then you have to call me Hud."

She gestured at the bartender for another drink. "So, Hud," she said, feeling magnanimous. "Are you all ready for Santa to come to your house? Is he going to bring Maisie a pony?" She chuckled, feeling confident and amusing. Drinking always did that for her, made her feel stronger and more in control. Deep inside she knew it was an illusion. She knew that Patrick's hate and Sean's death and losing Cy and August going nutty on them and all the rest of the horrible world lay outside this bar, outside this gla.s.s. But right now, she felt good and strong and happy. Well, maybe not happy, but at least not sad. She gulped the whiskey down in one swallow. "Is not sad the opposite of happy?" she wondered out loud.

Hud contemplated her question, then said, "I think it's more catty-corner. But it's not a bad place to be. Maybe it's better than happy. More like being satisfied. And that is much easier to maintain than out-and-out happiness."

She laughed again. The bartender came over with the bottle of Jack Daniel's, and Mel nodded at her to fill her shot gla.s.s.

"Double it," she said, knowing this was foolish. She shouldn't be drinking this much when she needed to stay alert. But something inside her felt like it was crumbling away, and these drinks seemed to patch it all back together. Or at least make her not care if she crumbled. She finished the drink with two swallows, feeling Hud's eyes watching her.

Then a tiny, sensible part of her that the alcohol hadn't reached kicked in. She needed to get home, eat something, get sober. By not staying in control, she was leaving herself wide-open and giving Patrick the advantage.

"I have to go," she said, abruptly standing up. The bar wavered in front of her eyes, and she suddenly felt like puking.

"Whoa," Hud said, standing up and grabbing her shoulder. "When was the last time you ate?"

She stared at him, his features soft and blurry.

"I have to go," she repeated, digging through her pockets and finding a twenty and four ones. She dropped them on the bar. Was that enough? Oh, well, they knew her here. She could come back and settle up later. "Bye, now, Mr. Hud."

She took a step and stumbled over her feet. He was quick and caught her.

"Ma'am, are you all right?" the blonde bartender called. "Should I call you a cab?"

"I'll help her get home," Hud said.

Mel jerked her arm out of his grasp. "I'm fine."

The bartender walked over, an empty gla.s.s in her hand. "This dude bothering you, hon? Want me to call someone?"

Mel stared at her for a moment, trying to piece the words together. "Oh, him? No, he's okay. He's a cop. Show her your badge, Hudson."

Hud pulled out his wallet and showed the bartender his sheriff's badge. She studied it a moment. "I'm new to this area. How do I know that's not fake?"

A large man with a bushy mustache walked over. "What's goin' on, Wanda?"

"You know this guy?" She nodded her head at Hud. "Says he's a cop."

The guy nodded. "Yeah, that's Hud. He lives here in Morro Bay. Comes in here all the time. He really is a cop. He's good people."

"Okay," Wanda said, her face still doubtful. "Just didn't want to let her go off with some weirdo psycho nut job."

Mel heard someone giggle. It took a few seconds to realize it was her. Oh, man, she was drunk. "Thanks," she heard herself say. "I do kind of draw the line at weirdo nut job psychos."

The woman gave her a sympathetic look. "You want some coffee before you leave?"

Mel considered her offer. "No, but thank you very much for your hospi . . . hospi . . . hospi . . ." Mel couldn't get the rest of the word out.

"Help."

"No worries. It's my job."

Once they were outside, Mel looked up and down the street, trying to decide which way to start walking. Had she walked? No, wait, she drove here. That much she remembered. Where was her truck? Maybe she shouldn't have made that last drink a double.

"Did you drive here?" Hud asked.

She thought for a moment, then shook her head no, then yes. She didn't want to admit she'd forgotten where she parked.

"Your truck's over there." He pointed across the street. "Let me drive you home. I walked here."

"How'd . . . ?"

"Saw it at Benni's ranch." She handed him her keys and carefully climbed into the pa.s.senger seat. Though a part of her wanted to protest his blatant taking over, insist she could make it home on her own, she also felt relieved that someone was taking control. The man back in the bar said this Hud was good people. Whatever that meant. Hud could be a serial killer for all she knew. She settled back into the seat. Right now, she couldn't care less.

When they pulled up in front of her house, she began to grow anxious. She pressed her elbow to her side, feeling for her gun in her jacket pocket.

"It's still there," Hud said, amicably. "Though I probably should have taken it from you."