The Third Circle
Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Barely a second later they peeked around the tree, which was smaller again, and saw Danny's pickup parked in front of the house. He was sitting on the running board, smoking. John knelt down and, with his hands, dug up the clothes and money for the second time. They dressed and walked toward the house. John picked up the shovel on the way and tossed it in the barn as they passed.
"Hey, Danny," he called as they approached.
"There you are," said Danny, getting up. "Where'd you go, anyway? I been sitting here half the day."
"Sorry," said John. "We were just checking out the terrain. Come on in the house. Let's talk."
In the kitchen, Claire shook out a towel and wiped an inch of dust from a rickety table and from three chairs, and they sat down. "Okay," said John. "Claire and I would like to make you a business proposition."
"You got my attention."
"Okay," John continued, "how much is the mortgage on this place?"
"Forty-five hundred."
"You can get it back for that?"
"Yep."
"And how much do you have?"
"Just under two thousand."
"All right. We'll give you twenty-five hundred in cash, and another two thousand to fix it up and get your family back here, if that's what they want to do. But you have to do what we tell you to do."
"That's the part I want to hear." Danny smiled suspiciously.
"Oil. We'll show you on a map where to dig. We're going to form a corporation, the three of us, and you're going to run it."
"I don't know nothing about oil."
"You don't need to. You can hire people to do all the work. We'll buy up some of the other foreclosed farms in this valley. Claire and I are going on to New York, but we'll send you all the money you need. We'll leave you with instructions about other property to buy down toward town. Investment real estate."
"And," Claire smiled, "you can rodeo too, if you want."
John said, "I'm going to tell you, Danny, we've checked it out, and this land is never going to be farm land again. Those days are gone. But there is still money to be made here. Are you up for it?"
Danny broke into a smile. "Well," he said, "I guess I am."
On the drive back to Amarillo, Claire sat on the window side of the truck and wrote down things she remembered from her map and newspaper notes of twenty years later. The somberness that had dominated Danny since they had first met him had vanished. He was animated, sparkling, and funny as he told stories that came to him as they passed the landmarks of his youth. He took them to their hotel, and they made arrangements to meet him there for breakfast again on Monday morning.
"Hey," Danny said as Claire and John were getting out of the truck. "You guys coming to the Rodeo tomorrow? See me ride?"
Claire looked at John. "Sure," she smiled. "We'll be there."
"Meet me at the loading chutes north of the arena entrance at noon. I'll get you a good seat."
"See you there," John said.
They got out of the truck, and Danny drove away.
When they got back in their room, John said, "I think we better take care of our i.d. problem. We need a bank account. I wish we had done it back home when we first got here."
"Plus, that prize fight is tomorrow night?"
"Yes."
"I wonder if Amarillo has an 'Angelo.'"
"Do you feel okay about this? About Danny?"
"Oh, Danny's fine," said Claire. "The oil business feels dirty, though, compared to betting on horses."
"Well, we'll be investing in lots of different businesses. All those oil wells are going to be drilled anyway, whether we do it or someone else."
"Oh, see, there it is, though. Rationalizing all of that pollution and corruption that the oil business is going to produce: 'Someone has to do it, so why not us?' I wish you hadn't said that."
"But it's true. This is just one tiny corner of the Texas oil business up here. Most of it's to the south of us and over on the coast, and it's up and running already. This is just one little untapped corner."
"I see. So, you're saying that most of the oil that will be used to make fuel for the Vietnam War, for example -- napalm and so on -- is to the south of us. We won't be involved."
"Claire, I thought we agreed ... "
"Oh, we did," she said, coming over to him. "I'm sorry." They embraced "It's just that it feels dirty, that's all. And nothing we have ever done together ever felt dirty."
"Shall we call it off? Give him the money, and just go on to New York?"
"That doesn't feel right either."
"Look," said John. "We need Danny, or someone like him, and this corporation, or something like it, to handle any long range investments we want to make. I mean, if we want to make some serious money, like you said. We don't want to sit around here and wait for land prices to go up, stocks to rise, trade agreements to get negotiated so exports will rise. We need a holding company or something that will wait patiently for all of that while we're off having fun in other times, other places. This seems like the perfect opportunity for that. If you don't want to do this, it's okay. We can go search for another 'Danny' and another business.
"Maybe," she said, not paying much attention to him, "just maybe the oil business won't be as corrupt and polluting if we are involved. That's the other way to look at it. We're creating a new reality, right? Changing history?"
"Right," smiled John.
"And, you know what, perhaps that's what that man doesn't want us to do."
"The man in the club car?"
"Our fellow time traveler. You know, when we transported out on Danny's farm, that moment of blackness felt just like that dark place I went on the train. It felt like that's where I was stuck."
"Trapped between times," John said.
"Or out of time," she said. "Out of ... everything."
"So, he is some force working against us, keeping us from doing what we want to do."
"Maybe he's defending what the Genie called the 'web.' The mosaic. The way things would be if we weren't here. Sort of a dark servant of destiny or something." She sat down.
"'Dark Servant of Destiny.' I think that's what they called Rasputin, wasn't it?"
"Really? In have no idea. It just came to me. Who was Rasputin? I forget."
"Some Russian monk. He had divine visions. I forget, too. Anyway, in a sense, we aren't going against destiny. With Danny and the oil. We're just participating in the inevitable, aren't we?"
"That's true. I was thinking about that, in fact. Maybe it's not about parallel realities, or about changing history either. Maybe our coming back here is a part of our natural destiny, and Danny's, and Rudy's, and so on. It's not an imposition, a change; it's a ... fulfillment."
"That's a trip. No coincidences. No accidents. So, the staring man -- his being here is part of that destiny, too. So, there's nothing to be afraid of!"
"Hm. Maybe."
"You know what? I'm hungry. Let's check out Amarillo."
"We just spent two days doing that," she smiled. "In 1966. I'd as soon wait till morning. I'm exhausted. Let's see if this place has room service instead. You mind?"
"No, that's fine with me."
"I want to take a shower, try and get rid of some of this dust, and then have you read me more about Francesca and Tampica."
"Tampico."
"Whatever."
"You're a little snippy."
"So are you."
"I'm sorry. I think I'm just really tired."
She got up and came over and put her arms around him. "I know. Me, too. I'm sorry. I love you so much."
"I love you, too, Darling."
They kissed, and then took a long shower together. Claire called room service for sandwiches while John dried her back, and they got into bed with Incredible Tales of Escape.
"Where were we?" asked John, turning pages.
"Raphael had become the darkness," said Claire, giving a little shudder.
"Hm," said John. "Here it is." He read: "No family was coming. No baby. No children had ever lived in this house. Only she, Francesca, and the vieja, locked away, and Raphael's army, and Raphael, now become the darkness.
"'Darling?' He spoke."
"Who spoke?" asked Claire.
"Raphael," said John, and continued reading:
She decided not to answer. Why was he standing in darkness?"I am afraid the power is out," he said. "Were you frightened?"
Power is out, she repeated to herself.
He approached her, placed his hands on her shoulders. She trembled. Who was this man?
It's Raphael, your husband, a voice whispered.
She slipped from him and walked to the window to see if the rain had stopped downstairs as well. For a moment, she felt that perhaps she had just imagined that it had stopped. She drew the curtain aside from the window of his study and looked out, over the terrace to the sea. It was true. The rain had stopped. The clouds were breaking, letting the full moonlight bathe the sea. The black water looked strangely calm, for the wind had stopped as well. There was the boat house, there at the end of the pier, by the rocks. She studied it. She could leave from there.
"Darling," Raphael said again. He had come up from behind, his arms encircling her waist. "My poor Darling."
His touch was cold. Her eyes left the boat house and explored the expanse of sandy, moonlit beach to the south, and the dark sea beyond, looking for some sign. It was so quiet. There was nothing there at all.
"May I fix you some tea?" Raphael asked.
"Yes," she whispered, turning in his arms.
He kissed her forehead gently, and then walked through the moonlit room toward the kitchen. She struck a match to light a cigarette, but instead stood in the momentary glow it cast over Raphael's desk. There were papers there. Important papers, surely. There was nothing trivial about Raphael. He carried his importance all around him like an armor. The match burned Francesca's fingers, and she shook it out and dropped it on the floor and lit another for her cigarette.
Raphael returned, surrounded by light. He was bringing not tea but candles, one in each hand.
"Here's some light," he said. He set one candle on the desk, and another on the tea table by the davenport. The candles were white. Francesca could smell the wax. She stared, captivated, first at one and then at the other. Raphael was gone again.
There was noise somewhere below the house. Door hinges, and a banging. Francesca returned to the window, held the curtain aside, and looked out. She grew apprehensive. Perhaps the vieja had slipped out and was rummaging about in the cellar. Francesca often imagined that the old woman roamed at night.
There was a knock on the door. John stopped reading. Claire had fallen asleep.
"Room service," a voice called through the door.
John pulled on his pants and took the sandwiches at the door. He set the tray beside the bed. Claire didn't stir. She snored softly. John ate one of the sandwiches and drank some coffee.
He wasn't sleepy. He paced, looked out the window. He felt oddly restless. He decided to go out and see if he could find a gambling connection. There was a big heavyweight fight the next night. It was going to be a big upset. Money to be made. He wrote Claire a note, grabbed his room key, and took the elevator to the lobby.
John got off the elevator and crossed the lobby. He saw the staring man when he was halfway to the door. The man wore the same suit he had worn on the train, and was sitting in a chair by the window, reading a newspaper. John froze. The man slowly shifted his gaze from the paper to John. The face around the eyes was dispassionate, neutral, but the eyes were harsh and lightless. John's heart was pounding. He tried to force himself to look away, but he couldn't. He began to feel the darkness of the eyes bridge the space between them, penetrate him, engulf him. His center began to slip. He rallied all of his strength to turn away from the gaze, but he felt frozen.
Claire had been right. The darkness that began to flow over John now was the same darkness that he had experienced during time transport. He felt his cells shifting. He was beginning to lose consciousness. A frantic, fearful voice inside him screamed to look away, to let go of the eyes across the room, to run! But it was as though a powerful electromagnetic field lay between his eyes and the lightless ones across the lobby. He couldn't look away, no matter how hard he willed it.
"How do we be strong?" Came a whispered voice. It was his own voice, but the words sounded as though they were coming from someone else in the lobby.
Then, some center inside of him shifted. He grew calm. He felt himself stepping toward the darkness, stepping toward the man.
The moment he did, some quality of the darkness began to lift. He took another step, and another. He held the man's gaze, and walked toward him. The expression around the staring eyes transformed from indifference to a sort of amused puzzlement. John felt the weight of the blood in his hands, felt the hair tingle on his arms, felt a mild, pleasant tremor in his loins. His pace quickened, lightened.
And then, before his eyes, the man was gone.
John stood in front of the empty chair, caressing his palms with his fingertips, rocking gently on the balls of his feet. He turned slowly and scanned the lobby. A small party sat drinking and chatting quietly around a coffee table. Three men in dressy Western garb came in from the cocktail lounge, laughing. A woman in a lavender satin evening dress was on the pay phone. A couple stood in line at the registration desk behind a cowboy who carried a black saddle trimmed in silver. At a lavishly decorated table, members of the Amarillo Kiwanis Club were selling lottery tickets to win a Shetland pony, which actually stood roped and saddled on a pedestal behind them. John took a deep breath and crossed to the ornate double doors leading to the street, and stepped out into the warm night.
He walked for blocks. He felt somehow filled with a new confidence. He felt very quiet inside. Some great victory had been won. He felt more present, more alive. He let his senses float free, alert to everything: smells, sounds, lights, people that he passed, the way his muscles interconnected, the rhythm of his feet on the pavement. It was 1946! He was walking through 1946! What a windfall! He began to chuckle. It was as though their being here so far had been a dream, and now he was awake, and he was still here. It wasn't a dream. It was real. He could feel its reality beneath his feet, solid as the sidewalk.
A cab cruised by, and he flagged it down.
"Evening," John said to the driver, climbing in the back seat. "I'm new in town. Looking for some action on the fight tomorrow night. Any suggestions?"
"Sure," the cabby said. "The Silver Dollar always has a lot of action. Real close by."
"Let's go," said John.
"Who do you like?" the cabby asked as he pulled out.
"Younger," said John.
"Kind of like him myself," the cabby said. "Remember when he k.o.'d old Joe Lichen in the third?"
"Yep," John said, grinning. Somehow he couldn't stop grinning.
"Well, all them so-called experts say he's washed up. Me? I think he's on the comeback trail. I'm with you, buddy. Hey. Where you from?"
John leaned forward and rested his arms on the front seat. "Ever hear of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho?"
"Can't say I have."
"Potato country. Best russets in the world."
"Is that right?"
"Yep."
"I've had folks in this cab tonight from everywhere -- Calgary, Missoula, Cheyenne, Klamath Falls, Reno, Kansas City. You in town for the Rodeo?"
"Yep."
Here it is." The cabby pulled over in front of a brightly lit bar. "I told you it was close by."
The meter read eighty cents. John gave the cabby a ten dollar bill. "Have a good night," he said. He got out and closed the door and rapped on the roof of the cab and walked into the Silver Dollar.
The garish, smoke-filled, western bar was busy. A young cowboy with a five piece band on a raised platform was doing a respectable job of sounding like Tex Ritter. John had had a love affair once with country music, had even sung in a little band for awhile. He knew all the old songs. The small dance floor at the Silver Dollar was packed. John made his way to the bar. A short, stout, redheaded woman behind it came up to him and ran a towel over the shiny walnut surface in front of him. "What'll it be?"
"I was told I could get some action here on the fight tomorrow night," John smiled.
"You got to talk to George." She pointed to a weathered man sitting at the end of the bar. "Hey, George!" she called. The man looked up, and she nodded toward John.
"Wanna drink?" she asked.
"Later, thanks," John said. He walked to the end of the bar and sat on a stool next to George. "John Cameron," he said, extending his hand.
"Howdy. Name's George. George Bohlinger."
"Nice to meet you," John smiled. "You taking bets on the fight tomorrow night?"
"Nine to five on Kabrowsky," said George.
"I'd like to bet ten thousand on Younger." John said.
George whistled. "Hey, Rita," he called to the woman behind the bar. "Gimme that box."
Rita took a tin box from beneath the bar and handed it to George. "Gotta see if I got that much in," he said to John. He opened the box and took out a black ledger and thumbed through it. "Hmm. Can't quite cover that. Lemme make a phone call or two. I'll be right back."
George disappeared through a door behind the bar, and John turned to watch the band. The kid had a good voice, good style. Now he was sounding like T. Texas Tyler. "Remember me, when the candle light's a'gleaming." John started to think of all the hit western songs to come whose lyrics and chords he could jot down for the kid who was singing. It was a rich fantasy. Set up a partnership with the kid. Feed all of the royalties into the oil corporation. Hank Williams and Fred Rose and Willie Nelson could eat their hearts out. He chuckled softly for a moment, but then the thought became depressing. What kind of thievery would that be? he thought. His fear of intruding started to come back, but then it was quickly overshadowed by some new sense of freedom that he felt from the victory over the staring man.
George came back and sat down. "Yeah, I can cover that," he said. "You got the cash?"
"I do," said John, taking an envelope out of his jacket pocket.
"Hey, Rita," said George. "Come over here and witness this."
Rita watched as John counted out the money. George gave him the ledger and showed him where to write his name and address. He wrote 'John Cameron, Hotel Charlotte, Amarillo, Texas.'
"Now, how about that drink?" said Rita. "On the house."
"Thanks," said John. "I'll take a rain check." He got up and shook hands with George and left the bar, walking the six blocks back to the hotel.
Claire was still sleeping. She had only partially covered herself with a sheet. Even though the windows were open and there was a mild breeze, it was still very warm. John undressed and slipped in beside her. She rolled over toward him, murmured something unintelligible, and patted his forehead. He closed his eyes, and within seconds fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Hours
later, Claire awoke, kissed him, and pulled a blanket over them.
Claire kissed John awake. She was already dressed, sitting beside him. She gave him a cup of room service coffee. "Boy, did you sleep in!" she said. "It's after ten o'clock."
"Wow, what a night," he said, sitting up.
"Did you get to bet on the fight? I saw your note."
"I did. Nice bet. Ten thousand dollars. Nine to five odds."
"Great!"
"And I ran into our friend in the lobby as I was leaving."
"Who? Oh, no!" Claire said with alarm. "What happened?"
"I made him disappear."
"What? How did you do that?"
"Well, he was sitting in a corner. I was trying to look away from him, get away from his energy. I could feel the darkness come. Then, somehow, I did the opposite and started moving toward him. I stopped fighting it. I just started walking toward him. He look puzzled, and then he was gone."
"Wow!"
"It felt very good. I got ... really strong."
"You are strong." She kissed him. "So, do you think this means he's going to leave us alone now?"
"I'd like to think so, but somehow I have a feeling that he has more tricks in his bag than just staring people into darkness."
"I sure would like to know what he wants."
"Me, too."
John
showered and dressed, and they went downstairs and got a cab,
skipping breakfast.
The cab dropped them at the entrance gate of the Fairgrounds, and they bought some hot dogs and coffee and made their way through a medley of livestock, beer bottles, dust, and cowboys. The rodeo atmosphere was like a circus, mixed with a carnival, a fair, and a livestock auction. Danny was waiting for them at the side of the arena at the loading chutes, and he led them through a maze of corrals back to the starting gates. He introduced them to Barton Childress, the friend he was staying with, and to Barton's wife, Virginia. They all stood in the bed of Danny's pickup next to the gates and watched cowboy after cowboy test their agility on the backs of angry black Brahma bulls that were led into the gates from an adjoining corral. The bronc riding event was next, and when it came Danny's turn, Claire and John walked with him to the starting chute and watched through the fence rails as two cowboys led a big roan into the chute and cinched the strap.
Danny eased down on top of the huge animal and got a firm grip on the leather thong on the strap girding the horse, and then they opened the gate. The horse leapt out into the arena, then went straight up in the air, snorting, spinning, and heaving.
"The poor horses," Claire whispered as Danny hung on for seven or eight seconds, then lost his grip and went flying through the air, tucking his shoulder when he landed. He picked himself up and limped back to the fence, dejected but smiling.
"Well, that was a tough old gal," he said sheepishly to Claire and John, climbing the fence where they stood clapping.
"Yep, she was that," said John. "You did good."
"Luck of the draw sometimes," Danny said, kneading his shoulder. "I'm glad you guys came. Wish I could have shown better."
"You showed fine," said Claire. "So did the horse."
Claire and John stayed to watch a few minutes more, and then, not caring for crowds, they left, saying they would see Danny at the hotel in the morning.
They found a taxi at the arena entrance, and asked the driver to give them a tour of the town. Claire took some notes on sites for development, matching them with memories of 1966, and then they went to a matinee at a theater near the hotel and watched Dick Powell as a Canadian pilot in a movie called Cornered. Then they had a prime rib buffet dinner at a restaurant called the Chuck Wagon. They got back to the hotel around seven and turned on the radio and listened to the "Jack Benny Show", "Twenty Questions," and "Edgar Bergen and Charley McCarthy."
"You seem different today," Claire said after they turned off the radio and climbed into bed. "More relaxed."
"I am. I feel wonderful. Something happened last night. I just feel more myself somehow. More like this is okay, being here."
Claire smiled and took his hand. "I'm glad," she said. "I feel good, too."
"You fell asleep last night when I was reading. Want to hear some more?"
"Sure."
John got the magazine. "What's the last part you remember?"
"Raphael has just brought candles."
"Right."
John said. He found the place in the story and read:
"Here's some light." Raphael set one candle upon the desk, and another on the tea table by the davenport. The candles were white. Francesca could smell the wax. She stared, captivated, first at one and then at the other. Raphael was gone again.
There was noise somewhere below the house. Door hinges, and a banging. Francesca returned to the window, held the curtain aside, and looked out. She grew apprehensive. Perhaps the vieja had slipped out and was rummaging about in the cellar. Francesca often imagined that the old woman roamed at night.But it was only Rodriguez, for there he was, emerging on the courtyard from the corner of the house with a flashlight. He stopped for a moment, looking out toward the boat house, standing as though entranced. Suddenly he turned and looked directly up at the window where Francesca stood. She instinctively dropped the curtain and stepped back. But it was too late. She could tell that he had seen her staring at him. She peeked through the curtain. He turned again and continued on around the house, toward the service entrance on the other side, near the kitchen. He would be reporting to Raphael. Telling him everything.
"Francesca?"
She moved the curtain back again and stared out at the boat house. Now was the time. She dropped her cigarette in an ash tray beside the candle on the tea table and slipped from the study, through the parlor, into the foyer, and to the front door. She stopped there. The key. She didn't have the key. She tiptoed back through the darkness toward Raphael's study, hearing muffled voices from the kitchen: Rodriguez making his report. She had been right about that. She was right about so many things.
She hurried to Raphael's desk. The key was in the side drawer, near the back, where he had hidden it beneath the tide chart. It was on a silver ring. He didn't think she knew, but she knew a great many things that he thought were secrets. Like the money he kept in this drawer, the alligator wallet filled with currency. She took that and the key and dropped them into the pocket of her robe and returned to the front door. She quietly opened it and stepped outside.
It was warm and sultry and still. The storm had left a lavish smell behind. Francesca kept to the moonlight shadows, skirting the verandah, getting wet from the shrubs she brushed against. When she got to the edge of the beach, she stopped and knelt and looked back at the house. She would be in the open now, crossing the sand and then over the rocks to the steps leading to the pier, and out along the pier to the boat house. She fixed her gaze upon the window of Raphael's study where she had stood moments before. She could see the candlelight. Suddenly there was movement. Someone was there, in the window, a silhouette.
It was the vieja!
Marie turned and ran like the wind in her red slippers. She raced across the sand, bounded up the steps to the pier, and sped over the rough hewn planks out to the boat house, never once looking back. When she reached the large wooden structure at the end of the pier, she backed into its shadows, gasping for breath, only then glancing furtively back the way she had come. She expected to see Raphael and Gregorio running to stop her. At the least she expected to see the vieja at the window, pointing out at her, screaming, "There she is! There she goes!"
But there was no movement in the path she had traveled from the house. All hung in moonlit silence. She could see the window of the study from here, but it was too far away to tell if anyone stood behind it. Still, she froze there, waiting.
At last, her breathing returned to normal. She took the key from her pocket and unlocked the door to the boat house and slipped inside, closing and bolting it behind her. It was pitch black. She felt for the light switch and turned it, and nothing happened. She had forgotten that the power was out. She could hear the boats creaking, a soft lapping of waves at their hulls. She could smell them, a combination of oil, gasoline, lacquer, leather, and wet rope.
She felt her way along the dock, clinging to the roughhewn interior boat house wall, until she came to the front of the building. She found the latch that opened the door to the sea. As it swung out, moonlight filled the wooden structure.
Loops of heavy rope held the Brown Pelican to iron rings on the dock. She pulled them off and tossed them into the boat, then climbed on board. She knew how to do this. She checked the bilge for gas, turned on the battery system, and pressed the starter button in the mahogany panel. The big engine instantly rolled into a smooth idle. With the lights still off, Francesca gently drew on the throttle and slipped quietly out of the boat house and into the dark waters.
John closed the magazine, yawning.
"Wow," said Claire. "Away she goes. That's not the end, is it?"
"Concluded next month," he said. "It's a serial."
"You're kidding!"
"Nope."
"Shit."
"Well, get one of our watches, and we'll zip ahead a month and find a news stand and see what happens next."
She laughed and rolled over in his arms. "I can wait," she said. "So, she's nuts or she's not, right?"
"Right," John whispered, stroking her hair.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you, too. Goodnight, Darling."
"Goodnight."
He rolled over and turned out the light.