Chapter 11
As Jill passed under the big Rafter D gates, she saw the column of smoke climbing twisted and scary to the sky, boiling up black and fiery.
"The barn!" she yelled, and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The car lurched ahead, slamming over bumps and bouncing hard into potholes, but she didn't care about anything except the burning barn.
Skidding the Buick to a dusty stop by the corrals, Jill leaped out and ran for the blazing barn. They caught her arms and held her back. "Mrs. Devlin-can't do no more-it's gone!"
"Comet!" she cried, "Oh, god, Comet D and the horses!"
One of the men was Sam Starr, and he shook her. "They're clear; back on off with us now. We got to help wet down the house, else a spark might set it, too. Come on, woman!"
They led her stumbling to the pumphouse, and had her unreeling hose to keep her busy at something. Jill stared back at the barn and saw the high tin roof crumble and slide sideways into the maw of the leaping flames. Sparks sprayed the sky, angry red and swirling everywhere through the geysering smoke. The corrals were going, too-at least those close to the barn-their white posts and rails turning black before they burst into fire.
She looked across at the near pasture, and saw Comet D standing back under some scrub oaks, his head high and snorty, his ears pointing at the blaze, his mares skittering behind him. The horses were safe, but she didn't see the cows; they hadn't been at the barn, she thought; they should be all right, too.
Stunned, not yet believing her senses, Jill walked robotlike to where the two old men were playing hoses on the roof of the house.
"Wind's changin'!" Dink Watson shouted. "We're gettin' lucky."
Sam Starr lay down his hose and came to her. "Sure sorry, ma'am. Me and Dink was in my camper when it started, right there ahind the barn. Thought I heard some shots-three of 'em maybe, comin' from the direction of the house, but we got so busy at the barn, I didn't check it out."
Dink yelled, "Neighbors comin'!"
Trucks rumbled up and disgorged men and women alike; nobody wasted time, but hurried around the barn to stand by with shovels in case the fire tried to spread to the brush. They came to help, without being called; somebody had seen the smoke and phoned others, and they came to help. Ranchers expected no less from their neighbors, and gave no less.
Jill couldn't get untracked; she said yes to this one and no to that one, and went to make coffee when the flames were dying. In the kitchen, she stopped just past the door, and reeled from another shock. The kitchen was piled with scattered pot and pans, and cans had been emptied, flour and beans and sugar scattered haphazardly over the floor. There'd be no coffee now; black grains were dumped on the table and had spilled off.
Back outside, she stood close to Dink and Sam Starr, not saying anything to them, just seeking the comfort of their nearness. Steve, she thought, and wished he was here with them. It would take time for him to hear it in town, and more time for him to drive home.
The barn burned, and all that stored hay lost; the tack-a thousand dollars or more worth of saddles and bridles and halters, gone; tools and grain, feed and things they wouldn't even know were missing until they needed them. Oh, lord, Jill thought, oh, lord; it had not been an accident, either. Someone had deliberately set it, and somebody had torn up her kitchen.
Searching for those nonexistent pictures, she thought, and that could also be why the barn was burned, too. She'd lied and said that Dink Watson took the Polaroid photos; everyone around here knew that Dink slept in the barn with his meager possessions. Maybe they'd tried to kill Dink, too, just to be certain.
She'd gotten herself in deep; she was drawn into something that it was possibly beyond her power to stop. One lie leads to another, and violence only begets violence, and if she and Steve didn't get rid of the Rafter D, they might not be around very long. If Boyce Pittman had done this, if Aaron Mercer had done it, the reason no longer mattered. Jill had to get them out of the mess, any way she could.
Sam Starr was talking to her, and she brought his words into focus. "The cows got spooked by the fire and lit a shuck for the woods. Them horses ain't that smart; they want to hang around and see can they get burnt, too. I reckon me and Dink will circle around and try to pick up some tracks, boots tracks, that is. My guess is the fella that set the fire done it from the house, some way, but we'll see if we can cut a trail in the pasture, in case. Best you get in the house and set down, ma'am; you look peaked."
The living room had been ripped apart; the bedrooms were torn up, drawers pulled out and the contents tumbled about; pictures off the walls and their backs ripped free; rugs turned back, even the top flung off the toilet tank.
Boyce; it had to be Boyce, or somebody working for him. Aaron had no interest in the pictures; he didn't even know of them. Jill stood in the wreckage of her home and thought that Boyce might have told the other man. There was so much she didn't know, and couldn't puzzle out, because she didn't have the strength or courage left for fighting. She would give it up, sell out to Mercer or Boyce or their secret cartel, any way they wanted. If only Steve would agree, they could get away and be safe.
She began to pick up things, to stir among dresses and shoes, to pile stuff on the bed and to work at pushing the drawers back into dressers, and setting chairs upright. Jill wanted to be sick, but her throat was too dry, closed too tightly, and the nausea remained trapped in her body.
The phone rang; she let it ring several times before moving sluggishly to answer it. She didn't want to chat; she didn't want sympathy and commiseration from neighbors who hadn't come to the fire.
"Mrs. Devlin; are you alone?"
"Y-yes," she said through the smoked cotton in her throat.
"I sent word for you to call, but you didn't."
"I had a fire here," she said. "Someone burned my barn and ripped apart my house. I was too busy to call you, Mr. Mercer; I was just too goddamned busy."
He hesitated only a second, and when he answered, Jill couldn't read anything in his voice. "That sounds bad. Where's your husband?"
She started to say where she'd last seen Steve, but didn't. "In town somewhere; I don't know."
"Maybe you'd better come in and see me, as soon as you get straightened out there. Tonight, Jill."
"Tonight? Don't you understand what I just said? We've had severe losses-I have to see insurance people, the fire chief, the sheriff. My husband doesn't even know about this yet; there's stock to round up and horses to separate, to calm down. We have to find hay and feed, and-"
"Tonight," Aaron repeated firmly. "You be here, Jill."
She stared at the phone and heard the buzzing on the line. He'd hung up after giving his orders. No threat, no promise-just a directive that meant she'd damned well better show up, or else. Had Aaron been surprised when she told him about the fire? Was he ever surprised about anything?
To keep from worrying any more, she threw herself into the cleanup, sweating and tugging at furniture, piling and sorting and gathering until she was tired. Dark caught her resting at the kitchen table, with a pot of stew on the stove and drinking her second cup of coffee spiked with whiskey.
They came in more weary than she, because they were older and had done harder physical work. In silence, they ate stew and drank coffee, and when Sam Starr leaned back to smoke his Bull Durham, he said, "That was good, ma'am; sticks to a man's ribs. Me and Dink found them cows, but thought we might's well leave 'em in the woods, seein' the hay's gone. Figure they'll come to silage afore long. The horses now, they can make do on graze, until we can get some feed in town tomorrow. And like we thought, we didn't cut no trail out there. The fella stood out past the corner of the house here and shot at the barn with them tracer bullets they used in the war. They worked good; set the hay afire after passin' through the wall."
Dink Watson said, holding out his hand, "Here's the cartridge casings. Bigger'n a thirty-thirty, but only a mite. One of them military type rifles, I'd say."
Jill wouldn't reach out her own hand; she stared at the brass casings as if they were small and glittering snakes. "You'd better hang onto them, Dink; the fire marshall will probably want to see, and the sheriff, too. I'll tell them all about it, tomorrow. And boys-I really appreciate all you've done. If it hadn't been for you two, we'd have probably lost it all."
They looked away, embarrassed at praise, and Sam Starr said, "No thanks due, ma'am. We'll keep a close watch, from here on. Dink can bunk in my' camper with me; I'll put it on the jacks so we can use my truck."
Jill nodded tiredly, and propped her head on one hand. They scuffed back from the table and mumbled thank-yous, and she was alone again. No Steve to lean on, nobody to help fight off the threat that grew more real and more dangerous as the hours passed. Gathering the dishes, she put them in the sink and left them there. Aaron Mercer said come to town, and she didn't dare defy him.
But she didn't change, didn't shower or pretty herself. Smudged and sweaty as she was, he'd have to accept it; she was too damned beat for anything else. Leaving lights on in the house, she went out to the Buick again, turned it around and headed back to town.
She put the car beside its twin, and knocked on Aaron's door. When Jojo opened it, Jill went on inside without another glance at the man. Lang wasn't in sight, and when Aaron didn't show right away, she poured herself a big drink at the door. She was in the process of downing it when Aaron came from the bedroom, impeccable as always in grays, and his focal point of color a pink scarf.
"So glad you came, Jill."
"Yeah," she said, "me, too."
He didn't touch her; he lifted one supercilious eyebrow and looked over her disheveled condition. "But you're actually grimy."
Jill finished her drink. "To which you may add sooty, sweaty and damned tired."
Aaron said to Jojo, "Draw a bath; make it good and hot."
Jill reached for the bottle again. "I'm not interested in a bath, or in sex, or anything else but somehow getting myself out of this mess. If that doesn't suit you just now, I'm not even sorry, Aaron."
His smile was narrow and not reflected in his eyes. "You'll feel better after you've soaked awhile. Go on, have another drink; it will help you relax."
She took her drink to the sofa and sat down. Here was where she'd been introduced to oral sex, where this man had gone down on her and eaten her with a dedicated, practiced style. This was also where she had known the feel of a massive penis being fed strongly into her vagina. Jill realized that she would never think of Aaron Mercer without seeing his penis, that she could never be near him without being sexy.
Aaron knew that, too; she could see the knowledge in his eyes. He said, "I really don't care to see a woman mussed, especially a woman of your sensuous beauty, Jill. You must take better care of yourself."
"Did you order me here to tell me that?" Defiantly, Jill gulped her drink.
Jojo came from the bath. "Water's ready, Mr. Mercer."
"Thank you, Jojo. My dear-"
"Horseshit!" Jill said sharply. "No bath, no screwing around, none of that goddamned-"
"Jojo," Aaron said, and the big man scooped Jill off the couch before she could realize he was coming. She squirmed, but he squeezed and she couldn't breathe, couldn't move; she just hung limply against him, cradled in those apelike arms. There was an animal odor about Jojo, a scent that drove a sharp claw of atavistic fear into Jill, and she didn't try to resist any longer.
He put her down in the bathroom and said, "Undress."
Hands shaking, she pulled off shirt and jeans, and waited for him to leave the room. He didn't; Jojo stood hulking at the door, his beaten face without expression, his shiny flint eyes intent upon her. Jill got out of bra and panties, and stepped into the tub. The water was just a bit hot, but she didn't complain; she lowered her naked body into it.
Aaron said from the doorway, "You may soap and rinse her, Jojo. Play with her, if you like, and bring her to me dry."
"Aaron!" Jill called out, but he was already gone, and she heard him turn on the stereo in the next room. She was alone with Jojo.
She trembled when he touched her, and closed her eyes to sit like a lifeless doll as he splashed water over her breasts and belly, then began to soap her upper body with his huge and hairy hands. Jill had never been so terrified in all her life. It was like being handled by an ape, and she didn't dare even gasp too loudly, for fear that he'd snap her neck or tear off one of her breasts.
Jojo's fingers moved over her breasts, and dallied with her nipples, slippery and sudsy, and her trembling increased until she was shaking all over with a chill. He rubbed her belly and her back, and grunted, "Hands and knees."
Splashing, she scrambled to obey him, and propped herself as he said, her knees and lower legs under water, her hands braced against the bottom of the bathtub. Jill's tits dangled and her belly flinched when Jojo started to soap her buttocks and her upper thighs. She kept her eyes closed tightly, but she couldn't control the tremors that ran over her body in quick little waves.
His thick, blunt fingers felt between her thighs, poked and prodded into her mound, fondling, cupping, skidding wetly along her labia. He pushed into her anus and spent a lot of time making bubbles in the cleft between her cheeks. But finally, blessedly, Jojo was done with the soaping.
"Lie down on your back," he told her.
She rolled to her side and onto her shoulder blades, her bent knees stuck up. His hands dipped into the water and ran over her body, up and down and around. Jill opened her eyes and saw his thick, muscular forearms moving back and forth in the sudsy water, saw the fur wet upon them.
"Get up," he said. "Get outa' the tub."
Stiffly, mechanically, Jill stepped out upon the bathmat. Jojo went over her body again, this time with a soft and fluffy towel, rubbing her skin until it was tender and glowing.
"Okay. Go on out."
It was like walking to a sacrificial altar, she thought, like approaching the high priest upon some towering pyramid, knowing that the obsidian knife waited in his hand, knowing that a priestess died just as painfully as any commoner.
In ceremonial grays, the pink of blood splashed at his throat, Aaron Mercer turned from the bar. "Much better-aah, yes; much better. You've regained your bright, scrubbed look, my dear.
There are inner lights in your skin; delightful. Did Jojo lose his head and squeeze you anywhere? It's not often he's allowed to play with girls; he likes to break them."
Naked, afraid, Jill shook her head, and when she could get her throat to work again, said, "Aaron, please? What do you want from me?"
He handed her a drink. "You're being more cooperative, too. Jojo has that effect upon women. I just want you to imagine what he's like, if I didn't tell him what not to do."
"P-please," she said.
"Find your husband; take him home; then both of you come to my room and I'll have the papers for you to sign. That's tomorrow, my dear. For now, you can well imagine what I want from you. I want to fuck you, Jill, and I'm going to. What's more, you'll respond as usual."