30 THE SERPENT’S COURTSHIP

30

THE SERPENT'S COURTSHIP

Thursday morning, the day after Nash Deacon left his toothbrush and roses and a photo of Belden Bead, Vida removes the two-by-fours that brace the front and back doors. She undoes the four steel-strap brackets and drops them in a Ziploc bag with the eight screws. She fills the holes. Tomorrow, she'll sand the fill and shellac it to match the wood. On further consideration, she has decided that barricades aren't the way to deal with him.

At eleven o'clock, when she departs on a task that will give her an option she hopes not to use, she locks the deadbolts against all intruders other than the deputy who calls himself her suitor.

She has a busy day.

As six o'clock approaches, the kitchen table is set for dinner. No flowers. No candles. No tablecloth. Two plain white plates on the red Formica. Beside each plate is a paper napkin on which lies only a dinner knife, no fork or spoon.

He wants to mock and diminish her, as well as unnerve her, with a charade of romance. If she understands Nash Deacon—and she does—he'll bring a bottle of wine. Beside the plates, she has placed not glass stemware, but instead disposable plastic picnic cups.

Her two dresses remain on hangers. She wears hiking shoes, a pair of roomy Levi's that are comfortable when she works the placer mine, and an untucked plaid-flannel shirt.

A few minutes before six o'clock, the mountain quiet is broken by the rumble of the Pontiac Trans Am's powerful engine. It draws nearer, so near that the sound vibrates the kitchen window glass. A sudden silence lasts until a car door slams shut.

She has left the front door open. She will not go forward to greet him.

He hesitates on the porch. Then the door closes behind him and footfalls sound in the hall. Whatever he imagines she did to Belden Bead, Deacon seems unafraid of her. Of course he has disarmed her.

When he appears in the open archway, he's wearing dressier boots than before, pressed jeans instead of uniform khakis, a blue-and-black-checkered shirt, and a different cowboy hat than the one he wore previously, black and of a better quality. He's carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a small gift-wrapped box in the other.

He's had time to think about the role he wants to play, and he is more relaxed than on his first visit. When he sees how she is dressed, he grins broadly and shakes his head. "You're a piece of work, sweet thing. This is just about what I expected."

Vida says nothing.

Entering the kitchen, he surveys the table setting and shakes his head again. He puts down the wine—her favorite cabernet—and the little gift box. He takes off his hat and drops it on one of the spare chairs.

"Most men," he says, "comin' around for a dinner date, they would be mighty offended by the implied insult of all this here."

"And if they were smart, they'd leave."

"Most would, I suspect. But I'm a different breed from them. I always have enjoyed women who present a challenge."

"This isn't a date," she says.

"You're mistaken there, sweet thing. I'm sure you remember how I paid my respects the other day and stated my intentions as would any honorable man."

As Deacon opens the correct cabinet and takes two wineglasses from a shelf, Vida says, "This is a business meeting."

"Oh, darlin', that makes you sound like a whore. You do have the equipment to be a high-priced item. But if that's what you were, I wouldn't be here. I never paid for it, and I never will."

"The business to be discussed is what will make you go away."

"I'm not goin' nowhere, girl. You're honey, and I'm the bear. There's but one way that story unfolds."

"I can hurt you bad. Don't think I can't or I won't."

As he puts the glasses on the table, he says, "A bear can take a hundred stings, two hundred, and he just sits there eatin' honey. He knows every pleasure worth havin' comes with a bit of pain."

She bluntly defines him. "Rapist."

"There's not another woman alive who would say so. Those ladies who've been with yours truly will tell you how they were gentled, charmed, and satisfied."

She keeps the table between them as he retrieves a lever-action corkscrew from a drawer. He's as familiar with the house as if he's been living here for some time.

"Keep an open mind," he says. "Get to know me. I've got my admirable qualities. You'll come around. I know you will."

"You think I murdered Belden Bead. So then why won't I kill you?"

Laughing softly, he peels the foil capsule from the cork. "You don't scare me, darlin'. I figure Belden was being Belden, and you acted in self-defense. You don't have true murder in you."

"If it was self-defense, why did I dig that damn big hole and put him in it?"

"Well now, that's sure to be part of our dinner conversation. I'm most interested in hearin' your story."

He removes the cork and inhales the aroma from the ullage. He pours a small sample, swirls it, smiling at Vida over the rim of the glass. He tastes the cabernet, is satisfied, and pours two servings.

"You'll be drinking alone," she says.

He slides her glass across the table, a wafer of light wobbling on the surface of the wine, and places it beside her plate. "Let's sit and enjoy for a while before havin' dinner."

When he settles in his chair and sips his cabernet, she stands with her back to the sink, watching him.

"There was this lovely woman," he says, staring into his wine as if it is a memory pool. "Not as lovely inside as out. She was somethin' of a snob and very proud—a shallow person, I regret to say—but she was physically a stunner. This terrible thing happened. The thumb and index finger on her right hand were cut off." He looks up at Vida. "Hey, darlin', I'm sorry. What the heck am I thinkin'? It's a good story, an instructive little parable, but not dinner conversation."

Vida says nothing.

"Well, all right then, if you're curious. By the end, it's actually an inspirin' story. Hopeful. This lady, she thought she was perfect. And she truly was a perfect beauty. But when she lost those fingers, she was devastated, so depressed. Her face and body were unmarked, as special as before, but she felt disfigured. Her image of herself collapsed. That pride I mentioned was gone. She wasn't smug no more, or snarky. But when she discovered she was still wanted, still very much prized, when she realized there are caring men in this world who can judge a woman by the complete package and overlook a bit of ugliness here or there, she was deeply grateful that she didn't lose more fingers or even an entire hand, and her gratitude made her passionate. She gave her all, as long as she was wanted."

Tormenting Vida like this gives him pleasure. The trick is to indulge him in his psychological games while she deftly plays one of her own. If she denies him too adamantly, with withering scorn, he will resort to violence with which she might not be able to deal successfully. On the other hand, if she yields too quickly, he'll suspect that her submission is a ruse to encourage him to let down his guard. Intuition tells her that he expects to take a while to break her and looks forward to inflicting a series of fractures to her self-respect and spirit. To maneuver Deacon into a position of vulnerability, she must ever so slowly bend to his intimidation until he's confident that she'll eventually capitulate with just enough resistance to make his conquest exciting.

"If I've got to listen to this shit," she says, "I'll need that cabernet." She sits across the table from him and picks up the wine he poured.

He smiles and raises his glass in a toast. "To Belden Bead. He'd be amazed to learn he's become a matchmaker."

"The only thing he's become is dead."

"Hush now. I won't accept your confession."

"Wasn't a confession, merely a fact."

"Last thing I want is you in prison instead of under me."

"Won't be either one."

"Only other option you got is me dead."

She raises her glass. "Here's to that."

"What're you—five feet four, five? Hundred ten pounds?"

"I don't own a scale."

"I bench-press three times your weight."

"Stress like that could give you a heart attack."

"Pressin' you might give me a heart attack, how good you look. I'll take the risk."

"Is that talk your idea of how to romance a lady?"

"You start actin' like a lady, I'll change my talk."

She takes one, two, three sips of wine because she knows how he'll interpret that. "Are you married?"

"I once was, fourteen years ago."

"She come to her senses?"

"She up and died on me."

"I'm guessin' not cancer."

"Why couldn't it have been?"

"The way you said it."

"How'd I say it?"

"Like, ‘Hey, shit happens.'"

"Which it does more days than not."

"She fall down the stairs?"

"You amuse me."

"Not my intention."

"This drug addict, Lyle Sussman, broke in the house when Tanya was alone. Raped her, beat her to death with a hammer, stole a little money."

"You ever catch him?"

"The next day."

"Good police work."

"Home security camera gave us a clear picture."

"He get himself shot resisting arrest?"

"We found him in the woods, where he lived in a tent. By then he'd taken his own life."

"Hung himself from a tree limb? Threw himself off a cliff? Set himself on fire?"

"Coroner said it was likely an overdose."

"‘Likely.' Not as specific as you'd expect from a coroner."

"Sussman was a homeless addict with a long rap sheet of petty theft, no known family. Just your essential nobody. There was heroin at the scene, a syringe, a little cookin' kit. Not a case where the law requires toxicology."

She resorts to her wine again and then says, "So you didn't tell him there was a security camera at your house."

He drinks some wine and puts the glass down and leans forward with his muscular arms on the table. "You do really tickle me."

"How much did Sussman want paid to rape and kill her?"

"A hundred up front, then four hundred plus ten decks of heroin when it was done. You're so smart, maybe you want to guess the true cost?"

"Once you knew Tanya was dead, you went to Sussman's tent. You probably didn't even take the four hundred with you. And only one packet of heroin."

Pouring more wine for himself, Deacon says, "He wasn't goin' to need ten decks."

"You watched him cook the heroin and inject it."

"He was so happy that I was pleased."

Vida says, "You must've gotten the heroin from Belden Bead."

"My cousin was the go-to man in this county. He gave it to me free, an expression of family solidarity."

"Either he or you doctored the packet with something to be sure it would kill Sussman."

Pushing the wine bottle toward her, Deacon says, "Digitoxin."

"So he had a massive heart attack within a few minutes."

"Almost immediately, chokin' on his vomit. Darlin', it's like you were there. You really are somethin'."

"All it cost you was a hundred dollars."

"Not even. Before leavin' that tent, I took back the seventy-six bucks he hadn't spent."

"Frugal of you."

"Waste not, want not. So slidin' Tanya out of my life cost me twenty-four bucks. Then of course there were the funeral expenses, though I saved a pretty penny by goin' for cremation and a little urn rather than embalmin' and a casket."

Pouring more wine that she doesn't intend to drink, Vida allows the bottle to rattle once against the glass. She doesn't overplay it by faking an extended tremor.

"Why did you want so bad to be rid of Tanya?"

"You wouldn't ask if you'd known her."

"But I didn't know her."

"She wasn't the sparklin' conversationalist that you are. She wouldn't stop talkin' about babies."

"She wanted a baby?"

He softly drums the fingers of both hands on the table, making a sound like the rataplan of rain on a roof. "Wouldn't shut up about it. I wasn't bangin' the bitch to make babies. I was bangin' her to bang her. We had different ideas about the purpose of marriage."

"Ever consider divorce?"

"Not after she betrayed me."

"She betrayed you?"

"She went off the birth control and got herself knocked up."

"But the baby was yours?" Vida asks.

Deacon's hands go still. His expression is a disquieting mix of astonishment and keen vexation. "Tanya didn't need more than what I gave her. Of course the baby was mine. You want to cut to the chase and do it now, see what I've got for you? You get it from me, you'll never want it from anyone else."

The impression of self-restraint that he projects might be less absolute than it has seemed. Deacon enjoys toying with Vida and is perhaps content to do so for a few days before forcing himself on her. However, a cat that appears to take deep and abiding pleasure in tormenting a mouse can suddenly bare its fangs and surrender to the prey drive that is the essence of its nature. There is a risk that he will make a move on her before she can lead him to the resolution she has devised.

To mollify him, she says, "It was just the word you used—‘betrayed.' I misunderstood."

His stare is fierce, a wordless command to submit or face the consequences, but Vida senses that it would be unwise to look away too soon.

"You know what your problem is, darlin'?"

"I guess you'll tell me."

"That damn library of yours. You're so bookified, you overthink everythin'. A man just plainly speaks his heart, and you analyze his words, analyze a whole different meanin' into what he says. How many books you read in your twenty-eight years?"

"Hundreds, I guess."

"Shit, girl, that isn't livin'. That's just readin' about livin' . Don't go analyzin' me. Just listen to what I really say."

"All right."

"Is that askin' too much?"

"No."

"Books make snobs out of people, make them proud when they hadn't ought to be, when they don't really have nothin' to be proud about. You understand me?"

"Yes."

"I've seen people so bookified and arrogant, the only thing that might save them from themselves is if someone poked their eyes out and blinded them from ever readin' again."

He drinks a little wine, and she looks away from him.

After a mutual silence, she says, "The lovely woman who lost a thumb and finger—did she come before or after Tanya?"

"After," he says without hesitation. "Committin' to the wrong woman was the biggest mistake I ever made. I won't make it twice."

Vida is surprised to find herself taking a sip of the second serving of wine, which she had intended not to drink. She puts the glass down.

When she looks at Deacon, he sees something in her eyes that elicits a smile from him. "Scares you a little, how much I've told you about things I've done."

"Doesn't scare me," she lies. "But it does surprise me."

"You think I told you enough to hang myself if you go tell the sheriff and get his suspicions up, and so now I'm out on a limb as far as you are with what you did to Belden Bead."

"Not at all. You wouldn't have told me if it put you out on a limb."

"Exactly right. You're as smart as you are good to look at. A girl with a brain as hot as yours, how much hotter must you be down between your legs, where it really counts? If you want, you go into Kettleton tomorrow and have a chat with the sheriff. It won't bother me at all, darlin'."

She waits.

He takes pleasure in making her wait. He swirls the wine in his glass and savors its bouquet. He sluices it back and forth through his teeth as if it's mouthwash, swallows, and sighs.

"When I came here the day before yesterday, there was this thing I neglected to tell you. That was my last day as a deputy. Sheriff Montrose retired with a heart condition. The city council appointed me interim sheriff until the election next year. I'll win another four years because the powers that be will see to it that I run unopposed. You understand what this means?"

Her mind quickens through the ramifications of what he has just revealed. "You can contrive to have someone discover Belden Bead's grave on my property. Kettleton isn't really Kettleton anymore. It's a small-town version of Gotham City, but there's no Batman to clean it up. Nothing you've told me can be proven, and no one will believe you'd have bared your soul to me. Somehow you'll seize my property. I won't have money for a good attorney. The public defender assigned to me will work hard to ensure that I'm convicted—if I don't first commit suicide in jail."

His plain face takes on a powerful character it didn't have before, his features transformed by savage delight. Although he isn't handsome, he suddenly has a fearsome charisma. "Damn it all, girl, you don't belong on the farm team your uncle trained you into. You're quick enough to earn a place with us winners in the major leagues. You see how it can be for you?"

Her hand has closed again around the wineglass, but she doesn't lift it from the table. "No way I want it to be."

He says, "You sleep on the situation tonight. In the mornin', you admit you screwed up, how you treated me here this evenin'. I come back tomorrow, we have us a nice dinner date, and we see how we fit together. You're gonna like how we fit together. What I can make you feel is somethin' you never felt before or imagined you could. When we become a team, we can have whatever the hell we want, what with all the money comin' into this county. Darlin', strange as it might sound, what you're gonna find in submission is freedom. You marry me, then with you comes the holy glow of José Nochelobo, which is somethin' I know how to use. And you get a real life, not a life in books. All the rules your uncle trammeled you with will wither away like spider silk. You'll be more powerful than you ever thought possible, everyone eager to please you. You'll dream new dreams—and make them come true. There's nothin' you can want you can't have."

Except love, she thinks, and true freedom and the peace that comes with virtue.

She says, "You make it sound inevitable."

"I'm only givin' you a chance to realize your potential."

Indicating the house with a sweep of her hand, she says, "This has been my life."

"This has been your prison. If you choose to have a real life, it can begin tomorrow at dinner."

He leans back in the chair, both his face and posture conveying confidence that the proposal he has made—the threat of brutal rape and violent death contrasted with the promise of a life of pleasure and transcendence—will result in the submission that he requires. Submission without resentment. Transcendence through the eager embrace of nihilism. Like all his kind, he believes everyone is by nature irredeemably corrupt from birth. He's certain that, if she admits to her corruption, she'll awaken and become a reflection of him. He has traveled so long in darkness that he can't even imagine that a path of light exists.

"Now, let's finish this good wine with whatever dinner you've prepared for us. I'm sure it'll be amusin'."

With the revelation that he's the sheriff and that all those who hated José Nochelobo for speaking the truth are Deacon's allies, this evening has proceeded along none of the paths Vida envisioned. More than ever, her fate depends on how she conducts herself, on maintaining a perfect deception, though every moment provides her with a chance to make a mortal error.

He has to believe, without suspicion, that she's bending slowly to his intimidation. She needs Nash Deacon to return the following day with the conviction that she is afraid of what could happen to her but is at the same time tempted—although not yet seduced—by the future of power and excess he offers her. Before he leaves this evening, there are things she needs to know to shape her strategy, to evoke in him the state of mind that will make him vulnerable.

Before rising to put dinner on the table, she swallows some of her wine, swallows more, and then drains the glass.

His expression suggests that he infers from this what she wants him to infer.

"I can open another bottle when we need it," she says as she gets up from her chair.

She's stone-cold sober and expects to remain that way. However, if the cabernet sauvignon dulls her senses, there is no risk that he will take advantage and assault her. Rape will be his last resort. He wants her to descend into helplessness and give herself to him tomorrow, whereupon she'll have surrendered her dignity and traded her self-respect for survival on his terms. He's fool enough to believe that she could do such a thing.