Old Chaos (9781564747136) (2 page)

T
HE MOUNTAIN CROUCHED above a meadow as it had since it was made, not long ago as the life of mountains is measured, but long enough. To the north, the great volcano that had formed it stirred, setting off moderate earthquakes that came in swarms when an eruption was near, but singly or in twos and threes at quieter times. The other nearby peaks trembled, too, as if in sympathy, though sympathy was irrelevant, being a human emotion.

When the time came, the volcano would set off another chain of small earthquakes. When the time came, the smaller mountain would move, too, changing its shape. It would only take the right combination of forces—ice and rain, lots of rain, and one of those minor tremors. It was all a matter of time.

And the crack in the teacup opens

A lane to the land of the dead
.

—W.H. Auden,

“As I Walked Out One Evening”

Early January 2005

B
ETH HAD PLANNED the dinner party like the invasion of Iraq, though she hoped for less dire consequences. Apart from glitches associated with a new house, the problem was the basic incompatibility of the guests, but she was used to that. She was the wife of a politician.

Beth often thought her husband had been happier as undersheriff, just another cop. That was a long time ago. Mack was now into his fifth term as Latouche County sheriff. It was probably his last, because he was sixty-five and she was sixty-one, and both would be happy to retire in a few years to enjoy their grandchildren. For now, Mack was a politician. Lately, he had been behaving like a politician. She wondered whether he had noticed her disapproval.

Probably not. She sighed and shoved a platter of Costco hors d’oeuvres into the oven to warm.

On New Year’s Eve, Beth had thrown a big bash to celebrate the general election. More than a hundred of what passed for glitterati in Latouche County had swarmed in, drunk California champagne or local beer, scarfed down the tidbits on offer, and swarmed out, heading for parties where no one would ask how much they’d drunk before driving home.

As they left, Beth mentally ticked them off her list of people she had to entertain. She poured fresh-ground coffee for those who stayed after the New Year toast, and gave thanks that paying off so many social debts had been so easy. Nevertheless, gloom descended. Their comfortable old house had never looked better—warm and welcoming and quirky. And then the movers came.

Now here she was, miles outside Klalo, in the granite kitchen of her perfect new McMansion, putting the last touches on another political dinner. Mack was still in the shower. She couldn’t hear the drowned-porpoise noises he always made in the shower, because the master bathroom was several miles from the kitchen.

Everything was miles from everything else in the house. It was grotesquely large, even for a couple with five children and seven grandchildren. All my fault, Beth reflected grumpily. When she and Mack had gone over the plans with the developer and his architect, she had asked for changes and got them. What she had not said was that the place was too damned big, not just for Mack and herself, but for any family smaller than a corporation. It was wasted space. Beth did not like waste, and never mind that the developer had given them a fantastic price on the house.

She threw her pot holder on the slab of rock by the stove and took off the chef’s apron she wore to protect her silk pantsuit. Time to check the bar. The dinner table had been set since three o’clock and looked nice enough. At least she’d had the wit to keep her battered old table. It sat invisible beneath Irish linen, covered with china and silver and wineglasses, all at the right distance from each other for people to talk to their neighbors. Houses should be that way, too.

This one wasn’t. She trudged across the Great Room to the entryway The bell rang again as she reached the door. Two complete strangers stood shivering under the light.

“Mrs. McCormick?” The woman gave a glossy smile and memory clicked on.

“Call me Beth, please. You must be the new county commissioner.” Beth had seen Mrs. Bjork on TV for ten seconds the night of the special election in December. Catherine Parrish Bjork had replaced the late Hal Brandstetter. She was green. He had not been. Her victory changed the balance of power. Mack wanted to know how.

“Oh, Beth, call me Cate.” The woman’s gaze slid sideways to the trim, elderly figure beside her. A retired banker from California, Mack had said, older than his wife by a good twenty years. “This is my husband, Lars.”

“Come in before you freeze. The wind’s straight from Alberta.” Beth stood to one side as the Bjorks entered. The doorway was wide enough to admit a Humvee.

Outside, a gust swirled pellets of snow across the triple-wide driveway where the Bjorks’ BMW stood under the security light, creaking as it cooled. Beyond the street lay the county road and the dark bulk of Prune Hill, named for a long-dead orchard. To the right, across the street and closer to the highway, Beth could see the Gautiers’ house, floodlit always. The development held only four other homes, all of them large, all illuminated to prevent intruders from breaking in. The lights did not make Beth feel secure. They made her feel targeted. She’d never felt that way in town, where chances of a break-in were higher.

It was a clear night. The sky glittered with stars—this far from Portland you could see stars at night—and most of yesterday’s snow had sublimed away. Mount Saint Helens, quiet but still active, lay twenty-five miles to the north and Mount Hood a bit closer to the south. If you looked down the Gorge, you could just make out a dim smear of light from Bonneville Dam. The views in every direction were spectacular on a clear day, as real estate speculators had found out. The assessed value of real property in the county had tripled in the last eighteen months.

Murmuring friendly sounds, Beth divested her guests of their coats and settled them on one of a pair of love seats in front of the fireplace, which was drawing nicely now after an earlier puff of smoke. She had retrieved the platter of canapés from the oven, set it on the warming tray, and supplied the mute banker with a glass of sherry and Cate with Perrier (twist of lime for the designated driver) before the bell rang again.

As Beth plodded back toward the door she heard the woman say something, low and sharp, and the man respond in a rusty baritone. So he could speak. She also heard sounds that suggested someone else had come into the room. Male voice.

Not Mack. Skip Petrakis. Skip was the father of Beth’s seventh grandchild, Sophy. Mack despised him. In Mack’s day, a decent young man who knocked a girl up married her. Beth had explained several times that it was their daughter, Peggy, who stood in the way of little Sophy’s legitimacy. Peggy wasn’t ready to get married, not yet. Skip had offered.

When Beth opened the door, smile in place, she saw Jack Red-fern and his formidable wife, Madeline Thomas, principal chief of the Klalos and a woman to reckon with in county politics. Under her unzipped Gore-Tex parka, Maddie had chosen to wear a lavishly beaded elkskin robe, a matching headband, and calf-high elkskin boots, also beaded. They became her. As usual, Jack wore jeans and a Pendleton shirt. His parka was zipped to the neck against the knife-blade wind. Jack was not smiling.

Mostly to protect her heirloom boots, Maddie had decided to let Jack drive west from Two Falls to Klalo, though he drove like a cowboy on meth. Tonight he was erratic as well as fast because he was angry. Jack did not want to enter Sheriff McCormick’s house or eat at his table.

Since her husband was not a talker, it took Maddie a while to dig out the reason. As sheriffs go, McCormick wasn’t bad. Her sister’s son was a deputy, so Maddie was willing to reserve judgment, even cooperate with the sheriff. But Jack was set to explode, and so far Maddie had been unable to defuse him.

She winced as he squirreled around a sharp bend in the face of an oncoming car. “You know, Jack, I did talk to Rob. Mack offered him the promotion, and Rob turned him down. Rob doesn’t want to be undersheriff.”

“That don’t matter. It’s a slap in the face, appointing that kid Minetti.”

“Rob says he’s a born politician.” Maddie thought that was true. She’d met Earl Minetti. “You know the undersheriff is groomed to run for office. Mack will retire soon. He wants to train his successor.

“Minetti was Rob’s sergeant!” Jack tromped on the accelerator. The pickup leapt forward and skidded a little on the frosty surface. Fortunately there was no traffic. Jack eased back.

Maddie opened her eyes. “I suppose it does look bad.”

“It
looks
like a fucking slap in the face,” Jack growled, “whether or not it’s meant that way.”

Probably true. People would be talking. It surprised her that Jack, who usually didn’t care what other people thought, should be so concerned about appearances.

She sprinkled calm on her husband’s fury the rest of the way to Klalo. Then she had to start navigating, because the McCormicks’ new house lay some miles out of town, off the county highway that followed the course of Beaver Creek.

As the road began to twist, Jack slowed down a little. “I don’t understand you, Maddie. He saved your life. More than that, he laid his own life on the line for you.” By
he,
Jack meant Robert Neill.