Twelve Noon, Christmas Day

4

Ricky knew that Hardesty was drunk again the moment Walt had finished breathing two words into the telephone. By the time he had uttered as many sentences, he knew that Milburn was without a sheriff.

"You know where you can put this job," Hardesty said, and belched. "You can shove it. Hear me, Hawthorne?"

"I hear you, Walt." Ricky sat on the couch and glanced over at Stella, whose face was averted into her cupped hands. Mourning already, he thought, mourning because she let him go alone, because she sent him out of here without a blessing, without even thanks. Don Wanderley squatted on the floor beside Stella's chair and put an arm over her shoulders.

"Yeah, you hear me. Well, listen. I used to be a Marine, you know what, lawyer? Korea. Had three stripes, hear that?" A loud crash: Hardesty had fallen into a chair or knocked over a lamp. Ricky did not answer. "Three goddamned stripes. A leatherneck. You could call me a goddamned hero, I don't mind. Well, I didn't need you to tell me to go out to that farm. Neighbor went in there around eleven-found 'em all. Scales killed 'em all. Shot 'em. And afterward laid down under his goddamned tree and blew his head apart. State cops took all the bodies away in a helicopter. Now you tell me why he did it, lawyer. And you tell me how you knew something happened out there."

"Because I once borrowed his father's car," Ricky said. "I know it doesn't make sense, Walt."

Don looked up at him from beside Stella, but she merely pushed her face deeper into her hands.

"Doesn't make-shit. Beautiful. Well, you can find a new sheriff for this town. I'm clearin' out as soon as the county plows get in. I can go anywhere-record like mine. Anywhere? Not because of out there-not because of Scales's little massacre. You and your rich-bitch friends been sittin' on something all along-all along-and whatever it is does things-meaner'n a stirred-up hog. Right? It got into Scales's place, didn't it? Got into his head. Can go anywhere, can't it? And who called all this down on us, hey Mr. Lawyer? You. Hey?"

Ricky said nothing.

"You can call it Anna Mostyn, but that's just sheer plain lawyer's crap. Goddamn it, I always thought you were an asshole, Hawthorne. But I'm tellin' you now, anything shows up around here with ideas about moving me around, I'm gonna blow it in half. You and your buddies got all the fancy ideas, if you got any buddies left, you can take care of things around here. I'm stayin' in here until the roads get clear, sent the deputies home, anybody comes around here I shoot first. Questions later. Then I get out."

"What about Sears?" Ricky asked, knowing that Hardesty would not tell him until he asked. "Has anyone seen Sears?"

"Oh, Sears James. Yeah. Funny about that. State cops found him too. Saw his car half-buried in a drift, bottom of Underhill Road, snowplow all fucked over… you can bury him whenever the hell you want, little buddy. If everybody in this goddamned freakshow town doesn't end up cut to pieces or sucked out dry or blown in half. Ooof." Another belch, "I'm pig-drunk, lawyer. Gonna stay that way. Then I cut outta here. To hell with you and everything about you." He hung up.

Ricky said, "Hardesty's lost his mind and Sears is dead." Stella began to weep; soon he and she and Don were in a circle, arms around each other for that primitive consolation. "I'm the only one left," Ricky said into his wife's shoulder. "My God, Stella. I'm the only one left."

Late that night each of them-Ricky and Stella in their bedroom, Don in the guest-room-heard the music playing through the town, exclamatory trumpets and breathy saxophones, the arcadian music of the soul's night the liquid music of America's underside, and they heard in it an extra strain of release and abandonment. Dr. Rabbitfoot's band was celebrating.