Loren walked across the white tiled floor to the row of cupboards that lined the walls above both sides of the sink. He took out a half-empty can of MJB and measured two plastic cupfuls of coffee, pouring them into Clay's drip-pot. He was about to fill the pot with water when he heard a loud crash from the back of the house. He hurriedly dumped out his measuring cup of water, letting the plastic cup fall into the sink, and ran to the hallway. 'Clay?' he called. 'Clay?'
He strode quickly down the hall, his work boots echoing loudly in the silence of the farmhouse. No noise came from any of the rooms. He glanced into Glenda's old sewing room as he walked by. Nothing.
Clay's bedroom. Nothing.
Clay's den.
The rancher lay on the floor amidst debris of fallen books and knocked-over knickknacks. His eyes were wide open and staring, the pupils fixed at oddly askew angles, and there were several thin red marks running lengthwise down his cheeks. His mouth looked as if it had been forced open; his tongue was protruding from between bared teeth. The fingers of Clay's hands were clenched into claws and blood dripped thickly from his two middle fingers.
Loren staggered back as he looked into the den, instantly nauseated by the putrid smell of violence, which was amplified by the heavy close air of the windowless room. He grasped the edge of the doorframe with his hands and swung back against the wall of the hallway, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. The walls of the den had been spattered with blood, and somehow the flies had already found their way in. He could hear their droning maddened buzzing as they feasted on the blood.
It sounded unnaturally loud in the silent house.
He stumbled down the hall toward the kitchen. And stopped.
Where had all the blood come from? He had seen only that trace of red on Clay's clawed fingers. There were light marks on the rancher's face, but the rest of his friend's body had appeared to be untouched.
He turned around and, taking a huge gulp of air and holding his breath, peered around the corner into the den.
Something small and chuckling, vaguely red and pink, scuttled from the side of Clay's body to a spot under the bed.
Loren felt a trip-hammer of fear interrupt the rhythm of his heart.
'Hey!' he called.
The creature belted out from under the bed and in a crazed blur ran into Loren's legs, connecting just below the kneecaps and knocking him down. For a wild disjointed moment he was sprawled on the floor, looking into the dead staring eyes of Clay Henry, seeing his own panicked reflection in the lifeless orbs. Then something small and sharp and painful dug into the back of his skull and he was knocked unconscious.
Gordon sat in front of the open window typing, the small plastic desk fan trained directly on his face. Even with the artificially generated breeze he was still perspiring, the sweat coursing down his cheeks in salty rivulets, occasionally dripping from his face to the white erasable typing paper. Brad was right. The heat was miserable. He ran a hand through his damp hair. He was beginning to hate summer, really hate it. Such a thought was un- American, he knew. He was supposed to love the long summer days, to want to play volley ball and other outdoor sports, to go on picnics, to listen to the Beach Boys.
But it didn't get dark until nearly nine o'clock at night, and the days were hot, humid, and uncomfortable. He understood that he would be hot unloading cases of Pepsi; that was expected. But here, even wearing shorts and no shirt, he was still sweating like a pig. And when he typed his bare back stuck painfully to the slatted wooden chair.
Of course, the nights and late afternoons had cooled off now that the monsoons had come. But the mornings more than made up for it.
Marina, on the other hand, loved the summer. She always had and probably always would, although God knew why. He could see her lying on her tinfoil-like Space Blanket in the clear treeless area in front of the house, trying to enrich her already ecru tan. He took a sip of iced tea from the tall glass next to the typewriter. The recently poured beverage was already forming a rounded pool of condensation on the walnut desk top, and he wiped away the puddle with the side of his arm. Setting the glass back down, he reread the sentence he'd just typed, thought for a minute, then ripped the sheet from the machine, crumpling it up and tossing it into the overflowing wastepaper basket.
On the lawn, Marina rolled over and faced the window, holding her left hand above her eyes like a visor. 'I heard that,' she said.
He looked toward her, smiling. 'It's too hot to work.'
'You've been saying that all morning.'
'It's been true all morning.'
She stood up, facing away from him, her back an intricately patterned mosaic formed by the serrated material of the Space Blanket. She bent down to pick up her sunglasses and tanning lotion, and he had a clear view of her perfectly round ass. He whistled loudly. Still shielding her eyes from the glare of the noonday sun, she turned to face him. 'If you're not going to do any work then let's go into town. There are some things I have to do.'
'What things?' 'Things.' She stuck her tongue out at him. 'And that's for whistling. Pig.'
Gordon watched her fold the blanket into a small square and, putting it under her arm, trek barefoot across the rocky dirt toward the side door of the house. She'd gained weight this summer, he realized. Not really enough to be noticeable--she still looked svelte, even in her skimpy bikini--but there was a small, barely perceptible increase in the size of her formerly flat stomach. Of course he was a fine one to talk. He stared down at his spreading paunch. Even with the increased demand for soft drinks in the summer and the extra work he'd had to do, he still looked like he had the beginnings of a beer belly. All that loading strengthened his arms but didn't do a thing for his stomach. He smiled. Maybe they should both start to exercise; get the Jane Fonda videotape or something, do aerobics.
Marina passed by the den, peeking into the open doorway as she headed down the hall to the bathroom. 'I'm taking a shower!' she called out.
'You get ready too!'
Grimacing, Gordon moved forward, peeling his skin from the back of the chair, and covered the few pages of the manuscript he'd completed. He walked next door to the bedroom, stepping over the small pile of Marina's clothes on the floor, and walked around the quilt-covered brass bed in the center of the room. They'd gotten the bed several years ago at a church rummage sale, and Marina had spent long weekend hours scraping the tarnish off the metal and restoring the bed to its original condition. The antique armoire next to the bed had been a present from Marina's mother. Gordon pulled open the drawer at the bottom of the armoire and pulled out a pair of sneakers. He searched through the small closet for an appropriate shirt. After a cursory examination of his wardrobe, he yanked free from its hanger a loud multicolored Hawaiian shirt. It was the closest thing to summer wear he owned. He put on the shirt and sat down on the bed to tie his shoes. Although they had been living in Randall for more than four years now, Gordon had never adjusted to the complete climate reversals and almost menopausal shifts in seasons that characterized the meteorology of Northern Arizona. For some probably psychological reason, he'd kept telling himself that each year was an atypical one, that the summers were not usually this hot, the winters not usually this cold. As a result, his wardrobe consisted of the same moderate weather clothing he'd worn in California. Which meant that he roasted in summer, froze in winter and seldom had anything appropriate to wear.
They'd learned about Randall through Ginny Johnson, one of Marina's coworkers at the high school. One weekend Ginny had run into her old college roommate, and the roommate told her that she had been offered--and had turned down--a full-time teaching position in Randall, Arizona. 'It's a beautiful little town,' she said. 'I'd love to live there, but they just don't pay enough.'
'Sounds like just what you're looking for,' Ginny told Marina. 'The school's looking for someone to teach English and typing, the land in the area is cheap, there are four seasons and the town's population is a whopping three thousand. You always said that you and Gordon wanted to get out of Southern California.'
'Arizona?' Gordon said when Marina relayed the information.
'It's up near Flagstaff,' she explained. Gordon started making disgusted faces, and she playfully slapped his cheek. 'Be serious.
There are some nice places there.'
