was something she had seen before when even the most alienated survivor visited the place of a loved one's death.
'It wouldn't have gotten so bad if she hadn't insisted on keeping the house and land here. She could have gone for the place in Albuquerque, but no, she had to set herself up right next to the company's land. Which guaranteed he'd have lots of opportunities to make sure her life wasn't too happy. What the hell'd she expect? He was gonna send her a welcome wagon?'
He paced and scuffed, and the way he looked touched Cree: a slim, balding, harried guy with a worried frown permanently etched into his forehead. Clearly he admired his father a great deal, as much as he resented him. Just as clearly, he still dealt with his dead father every day.
'So he was a man who could hold a grudge,' she prompted, 'who would never forget a hurt or an insult. What else?'
'Why don't you just out with it? What did Julieta send you to find out?'
Cree stared at him, trying to gauge where that was coming from. 'Why are you so afraid of her?'
Donny spluttered in outrage for a moment. 'Fuck this. I don't have to do this. I've gone along with this bullshit long enough, let's get down to business. Let's get down to-'
'I'm not judging you or your father. Honestly. You're telling me Garrett was a… a mixed bag, just like every other human being. So are you. So am I. I'm not buying into Julieta's anger.'
He ignored her and started back toward the truck, but Cree grabbed his elbow. The touch startled him and he looked down at her hand, the reaction of a man unaccustomed to physical contact. He shook his arm free, but he did stop walking.
'We are getting down to business, Donny. For me, anyway-what you're telling me is very helpful. Please keep going!'
He looked at his watch and let his shoulders slump in acquiescence. 'Three more minutes' worth of this crap here. Then the dragline.'
'If I'd met your father at… I don't know… at a cocktail party, say, what would my impression be? Who would I be talking to?'
'A man with a big appetite for life. A man who liked shiny things-a nice car, an impressive piece of equipment, a beautiful woman. He was impulsive, and sometimes that got him into trouble. But his instincts were usually on target, they worked for people and business. He liked taking on challenges, proving he could master things, people, situations. If you met him at a cocktail party, he'd try to impress you. Charm you, win you over.' Donny smiled his bitter, private smile and looked Cree up and down. 'You personally? He'd want to get you into bed. And he'd probably succeed. Because he'd make you feel you were at the center of the universe. He'd tell you things about yourself that either were insightful and true or that you would suddenly believe were true, and in either case you'd feel deeply flattered and understood.'
'That's a very perceptive observation.'
'And he'd get what he wanted from you. Whatever it was. Which was what it was all about.'
Cree digested that briefly. 'Did he ever talk about death? Things like… I don't know… how he wanted to die when his time came? Even things like burial preferences or services? Or what he believed would happen after death?'
Donny made a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth, spat, frowned, then checked his watch again. 'We're done here. If you want to see the dragline, we'd better get moving.'
It was a signal that he'd overcome his reflective mood, Cree thought. But when they got back to the truck, he hesitated before he went around to the driver's side.
'I don't know what my father believed,' he said sourly. 'But I do know Garrett McCarty had no intention of dying. Never crossed his mind. Wasn't part of the man's plans in any way.'
It took five minutes to cover the mile and a half to the pit where the dragline was currently working, Donny driving slowly through his kingdom of raw rock, machines, and dust. He called ahead on his CB to let the dragline crew know they were coming, telling them to shut it down when they arrived for Cree's tour. Afterward, the air of preoccupation claimed him again, and his replies to Cree's questions were mostly monosyllables.
Still, she gleaned some details that would be useful later, if and when she confronted the entity again. Garrett had been right-handed. He spoke Spanish and had picked up enough of the Navajo language to say a few words to his Navajo employees. For amusement, he played golf and poker and went to rodeos, where he bet large sums in a private pool of fellow execs. He knew horses-he'd personally selected the thoroughbreds he'd bought for Julieta-and was a good rider. When Donny was a kid and made his regular weekend visits to Garrett's Albuquerque house, his favorite place had been the solarium cactus garden: Watching his father lovingly tending the spiny knobs and armatures revealed a side of the man he never saw otherwise.
Donny got quiet again after telling her that, and Cree couldn't tell if it was a guarded silence or just a moment of reflection. His throat began making the gulping movement again-a reaction to stress, Cree decided.
'You've described your father as impulsive, charming, yet a man who'd never forgive, never let go of a grudge. I guess what I'm trying to figure out is, if he did live on in some form, what would his psychological engine be-what obsessional feelings or motivations might animate his ghost? Would he be so angry about something, or sad or guilty about something-'
'Like what-Julieta? Is that what you're getting at? Julieta thinks she's haunted by my father's ghost? Jesus Christ, this is turning into science fiction here!'
'Believe it or not, I'm trying to turn it into just plain science.'
'Because if she does, tell her to get over it. Tell her that the world doesn't revolve around her ass. He had plenty of younger and better afterward, trust me. If Garrett ever had such a huge grudge against her, he'd long since gotten it out of his system.'
That couldn't be true, Cree thought, not if the years of conflict that followed were any indication. She bounced some of his ire back at him: 'How'd he do that? Shooting her horses?'
He stared at her, surprised she knew about it, and he seemed about to say something nasty. But he just closed his thin mouth and ignored the question.
'So why do you hate her? Why do you want to hurt her?'
He rolled his eyes-a martyred, frustrated expression. 'I don't want to hurt her. She's got it all wrong. If I wanted to hurt her, trust me, she'd know it. I'm just trying to run my business without her interference.'
'Interference like the in situ uranium suit? Doesn't that make you want to get back at her?'
That got his attention: a flash of pure ire and calculation in the eyes, a radiant chill Cree could feel from four feet away. 'That's a matter for the courts to decide. What she doesn't get is, a business this size, I've got two dozen suits, injunctions, regulatory hassles, you name it, pending at any time! She's the one with the 'psychological engine' here. She's the one can't leave well enough alone!'
Donny swerved the truck hard enough to throw Cree against the door, and then they were pulling up near the walking dragline.
They got out and for a moment Cree had to just stand there, looking up at it in awe.
It was one of the biggest man-made objects she had ever seen. A gargantuan rusty orange cube supported a vertical mast about fifteen stories tall, connected by cables to the main boom, which angled up and out over a deep trench. The whole structure pivoted on a steel disk seven feet thick as it dragged its enormous bucket up the slope on its cables. Each of the bucket's steel chisel teeth was as big as Cree's dining-room table. To her surprise, there was no diesel roar; the loudest sound was the massive groaning of metal under stress.
'Electric,' Donny explained. 'Eight separate motors. Thing cost my father thirty-two million bucks when he bought it in 1979. It's one of three we keep going twenty-four/seven.'
From this angle, she could see the operator's cab, a tiny glass box at the base of the boom, and the platform between the boom's huge hinges. The boom itself was a girder of tube steel, massive as a suspension bridge, with welded rungs on the main tubes providing ladders to the upper reaches. Cree could visualize Garrett, clambering drunkenly up this outsize phallic symbol, turning to observe his lady friend's reaction, losing his footing. His grip would've stayed his fall for an instant, but the jerk was too much. He dropped, just missing the superstructure below him. The jolting collision with the ground, the awful pain inside as his organs ruptured. It would have been an agonizing death.
But that was all imagination. She didn't feel an entity here. The only echo of human feeling was a faint swirl of the ever-changing moods of the men who worked here.
