In Plain Sight

“This morning, Mother wasn’t around, which was highly unusual. Nevertheless I assumed she’d gone to town so I made breakfast for Julie and myself and then took her out to the main road in my pickup so she could catch the bus to school. Then I went back to the main house, to my office on the third floor, and remained there all day catching up on correspondence and paperwork. You’d be amazed how many things pile up while I’m away at the session.

“I remember hearing a bit of a discussion outside near the bank of the river. I heard raised voices, one of them being Mother’s.”

Joe leaned forward, asked, “Who was the other?”

McLanahan cleared his throat, a signal to Joe that he’d intruded on the interview.

Arlen shrugged. “A local fishing guide. I’m not sure I know his name. They were having an argument about trespass fees. This wasn’t that unusual, really. It happened all the time. In the end, Mother always got them to pay up.”

“Then”—Arlen furrowed his brow, trying to recall something—“I believe it was about three when Wyatt pounded on the door. It was three, wasn’t it?” Arlen asked Wyatt.

Wyatt shrugged.

“It was three,” Arlen said. As he spoke, his voice lapsed into a bit of a singsong. Joe thought the cadence of Arlen’s speech was another way to get at his brother Hank. It was probably a way of speaking that had been established long ago specifically because it enraged Hank, who hardly talked at all. “Wyatt said our brother Hank called in a rage. Apparently Hank had been to the house and couldn’t find Mother, or her car. And, Hank being Hank—who isn’t really supposed to be on our side of the ranch in the first place—immediately came to the conclusion that Mother met with foul play . . .” Joe watched, amazed, as Hank’s face turned almost purple and a vein in his throat swelled to look like a writhing baby snake. “. . . and of course if there was foul play involved, then in my brother’s twisted mind, that meant I must somehow be involved with it. My brother needs professional help in the most serious way, which is obvious to all who meet him, and especially to those of us forced to, um, coexist with him. So, Hank being Hank, he assumed the worst and was ready to act out his own western movie. That’s pretty much what Hank told you, isn’t it, Wyatt?”

Wyatt didn’t look up, but said reluctantly, “Pretty much. Not all the movie stuff, though.”

Arlen chuckled in a condescending way Joe found irritating. “In an effort to stave off another violent confrontation, of which there have been many over the years, I decided to drive over to Hank’s side of the ranch and try to calm down the situation. Wyatt decided to follow me in his truck. I spotted Hank just across his side of the line . . .”

“Hold it,” Robey said, raising his hand. “You’ve made a couple of references to ‘his side of the ranch’ and ‘our side of the ranch.’ And now you say there’s a line. What’s that about?”

Arlen smiled paternalistically at Robey, as if graciously offering an explanation that should have been well known by all. “In order to keep the peace, Mother decided a few years ago that we should live on opposite sides of the ranch. Hank built a fine hunting lodge on the east side, and the rest of the family remains on the original homestead on the west side. There’s an old fence line that more or less cuts the ranch in two, and we’d all come to understand that it wasn’t to be crossed. Nothing legal, just an understanding until Hank decided to lock all of the gates. Julie and her mother moved down to live with us. I have adopted Julie as my own. Unofficially, of course, and much to Hank’s dismay. He would rather they both stay up there on his side, pining for him while he takes clients to Kenya to hunt for months on end. But Julie needs some stability.”

“Thanks,” Robey said. “Go on.”

“I saw Hank’s truck tearing across the ranch toward our side at the same time we were trying to find him. I pulled over and waved him down, so we could talk. After all, Wyatt and I are just as concerned about where Mother might be as Hank is. I thought, for once, we could put the animosity aside and try to work together and figure out where she was.”

Joe was struck by how Hank and Arlen used the word “Mother” when they spoke. Men their age should say, “My mom,” “my mother” or “our mother,” or “our mom,” it seemed.

“So I got out of the truck and went to talk to Hank. Wyatt came up behind us. But alas”—Arlen paused, and again took the rag away from his head—“instead of talking, Hank grabbed his irrigation shovel and started swinging. I grabbed mine in self-defense. I guess that’s when you were called.”

Arlen stopped speaking, and winced, as if a sudden jolt of pain had coursed through his head. Either that, or a conspicuous play for sympathy, Joe thought.

“Is that how it happened, Wyatt?” Robey asked.

Wyatt slowly nodded his head, but refused to look up.

“Hank, you agree?” Robey asked warily.