Somebody thinks this elopement gimmick worked in spite of my seeing her killed. And if it gets out that it didn't work, they might want to correct mistakes, and maybe leaving me alive was one of them. So if she could be tucked away and given some nice sleepy pills, it might be the best thing for everybody, her brother included."
He saw my wink. She couldn't. He said, "Sometimes you make enough sense to astonish me, McGee. Miss Webb, you'll get the best of care out at Pinon Springs."
For a few moments I thought we had pushed it too far. Her head swiveled in fast erratic motions as she stared in turn at the three of us, a glint of actual madness in those strange blue eyes. She clamped her hands hard onto the arms of her chair and sat, eyes closed, chin on her chest. She took very deep and audible breaths, her round breasts lifting against the yellow fabric of her blouse. Then her breathing softened and her hands loosened. She seemed to lift her head with an effort. She looked at Buckelberry and said in a quiet and controlled tone, "It is only natural that I should be very concerned about my brother."
"I understand that, Miss."
"Obviously you know more about this sort of thing than I do, Sheriff. I present one fact for your consideration. The Yeoman woman is dead. Nothing can be done for her. We do not know that my brother is dead. I think that should be your priority. He was taken from our home. Kidnapping is a federal offense."
'We have no proof he was taken. Merely a supposition."
"If you will give me your word that you will make finding my brother your first consideration, I will promise to… control myself."
"You have my word."
She grasped her purse and stood up slowly, timidly, looking as if she was poised to run. "Now if Mr. McGee could take me home?"
"If we have any news, we'll contact you at once, Miss."
I went out with her. She stumbled against me, walked uncertainly toward the corridor door, then stopped and leaned against the wall, head down, eyes closed, breathing deeply again.
"It's all right now," I said.
With eyes still closed she said, "I suppose it is all in getting used to knowing that you are nothing."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's too cruel, you know, to look directly at things." She looked solemnly up at me. "'Then you know that your father was glib and tricky and second-rate, and you know your mother was a very silly woman, and you know that your brother was really not a very good teacher, not much of a man, not much of anything. And you know that you are wasting yourself, running from a thousand things, hiding away at a third-rate institution in a damned wasteland. So why should the Sheriff or anybody care, one way or another? The illusions are so much easier to live with, Travis. The golden parents, the noble brother, the high calling, the devotion. The mysterious princess with the wise sad smile. Oh Christ, Travis, if you live without illusion, what do you have?"
"Come along, Isobel."
I took her arm and steered her toward the door. "What do they want of me?" she asked. I knew that They wasn't the police. Parents, perhaps. Or an amalgam of parents and brother and all the people of the world who had said, "My, what a bright strange little girl!"
I took her through the late brass of sunlight and across the open square to where my rental car was parked in a street narrow as an alley, in a deep black of shade. I put her in, and when I went around and got behind the wheel, I realized she was shaking all over. I had the impression that if she unclamped her jaw, her teeth would chatter.
"Isobel?"
She wrenched around to face me, her mouth stretched into ugliness. "And what the hell do you know of relationships? Symbiotic! Limited contact with reality! How could you even pretend to recognize the intellectual position? Oh, you have your lousy little vanity, Mr. McGee. You have a shrewd quick mind, and little tag ends of wry attitudes, and a sort of deliberate irony, served up as if you were holding
He saw my wink. She couldn't. He said, "Sometimes you make enough sense to astonish me, McGee. Miss Webb, you'll get the best of care out at Pinon Springs."
For a few moments I thought we had pushed it too far. Her head swiveled in fast erratic motions as she stared in turn at the three of us, a glint of actual madness in those strange blue eyes. She clamped her hands hard onto the arms of her chair and sat, eyes closed, chin on her chest. She took very deep and audible breaths, her round breasts lifting against the yellow fabric of her blouse. Then her breathing softened and her hands loosened. She seemed to lift her head with an effort. She looked at Buckelberry and said in a quiet and controlled tone, "It is only natural that I should be very concerned about my brother."
"I understand that, Miss."
"Obviously you know more about this sort of thing than I do, Sheriff. I present one fact for your consideration. The Yeoman woman is dead. Nothing can be done for her. We do not know that my brother is dead. I think that should be your priority. He was taken from our home. Kidnapping is a federal offense."
'We have no proof he was taken. Merely a supposition."
"If you will give me your word that you will make finding my brother your first consideration, I will promise to… control myself."
"You have my word."
She grasped her purse and stood up slowly, timidly, looking as if she was poised to run. "Now if Mr. McGee could take me home?"
"If we have any news, we'll contact you at once, Miss."
I went out with her. She stumbled against me, walked uncertainly toward the corridor door, then stopped and leaned against the wall, head down, eyes closed, breathing deeply again.
"It's all right now," I said.
With eyes still closed she said, "I suppose it is all in getting used to knowing that you are nothing."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's too cruel, you know, to look directly at things." She looked solemnly up at me. "'Then you know that your father was glib and tricky and second-rate, and you know your mother was a very silly woman, and you know that your brother was really not a very good teacher, not much of a man, not much of anything. And you know that you are wasting yourself, running from a thousand things, hiding away at a third-rate institution in a damned wasteland. So why should the Sheriff or anybody care, one way or another? The illusions are so much easier to live with, Travis. The golden parents, the noble brother, the high calling, the devotion. The mysterious princess with the wise sad smile. Oh Christ, Travis, if you live without illusion, what do you have?"
"Come along, Isobel."
I took her arm and steered her toward the door. "What do they want of me?" she asked. I knew that They wasn't the police. Parents, perhaps. Or an amalgam of parents and brother and all the people of the world who had said, "My, what a bright strange little girl!"
I took her through the late brass of sunlight and across the open square to where my rental car was parked in a street narrow as an alley, in a deep black of shade. I put her in, and when I went around and got behind the wheel, I realized she was shaking all over. I had the impression that if she unclamped her jaw, her teeth would chatter.
"Isobel?"
She wrenched around to face me, her mouth stretched into ugliness. "And what the hell do you know of relationships? Symbiotic! Limited contact with reality! How could you even pretend to recognize the intellectual position? Oh, you have your lousy little vanity, Mr. McGee. You have a shrewd quick mind, and little tag ends of wry attitudes, and a sort of deliberate irony, served up as if you were holding
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