Sweeney on the Rocks by Allen Morris Jones

Author:Allen Morris Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: IG Publishing
Published: 2019-05-05T16:00:00+00:00

Catering to the disaffected rich, turns out, is one of Montana’s principal industries. Wheat, cattle, tourism, sure, you bet. But dig the coin generated by second homes, the thousands of log mansions tucked away in darling little stands of aspens. Remington rip-offs and trout ponds out back. Bierstadt through each window and a nice wrap-around porch.

God bless the faceless out-of-staters. How they support an entire subculture of antler chandelier artisans and fireplace masons, snow plowers and gardeners. Not to mention, a good portion of these homes—empty nine, ten months out of the year—the owners aren’t as wealthy as they’d like you to think. They sublet, thus making their private paradises available for a rate. They rely on property management firms to take care of the details.

Take this place on Jack Creek, for instance. Rented sight unseen with a Visa card in the name of an infant dead these last twelve years. Fed-ex the keys, see you next week. Ten miles south of Rockjaw, it’s forty acres backed up against National Forest. End of the road, with a view. Three stories. Front yard is asphalt driveway. Backyard is all flagstone and hot tub. By rumor, the owners are third generation Pfizers. Or maybe Waltons. Or Krogers.

Marble countertop and flagstone floors in the kitchen. An eight burner stove with an exhaust hood that’ll suck the gravel right off your palm. Down a short hallway, past framed photos of soft white men on yachts (victims of too much too early, beached now in middle age, simmering in the juices of myopic self-interest), a half dozen bedrooms. And down a spiral staircase (constructed from kiln-dried teak shipped up from Costa Rica), a wet bar and liquor cabinet, snooker table and…Jesus, is that a bocci ball court? Anyway, the middle of the room, two log pillars. Old growth white pine, thick as Ionic columns.

With loops of heavy rope stretched around their bases. And handcuffed to the ropes, a pair of women, legs outstretched.

Aggie. Unconscious, or nearly so. Bruised at the eyes and blistered at the mouth, lips cracking. Duct tape gum still visible on her cheeks.

And Elizabeth. Eyes swollen from weeping, sure, but otherwise unharmed. Cramped, stretched out in an awkward parody of a yoga pose, arms twisted back. She straightens her legs, working to nudge her mother, to touch her with her toes. “Mom?” she whispers, stretching out another hard-earned inch, squirming. “Mommy?” Then louder, frustrated: “Mom!”

Which awakens the sound she’s been dreading, the noise that will (assuming she makes it out of this alive) jerk her awake at all our hours for months to come. The slow, muted scuff of sneakers descending the stairs. Then a voice. Lighthearted, conversational: “Elizabeth? What did I say about talking?”

She closes her eyes. Senses, despite herself, the change in light, gray to black, as his shadow falls over her.

She tilts her head further away, fighting against tears, against giving him any sort of satisfaction.

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