Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 by Sacred Monster (v1.1)

Author:Sacred Monster (v1.1) [Monster, Sacred]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

FLASHBACK 16A

The living room of the ranch stretched across the entire front of the place so that in three directions, through the six-over-six windows flanked by red and white check curtains, the views were of wild and tumbled hills, tall pines, thick untamed underbrush, and high triangles of pale blue sky. Not one artifact of man was visible out there, as though the ranch were a trapper's cabin high in the Rockies in a silent movie. Except in color, of course.

Within, the ambiance was of a trapper who'd done very well for himself; an As tor, perhaps. The knotty-pine furniture with rosy chintz-covered cushions was rustic but comfortable. The Indian rugs on the floor were muted Mondrians, schematic, symmetric, each with its tiny deliberate unnoticeable imperfection, placed there so the gods—who think of perfection as their own prerogative- would not become jealous and take vengeance on the carpet's maker. Or owner.

Balancing the broad, heavy, dark-wood front door, on the opposite wall, was a huge fields tone fireplace in which a construct of large logs slowly burned, orange and red. Above the fireplace, where the moose's head might be expected—and where, until recently, the moose's head had in fact been displayed—a wide amber painting hung, called “The Return from Calvary'': the weeping women in the foreground, the dirt road curving back and up to Golgotha, the three crosses tiny but prominent there against the cloud-raging sky.

A sound of Gregorian chants filled the clean air of the high-ceilinged room. Jack, dressed in red floral neckerchief, checked flannel shirt, Levis, and well-worn cowboy boots, sat in a wide knotty-pine armchair near the fire and read a copy of Lives of the Saints. Peace, that peace that surpasseth understanding, abided in the room.

Hoskins, dressed quite similarly in style to Jack, although his neckerchief was blue and his cowboy boots less worn, and the entire sartorial approach less suited to his size, shape, age, and demeanor, entered bearing a silver tray on which stood an opened can of Coke and an ice-cube-filled glass. He placed the can and the glass on the rough-legged knotty-pine table beside Jack's chair.

“Thank you, Hoskins,'' Jack said, glancing up from his book. “We're all equal in the eyes of God, you know.''

Hoskins bowed from the waist and from the neck. “And very good of Him it is, too, sir,'' he said.

Jack returned to his reading. Hoskins bowed again and departed toward the rear of the house, carrying the silver tray. Jack poured some Coke into the glass, waited for the bubbles to subside, and sipped. He returned to his reading.

The Coke was not quite finished and the ice cubes not quite half their original size twenty minutes later when the broad front door opened and Buddy entered, also dressed in the same style as Jack, except that his neckerchief was black and his boots were a highly polished snakeskin. In this setting, dressed in such similar fashion, that old resemblance of their youth was more pronounced again, as though they were cousins employed by the same rancher.

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