Free Let Him Go: A Novel by Larry Watson Page B

and lined with blood that dries black and looks like dots and dashes of Morse code. He wears gloves when he works outside and he uses Bag Balm—Margaret has said, Soften up those hands, mister, if you want to put them on me—but no amount of protection or emollient can keep his hands from drying out like an animal’s hide staked in the sun. George takes a hand from the wheel as if to keep it from her sight.
    Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? he asks. You haven’t seen the boy or talked to his mother.
    Ahead of myself . . . what a strange sight that would be.
    This is something you do, Margaret. Count a thing as done because you want it so.
    And what do you think gets something done, George? Doubt? Worry? Hesitation? For God’s sake, you don’t get across the river standing on the bank wondering if you can do it. You get wet.
    And not just your feet, I take it?
    In response Margaret stares out the windshield, giving her husband nothing but her profile to contemplate. Into her sixth decade she still has only one chin, a matter of pride to her, no matter that it trembles. Her neck is long, though its tendons often look as taut as the ropes that held their tent stakes. Yes, a regal profile. Yes, a woman willing to plunge into any water, no matter how icy or swift, if she has a reason to get to the other side.
    .     .     .
    It’s a rare Montana day. The wind that died last night has not resurrected, not yet, and George can follow the tire tracks that the Hudson pressed into the dirt earlier. He drives down the hill with caution, though the first trip has shown him that the car has sufficient clearance to make it without damage.
    Here we are, George says, turning off the ignition. Home again. He pulls on the hand brake, though they’re parked on level ground.
    The car faces west, where the clouds have thinned enough to allow brief patches of pale blue to blink through. If this sky clears, George says, this will be a damn cold night.
    He rubs his shoulder as if that’s where the memory of last night’s stony, sullen sleep resides.
    Margaret ignores this. She’s up on her knees and turned around to rummage through a box in the backseat. How about an apple? she asks. Or some of these carrots?
    You’re just trying to keep me regular, says George. The apples are mealy, and there wasn’t much to those carrots when they were fresh. As far as I’m concerned you can throw them both out for the coyotes and the mule deer. But if there’s any coffee left in the thermos . . .
    You know there is, Margaret replies. It’s right there on the seat next to you. Help yourself.
    George picks up the thermos, shakes it gently to confirm that, yes, there’s coffee, but he makes no effort to pour any. He says, I’m thinking what I should have done is find a phone booth and give Jack Nevelsen a call. See what he might know about Bill Weboy.
    Margaret turns back around, munching on a carrot. What makes you think there’s anything to know?
    Just a feeling.
    Well, he had you pegged. Public official indeed.
    I’m sure Donnie’s told him about us.
    Poisoned the well, is more like it, says Margaret. And how would Sheriff Nevelsen have any information on Mr. Weboy?
    George shrugs. A sheriff hears things.
    And files them away.
    Not something you can help doing.
    So there they are. There they stay.
    Memory cleans itself out sooner or later, says George.
    Margaret rolls down her window and tosses out thestub of carrot. Mr. Weboy has said he’ll help us. That’s good enough for me.
    And I trust him about as far as I can throw him.
    Of course we know you’re a suspicious man.
    George touches his finger to his hat brim. Guilty as charged, ma’am.
    Margaret squirms in place like an impatient child. I can’t sit here all day twiddling my thumbs. Let’s go for a stroll. Breathe a little fresh air.
    You’re the boss, George says, opening his car door.
    .     .     .
    With the rocky foothills and striated bluffs behind them,