In the Moon of Red Ponies (Billy Bob Holland 4)

“No games tonight,” he said.

“Do what I tell you. You won’t be disappointed,” she said.

A few minutes later she entered the bedroom in a black nightgown, carrying a tray with dishes of vanilla ice cream on it, the ice cream covered with a brandy-laced chocolate sauce. Also on the tray was a narrow box wrapped in satin paper and blue ribbon.

“Happy Birthday,” she said.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?” he asked.

“I have my ways. Open it.”

He sat on the side of the bed and unwrapped the satin paper from a black velvet box. He pushed back the top against the spring.

“That’s an expensive watch, Greta,” he said.

“You’re worth it.”

“Thank you.”

“Eat your ice cream before it melts.”

They made love, with her on top, her breasts hanging close to his face, her energies concentrated and unrelenting, as though she were determined to make this birthday the most memorable in his life. When she finally lifted herself off him, he was exhausted, happy, and totally separated from the dark speculations he’d had about her earlier. He slipped one arm around her, pulling her against him, stroking her hair and skin with his other hand. Then his fingers touched the swollen place under her right arm. It was reddish in color, hard, as though a tangle of wire had been inserted under the skin.

“What’s that?” he said.

“A horsefly bit me there,” she repl

ied.

“Really? Pretty mean horsefly,” he said, his eyes crinkling.

“I’m going to shower. You take a nap,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

He didn’t know how long he slept. He dreamed about an island he’d once visited west of Tahiti. Not far from the beach, a pink reef lay just below the waves, and inside it was a cave surrounded by gossamer fans. As he swam toward the entrance, patches of hot blue floated overhead, like clouds of ink in the groundswell, forming shadows on the ocean floor. Then he realized the shapes were not shadows but the hard-packed, leather-hided bodies of sharks.

He sat up in the bed, unsure of where he was. Outside, the landscape was red, the mountains a dark purple against the heavens. Through the wall, he heard Greta talking to someone on the phone. “Don’t call here again, you dumb asshole,” she said. “He’s here now…Well, forget it, you’re not getting any more money…Fuck you. I can make one call and you and that other sack of shit will be taking a long nap under the Thompson Falls landfill.”

Darrel listened to Greta’s words, the ugliness in her voice, and looked wanly at the watch in the velvet box on the nightstand. Then he sighed resolutely, lay back on the pillow, and pretended to be asleep when she entered the room.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” she said.

“No, I slept like a stone.”

“You like your watch?”

“It’s grand.”

“I’m glad. I’ve never been happier than when we’re together,” she said. She sat down next to him and took his hand. She traced the scar tissue on his knuckles and the backs of his fingers. “Darrel, I think you’re right about Wyatt Dixon. I think it was Dixon who broke into my house and tore it up. He’s a hateful, vindictive man. The thought of him coming back here scares me.”

“Don’t worry, kiddo. We’ll take care of Dixon,” he said, patting her on the back.

“For sure?” she asked.

“You bet. Don’t let him cross your mind.” He looked at the time on his new watch. “Wow, I’d better get home.”

Later, when he got back to his apartment, he peeled off his clothes, flung them on the floor, and scrubbed himself with a hard-grained soap in the shower. Then he sat in the bottom of the stall for almost an hour, until the hot water tank was empty and his skin was so numb he could not feel the coldness that blazed out of the showerhead.

Chapter 16