Mendocino Jones in No Place for the Weak at Heart

No Refuge from Remorse

Bobby left work late, heading to April's house, rage lodged in his throat. He'd swallowed it all afternoon, trying to focus on work. At last, outside of town, he roared, shaking the steering wheel, pulling over, and stopping on the shoulder.

Part of him felt the same way Pops did. Why go see her? Let her wallow in her misery. Rot in hell with Sartain.

Another part of him wanted to hold her.

He rested his head on his arms folded across the steering wheel, peering out the window at a white rock hill. Mares and colts grazing. A red roan mare stepped into view near the fence line. The mare raised her head as if seeing him through the tinted windows. Her ears pricked forward, she struck her right front hoof against rock, lifted her muzzle, and whinnied.

Bobby lowered the passenger window.

As if curious, the mare lowered her head, peering through the opening, their gazes locked, man and horse. The mare shook her mane, stared again through the window, and ambled on.

He straightened in the seat, seeing April with her head back wailing at the sky, shaking her long, red hair. His heart quickened. Bobby slammed the Land Rover into gear, fishtailing as he spun out from the gravel shoulder, flying west.

When he arrived, her BMW was in her garage. He let himself in through the mudroom door, walking through the kitchen, dining room, and living room, calling her name. The house was silent. She had a housekeeper but not a cook. She'd be alone at this hour.

He wrapped his hand around an empty vodka bottle sitting upright on the marble bar. A fifth of Grey Goose. Gone. She's sleeping it off. He dropped it in the trash behind the bar then trudged upstairs, calling her name as he ran his hand over the polished handrails. Her bedroom door was open. The big, wallpapered room was empty. Dark but for the lamp on her bedside table that illuminated another empty bottle. The gigantic bed was unmade. She had been in it.

In her master bath, he knelt, picking up empty pill bottles on the floor. Hydrocodone. Tylenol Codeine. His heart pounded in his ears. John David's pills, from when he had knee surgery.

Bobby stepped inside the room-sized closet. "April!"

Rushing through one upstairs room after another, he called her name. Took the spiral staircase two steps at a time, running into a large den with floor-to-ceiling windows across the back of the house. It faced a landscaped, red-brick terrace, the swimming pool beyond.

Bobby drew in his breath and froze.

April sat at the pool's edge, in the deep end by the diving board, her long legs dangling in the water. Naked as a newborn. Wild red hair fell across one breast and shoulder. Her face and eyes were swollen. She probably hadn't stopped crying since yesterday.

She stared, transfixed, at a pistol resting in her cupped hands, on her lap. She was in shock. Pilled-up. Drunk. All of them. Fixated on the gun.

The hair on his arms stood up. No, April! No!

She didn't seem to notice him standing in the open French doors. Or hear him approach. Moving slowly, walking softly, Bobby circled the terrace, coming up behind her, squatting slowly at her side. He reached in, gently lifting a small pistol from her hands. He removed the magazine and checked the chamber. Empty. Bobby slung both across the terrace to the lawn.

"What are you doing, April?" he asked quietly.

He never imagined this. April, of all people. She was unresponsive. She didn't seem to recognize he was there.

He asked again, louder, "What did you do, April?"

Nothing.

Fear climbed in his throat. "April!" He clutched her shoulder.

She turned to face him, mechanically, staring through glassy, bloated eyes, tears flowing. "I want to see John David. I want to tell him I'm sorry."

Gripping her shoulders, Bobby pulled her up, dragging her legs out of the water as he stood, holding onto her tight. "April!"

Her legs went out from under her, and she crumbled in his arms. He caught her, carrying her inside. He laid her on the den couch, wrapped her in a blanket, and ran with her in his arms to the Land Rover.

He called Patty as he screeched from the driveway. "Patty! I need to pump April's stomach!" he yelled on the Bluetooth. "She's taken pills. How do I get it out of her?"

"You can't, Bobby," Patty said. "What did she take?"

"I don't know!" He glanced at her in the back seat. "Hydrocodone. Tylenol-Codeine. Maybe both. Maybe something else. There were bottles I didn't even look at."

"Get her to the emergency room."

"It's too far," he said. "She's unconscious."

"Is she at her home?"

"She was."

"Get her to the clinic in Marfa. That's all you can do. I'll let them know you're bringing her."

He'd rather keep it private. "Can't you do it?"

"No, Bobby. There's nothing here to pump out her stomach. And even if there was, it's too far. Get her to the nearest place."