Santa Fe Rules Read Online Free
him.
CHAPTER
3
W olf resisted the impulse to immediately bolt from the hotel, primarily because he had no place to go. He drove to the airport and paid his repair bill, then returned to the hotel and spent the afternoon fighting an overwhelming feeling of guilt—for what, he was not quite sure. By the time it got dark and dinner had arrived from room service, the guilt had become localized. He must have been responsible for what had happened. He tried to dredge up his reasons.
He had been drunk, of course—else, why would he not remember? Or were his deeds on that lost day so terrible that his mind simply could not cope with them? Sex was at the root of this, of that he was sure. Since meeting Julia he had lived with the fear that he could not satisfy her, that she would turn to another man to supplement or—God help him—replace his attentions. She had always been insatiable, but she had always had the talent of keepinghim aroused. He had been keeping up with her, but just barely, and he had lived in fear of what might happen if she nudged him some night in bed and he wasn’t up to it.
More disturbing of late was that Julia had begun to evince an interest in more than one sex partner. This had frightened him when she had first broached the subject, then excited him when he had realized that her interest was in having another woman in bed, a longtime fantasy of his. Twice, both times in Santa Fe, Julia had successfully propositioned another woman. They had been nights to remember. Even now, recalling it, he found himself stimulated. Both women had satisfied him beyond his fantasies, then had turned to each other, and he had been held rapt by that sight. Then he had suspected that all this was a prelude to inviting another man into their bed.
This thought seemed to point to what might have happened: He got drunk, Julia took Jack and another man to bed; he had caught them and, in a drunken fit of jealousy, used the shotgun on them. As he thought about this scenario, he realized that he had to find out exactly what had happened. First, he had to see the room where the three had died; then he had to find a way to penetrate the shield of his own memory. He had an idea of how to do that.
He waited until after dinner before leaving the hotel. Santa Fe Airport closed at ten P.M. , and after that it became a ghost of a landing field. He knew, because once he had landed at a quarter past ten, his car battery had been dead, and he had nearly frozen before he had found a telephone and gotten some assistance.
It was just after nine when he took off from Grand Canyon and headed east; this would put him at Santa Fe around ten forty-five. He had filed no flight plan, and he climbed to eleven thousand five hundred feet before leveling off; this altitude would give him some westerly tail wind without requiring oxygen. He sat immobile in the airplane for nearly an hour, numb with grief, guilt, and fear. Then his eye caught something in the New York Times on the seat beside him: “Obituaries on page B14.” His curiosity got the better of him.
There were only three obituaries on the page: his, Julia’s, and Jack’s. Jack’s occupied the whole of the page above the fold. There was a detailed analysis of his career, his childhood in Tennessee, his four marriages, his many women, and anything else that could be found out about him by a shrewd newspaperman. It was obvious that the piece had been written well in advance.
Such care was not present in Wolf’s obit. There was a brief, fairly accurate summary of his life before the William Morris Agency, then this statement:
Wolf Willett’s subsequent career was so wrapped up in Jack Tinney’s as to be nearly invisible. Certainly, he devoted himself to relieving Tinney of the minutiae surrounding any filmmaker, allowing the director the time to polish his scripts and perfect his editing. Indeed, that may have been Wolf Willett’s chief, and perhaps only, contribution to American
CHAPTER
3
W olf resisted the impulse to immediately bolt from the hotel, primarily because he had no place to go. He drove to the airport and paid his repair bill, then returned to the hotel and spent the afternoon fighting an overwhelming feeling of guilt—for what, he was not quite sure. By the time it got dark and dinner had arrived from room service, the guilt had become localized. He must have been responsible for what had happened. He tried to dredge up his reasons.
He had been drunk, of course—else, why would he not remember? Or were his deeds on that lost day so terrible that his mind simply could not cope with them? Sex was at the root of this, of that he was sure. Since meeting Julia he had lived with the fear that he could not satisfy her, that she would turn to another man to supplement or—God help him—replace his attentions. She had always been insatiable, but she had always had the talent of keepinghim aroused. He had been keeping up with her, but just barely, and he had lived in fear of what might happen if she nudged him some night in bed and he wasn’t up to it.
More disturbing of late was that Julia had begun to evince an interest in more than one sex partner. This had frightened him when she had first broached the subject, then excited him when he had realized that her interest was in having another woman in bed, a longtime fantasy of his. Twice, both times in Santa Fe, Julia had successfully propositioned another woman. They had been nights to remember. Even now, recalling it, he found himself stimulated. Both women had satisfied him beyond his fantasies, then had turned to each other, and he had been held rapt by that sight. Then he had suspected that all this was a prelude to inviting another man into their bed.
This thought seemed to point to what might have happened: He got drunk, Julia took Jack and another man to bed; he had caught them and, in a drunken fit of jealousy, used the shotgun on them. As he thought about this scenario, he realized that he had to find out exactly what had happened. First, he had to see the room where the three had died; then he had to find a way to penetrate the shield of his own memory. He had an idea of how to do that.
He waited until after dinner before leaving the hotel. Santa Fe Airport closed at ten P.M. , and after that it became a ghost of a landing field. He knew, because once he had landed at a quarter past ten, his car battery had been dead, and he had nearly frozen before he had found a telephone and gotten some assistance.
It was just after nine when he took off from Grand Canyon and headed east; this would put him at Santa Fe around ten forty-five. He had filed no flight plan, and he climbed to eleven thousand five hundred feet before leveling off; this altitude would give him some westerly tail wind without requiring oxygen. He sat immobile in the airplane for nearly an hour, numb with grief, guilt, and fear. Then his eye caught something in the New York Times on the seat beside him: “Obituaries on page B14.” His curiosity got the better of him.
There were only three obituaries on the page: his, Julia’s, and Jack’s. Jack’s occupied the whole of the page above the fold. There was a detailed analysis of his career, his childhood in Tennessee, his four marriages, his many women, and anything else that could be found out about him by a shrewd newspaperman. It was obvious that the piece had been written well in advance.
Such care was not present in Wolf’s obit. There was a brief, fairly accurate summary of his life before the William Morris Agency, then this statement:
Wolf Willett’s subsequent career was so wrapped up in Jack Tinney’s as to be nearly invisible. Certainly, he devoted himself to relieving Tinney of the minutiae surrounding any filmmaker, allowing the director the time to polish his scripts and perfect his editing. Indeed, that may have been Wolf Willett’s chief, and perhaps only, contribution to American
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