Read Online Gibbon's Decline and Fall by Sheri S. Tepper - Free Book Online Page A

distant sound of panpipes that wakened her, the shadowthat stood beside her bed at night in preternatural silence; the strange silhouette seen against a predawn window; the listener who often walked beside her in the pasture. The sound, as of an opening door, and then the sense of the someone coming through. The voice she heard when she was half-asleep. Carolyn, listen! Carolyn …
    â€œSophy,” she whispered into her cupped hands. “Sophy, what do you want? Why are you doing this to me?”

N ORTHEAST OF S ANTA F E, UP the near side of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, roads wind toward isolated dwellings set above the city, one here, one there, heavy adobe piled into sculptured buttresses and curving walls, rosy surfaces shadow-barred by beamed pergolas, sunny patios reaching under shaded portals and thence into the quiet cool of thick-walled, high-ceilinged rooms. Though the houses ape an ancient architecture that did without windows, here whole walls of glass flaunt an uninterrupted vista across the city, the canyons, the desert, south almost to Albuquerque. On that far horizon the Sandia Mountains stand behind their outliers in receding gradations of gray or blue or violet, paper cutouts against the lighter sky, vanishing into night when the lights of the city come on. Then the stars look down and the air is sweet with piñon smoke as centuries-old nut-bearing trees are burned for the momentary pleasure of those who, unlike the native peoples, never think of the food the trees produce.
    One such place was the home of Jacob Jagger, district attorney and, like so many others in Santa Fe, not a native. Now almost fifty, he had been in New Mexico for a dozen years, scarcely time enough to rub off big-city attitudes, even had he wanted them mellowed and buffed, which he did not. Tonight he stood at the sliding glass panel of his living room,staring southward, though careless of the view, waiting impassively but impatiently, as he had waited for a number of years.
    He heard a sound, the tiniest rustle, and turned to see his wife, Helen, standing in the doorway across the room from him, a pallid shadow in the dusk.
    â€œWhat?” he said in a dead, toneless voice that had no hint of either pleasure or impatience.
    â€œI wanted to be sure you have everything you want,” she murmured.
    â€œIf I don’t, I’ll ask for it.”
    â€œI thought … maybe I’d just go on to bed.”
    â€œI think not. I might need something.” He stepped into the room and stared toward her. She was only a dim column in the doorway, a pallid, unlit candle. “What are you wearing, Helen?”
    â€œI’m presentable,” she said with a hint of rebellion.
    His voice hardened. “I didn’t ask whether you’re presentable, I asked what you’re wearing.”
    She touched the light switch beside her. In the sudden glow she materialized, neatly dressed in southwestern skirt, silk blouse, fancy vest. She was, had been, a pretty woman. She also was, had been, of an independent nature. Even now she was wearing boots, which he disliked. Boots were masculine. Boots were impudent. He preferred that women look like what they were.
    â€œChange the boots,” he said. “Put on heels. Don’t undress.”
    He did not watch to see if she obeyed. She had no real alternative. Putting her out of mind, he turned back to the porch and leaned outward, peering down at Hyde Park Road, which hugged the foot of the hill as it curved away to the west. An occasional car slipped along like a bead on a thread, only headlights betraying its presence. Nearer the town, Gonzales Road crossed Hyde Park, north and south. The car he was waiting for might come from that direction or from any direction, even from the north, down from the ski area. Though Jagger believed he had a close and secret relationship with Mr. Webster, his expected visitor, he had no idea where Mr. Webster lived or