This Side of Night

by J. Todd Scott

  She finally found the turnoff she was looking for, a switchback to the darkened west, and it was like driving down a long, shadowed tunnel—toward a place the sun was still a long way from reaching.

  She had been out here many times after Sheriff Cherry had shown it to her.

  She could find it with her eyes closed. A shallow hole, a blemish on the earth. It was part of her, a hole dug right into her heart.

  A hole like a grave.

  She finally pulled the truck over but didn’t get out, not yet. They still had some walking to do. She smelled the creosote, the desert itself. It was sour and arid, and behind her the stars were giving way to a sun she still couldn’t see.

  She motioned at Fox Uno with the gun. Held it up high. “Get out,” she said in English. She wasn’t going to give him the courtesy of speaking Spanish.

  It didn’t matter, he knew exactly what she meant.

  He opened the door and stood, stretching.

  Then they both started walking.

  THIRTY-THREE

  About twenty-file miles away from America and Fox Uno, Chris rose, too, with the dawn.

  His son was asleep, curled up close to Mel, tiny hands by his face. Chris remembered those long, waiting months of her pregnancy.

  His hands gently following the taut curve of her belly, the immenseness of what it contained, what it meant for them both.

  That impossible heat of her, from the bright flame of the thing growing inside her.

  And, here, now: John Thomas Cherry.

  They’d remade the world when they’d brought their son into it, and Chris had to believe, had to hope, they’d remade it for the better.

  Jack was all the endless possibilities of better things.

  A better world.

  * * *

  —

  CHRIS TOOK HIS COFFEE and sat in the kitchen, with Rocky watching him from the floor. He had his papers spread out in front of him: the new story he was working on (he was always working on a story), and Garrison’s folder and some notes—finally—for tonight’s debate. He needed to think about it seriously, or at least for Mel’s sake seriously pretend that he was thinking about it, but he was afraid there was nothing he could say about his time as sheriff that anyone would truly understand.

  Instead, his thoughts kept returning to Murfee’s bookstore on Main Street; all those old, dusty books in the window, safe behind glass. The store he and Fox Uno had stood and talked in front of, owned by Homer Delahunt, a friend of Chris’s dad. Homer was well into his seventies, and everyone could see it was getting harder and harder for him to keep it up. He’d talked to a few folks about selling the place, but so far, there hadn’t been any takers.

  Chris had called him, ran a few questions by him, just curious.

  He made the call to Homer after deciding, again, not to call Garrison. He’d thought a hundred times about calling the agent, but each time he had put his phone away and hadn’t followed through, until it got easier not to think about it at all.

  While talking to Homer, he noticed that some of the new reelection signs Mel had put up for him had been taken down, or had disappeared.

  Maybe they had fallen and blown away.

  * * *

  —

  HE FOCUSED ON THE BLANK PAPER in front of him, trying to make a list of the things he’d accomplished.

  He could point to visible improvements around the jail and around the department itself. He’d implemented new policies and practices that had brought the Big Bend County Sheriff’s Department in line with modern and, Chris hoped, more ethical policing. He’d trained and equipped his deputies better, hiring good people to be those deputies: America, Danny, and the new kid, Marco.

  He’d expanded the department’s outreach to the Hispanic community.

  These were all things he was proud of, but were they enough?

  Did they matter?

  Though he liked to argue with himself that he was nothing like Sheriff Stanford Ross, for most folks . . . the Royal Moodys of the world . . . that wasn’t a winning argument. Hell, that wasn’t even exactly true, not anymore.

  Maybe he and Mel had remade the world by having Jack, but Chris wasn’t convinced he’d made the Big Bend one damn bit safer by being its sheriff.

  A lot of blood had been spilled on his watch—far too much—and in that way, Chris and Sheriff Ross weren’t that goddamn different at all.

  Chris wadded up the blank paper into a tight ball and tossed it against the far wall. Rocky chased it down, brought it back, and dropped it at his feet.

  The dog sure had Mel’s personality.

  He roughed up Rocky’s fur, then went back to the bedroom to watch his son sleep some more.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  She had Fox Uno walk several steps in front of her, the gun trained on the small of his back.

  It was slow going, the old man taking his time. It was his age, or his limp, or a way to buy himself a few extra minutes to think. It didn’t matter. America would walk all day if she had to.

  For this, she had all the time in the world.

  * * *

  —

  THE SKY TURNED PEARL behind them.

  America thought she saw a coyote skulking away, avoiding the light.

  She definitely spied a great búho, hairy tufts rising high above its head and its yellow eyes regarding them as it flew past in a long graceful arc. It was bigger than any she’d ever seen, the wide space beneath its wings and across its chest far paler than the ruddy feathers across the rest of it.

  It flew so softly, so gently, it made her think of snow falling.

  They walked through a herd of cows, which moved aside at their approach. They stank—thick and unavoidable—and it reminded her of Duane Dupree driving her out to the Comanche cattle auction with his windows down.

  The cherry glow of another one of his endless cigarettes, his eyes all over her.

  Fox Uno stumbled, fell, but she didn’t make a move to help him. He struggled, his pants and hands muddy or covered in cow shit, but he finally stood again.

  She didn’t have to tell him to keep moving.

  The sky went whiter and whiter with the day’s dawn.

  Then they were there.

  * * *

  —

  IT LOOKED NO DIFFERENT from any other part of Matty Bulger’s ranch, Indian Bluffs. It was indistinguishable from the rest of the rolling scrub and the stubbled Bahia grass and a random scattering of twisted mesquite. Maybe there was a fence line from long ago that Dupree had remembered, or a crushed gravel path or road that America could not see, but she’d never know why the former chief deputy had chosen this spot to kill and bury her brother.

  Where Sheriff Cherry had dug Rodolfo out of the earth.

  Fox Uno wasn’t standing on the exact spot, but close enough. He sensed it, too, or at least understood the importance of the place where she had brought him. He knew what happened in empty places like this, far from seeing eyes. He breathed hard and, with the rising sun flaring in his eyes, finally shielded them with a hand as he turned in place, unsteady, taking it all in.

  “You will not shoot me here,” he said in Spanish, shrugging. “You have thought about it. You have dreamed about it. But you will not do this thing. Not today, and not here.”

  She raised the gun higher. She wanted to talk only in English, but was now afraid the thoughts, the words, wouldn’t come fast enough, and she wanted to make sure he understood her perfectly. “My brother died here. Your nephew. He died because of you.”

  Fox Uno looked at his hands, raised them, showing her his palms. “He was a liar, a thief. He was weak. His fate was in his hands, not mine. I did not kill Rodolfo.”

  “Then why send Máximo to avenge him? Why care at all?”

  “The men who did this thing to him were liars and thieves as well. T
hey stole from me. Rodolfo’s life was not theirs to take. They had not earned that right.” He paused, staring right into the rising sun. “I sent Máximo for you. You do not remember this, but I saw you once as a baby. A tiny thing, fists clenched. Angry and so strong then, refusing to cry. You were . . .”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you know me. You know nothing about me.”

  “This is where you are wrong. I know you all too well, mija.”

  Mija was a term of affection, a nickname for a daughter. She’d heard Fox Uno use it with Zita. America’s own papa had used it with her. “Do not call me that. I am not your daughter.”

  “Are you not? Look at what you have become. You should meet my son, Martino. He would admire you, and fear you. You have strength that he does not, that Rodolfo did not have.” He waved at the gun, dismissing it, and then bent down and grabbed a handful of earth, crumbling it in his hands. He looked through it as if he was seeking something. “If you take my life today, you, at least, have earned that right.” He tossed the dirt into the wind.

  “You ruined Rodolfo’s life. My life. No one here trusts me, because of you. Because of all the things you’ve done. Because of what you are. Everything you say is a lie.”

  “Because of what we are, and not everything is a lie, mija. The truth can be as dangerous or deadly as that gun you hold. I have only wanted to protect you . . .”

  She laughed, bitter. “The way you’ve protected Zita? Running, begging for help? Begging for your lives?”

  Fox Uno considered before answering, gathering and searching for more dirt. “You care for the girl.”

  “I’m not going to let you protect her anymore, if that’s what you mean.” It wasn’t a threat, simply a fact. “Look at you. Old and feeble, standing in a cow field covered in shit.”

  America took a few steps forward. The silver gun was heavy in her hand, but she kept it steady. The first month after she’d found it on her doorstep, she’d slept with one hand on it. In many ways, she’d been holding it forever. “You planned for this all along, didn’t you? You were always going to run here, to me, when everything you’ve done finally caught up to you.”

  Fox Uno stared into the dark muzzle of the silver gun, unblinking. He tossed the last bit of dirt away. “What do we do now? What have you decided to do with me, mija?”

  She stepped closer, right next to him. She put the gun underneath his chin, and although it wasn’t necessary, she pulled back the hammer, a sound that echoed over the scrub. Fox Uno looked skyward, his features pinched from the barrel of the gun pressed hard into the soft skin of his throat, before he slowly leveled his gaze at her again.

  The sun was high enough now that they were both bathed in its light, but his face remained shadowed by her own.

  She screwed the gun into his skin, making sure he felt every inch of the metal. Hoping he could smell it, almost taste it. “When I left that gun you gave Rodolfo with Máximo, I thought I’d never see one like it again. I used to wonder why you would send me this horrible thing. What was the purpose? What was the message? But when you showed up on the very same doorstep where I found it, I knew. I understood there are some choices that are already made for us. We’ve both been planning for this day.” She pressed harder, pushing his head farther back so he was staring straight up into the sun. “I have a mama, a papa. Do you understand me? Are you listening to me? Really listening? I told you once, and now, after this, I will not say it again. Do not dare call me your mija. You haven’t earned that right.”

  She gave the gun one more twist. “If you do, I’ll blow your brains all over this field. And then, maybe someday, someone else will dig you up. Like they did my brother.”

  She reached into his pocket with her free hand and pulled out the phones she’d made him bring. She tossed them on the ground at his feet.

  “The truth is dangerous. Now we’re going to find out if you’ve been telling me the truth at all.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  This time he knew he was dreaming.

  Everything is dark.

  PV2 John Newberry whispers in Danny’s ear as Danny tries to hold the boy’s stomach together. It keeps slipping away from him. It is hot in his hands, steaming. Not that it matters, the IED made from an old M795 155mm U.S. artillery shell (he knows this only because it’s a dream) blew Newberry’s legs twenty-five yards across a dirt road.

  Then he is in a hut in Nuristan or he is in Eddy Rabbit’s trailer or he is in both at the same time, and he is having trouble breathing.

  There are a thousand pounds of darkness sitting on his chest.

  A bullet comes through the wall: a single Soviet 7.62x39mm round (again, he only knows this because it is a dream), leaving a band of furious light in its wake. It is like water in the desert: bright, unexpected, necessary.

  Now a second round . . . this one close enough he can feel its passage on his skin. Heating the air next to his cheek, making his bad eye blink.

  Someone is screaming.

  Someone is calling his name.

  How is something a choice when it isn’t a choice at all?

  He grips his own gun tighter and aims it under his own chin.

  The hut and the trailer and the grave or whatever are crisscrossed with blinding light—a hundred bullets.

  Desert sun here and now and half a world away.

  A hundred crosses.

  * * *

  —

  NOW, IN THE DREAM, the entire hut or trailer is filled with light and noise, a war’s worth of bullets seeking him out and punching through the walls that Danny knows aren’t walls at all.

  They are cloth. Just cloth, and nothing more.

  And then the girl’s hands are on him . . .

  * * *

  —

  AND THEN THE GIRL’S HANDS were on him . . . Zita. Waking him up, as Danny kicked free of the hot sleeping bag with his Colt in one hand and a Glock in the other. His bad eye was buzzing, coming into focus, and he pointed them both at her and she screamed, backing away, talking rapidly in Spanish.

  Danny crawled to his feet and checked the bed to find it was empty.

  Amé was gone.

  Early-morning sun was coming in through the blinds of the bedroom window, filling the room with new light.

  The inside of the hut and the trailer and the grave or whatever is crisscrossed with blinding light.

  Desert sun here and now and half a world away.

  Danny stepped into the next room and saw the rumpled pallet, and knew that Fox Uno was gone, too.

  Zita had retreated to the kitchenette, as far away from him as she could get. Hiding behind the table, peeking around it, her hands up. Crying.

  Jesus, it was the second time he’d aimed a gun at the girl.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m so sorry.” He held up the guns, dropped their mags and ejected the chambered rounds, and set them both on the coffee table far away from him so she could see.

  He had done almost the same thing with Fox Uno.

  Now he kept his empty hands raised, where they could both see they were shaking.

  Zita’s crying had begun to trail off, but she hadn’t moved any closer to him.

  She was talking, asking him questions, he guessed, but he had no idea what she was saying.

  “No, no, it’s all okay. It’s fine. I don’t know where they are, but I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”

  He tried to think of what little Spanish he knew, something—anything—to calm the terrified girl down.

  “Helado,” he finally said. “I’m so sorry, Zita. Helado. Helado.”

  He knelt—like he’d knelt beside PV2 Newberry in his dream—and held out his hands to her, steadier now. She watched him closely for several long, heartbreaking minutes, and then—slowly—came out from behind the kitchen table and ran into his arms.

&
nbsp; Helado.

  Goddamn ice cream.

  That was the best he could do.

  * * *

  —

  HE GOT ZITA SETTLED DOWN in front of a Mexican cartoon on the TV. He put his Bullhide hat on her head, and she seemed to like that.

  Amé and Fox Uno had slipped out earlier, before first light, and he had no idea where they’d gone.

  He tried calling and texting Amé several times without success, until he found the note she’d written on the bathroom glass.

  It said simply: Dime.

  The only other word in Spanish she knew he could figure out: Tell me.

  He didn’t have to know the language to understand what she meant. She’d asked him the same thing the other night in front of the apartment, with his arms tight around her.

  He went back and forth on calling Sheriff Cherry, but what was there to say? What was there to do now, except give Amé the time to get whatever answers she thought she needed from Fox Uno—however she had to get them.

  Tell me.

  * * *

  —

  HE WAS STILL SITTING NEXT TO ZITA watching cartoons, an arm loosely around her steadying the Bullhide hat that was too big for her, when his phone finally buzzed.

  He grabbed at it.

  An incoming text, but not Amé.

  It was Marco Lucero.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Make the call,” she said. “I want to hear my mama on the other end of that phone.”

  A few minutes before, Fox Uno had knelt and picked up both phones, and was now holding one in each hand. “It does not work that way. There is a schedule, certain numbers at certain times . . .”