Maybe Johnnie couldn’t see those looks, but he could definitely feel them.
Eddy could.
They probably felt like spiders crawling all over him.
* * *
—
JOHNNIE SIDLED BACK OVER TO EDDY and leaned in close. There was sweat beaded on his forehead, and he stank. “And you’re going, too, motherfucker. I may need your help, and I sure can’t leave you here alone, now can I?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,” Eddy said. He’d taken his best shot at Johnnie, and maybe, just maybe, he’d bought Danny, and even Deputy Reynosa, some time. Maybe he’d saved Charity, too, for a while longer.
And the day wasn’t over yet. Hell, it was just getting started.
Eddy wasn’t going to make it all the way to sundown, not in the company of these murderers, but then again, his old amigo Johnnie might not either.
Fair enough.
He pushed Johnnie away, almost daring him to take another swing at him, but Johnnie didn’t. He let him go.
There was that feeling of lightning in the trailer again, and it made the hair on Eddy’s arms stand up.
Eddy strolled into the kitchenette, not a goddamn care in the world. He was feeling good, loose. He looked over to the others, any of them, except for Johnnie.
“I can’t do shit on an empty fuckin’ stomach, so I’m gonna make some eggs . . . Any of you sons of bitches want any?”
FIFTY-FIVE
Marco Lucero was almost asleep . . . again.
It was the slow-rising heat, the relentless eastern morning sun against the windshield, and the boredom.
That, and the fact he was plain tired. He’d been sitting out here alone since he got a surprise wake-up call from the sheriff at three-thirty a.m.
Marco didn’t mean for it to keep happening, but his eyes kept getting heavy. Heavier. There was just nothing out here near the Far Six.
He hadn’t seen a single living thing move in more than an hour.
Nothing at all, after the coyotes . . .
* * *
—
THERE’D BEEN FIVE OF THEM, moving fast to stay ahead of the retreating night.
After they’d slipped by, he tried to do some Googling on his phone about them—anything to pass the time and stay awake—learning that it was unusual to see coyotes in packs, unless they were hunting a deer or some other big animal. He couldn’t imagine what was big enough to hunt out here other than a deer, except for maybe a bored deputy, sitting alone in a crappy truck.
But he hadn’t felt any fear watching them, all sleek fur, in tans and grays and whites. Alive, and almost within reach, as they swept around the truck. There was something fast and feral and low to the ground about them, and they’d moved away so silently. They were gone as fast as they’d appeared, except for one—the largest, with a clear white flash along its spine. It had stopped just beyond the truck’s hood to look back at him, and where he expected to see orbs as dark as the shadows they were chasing, its eyes had been bright, startling yellow.
Curious.
Those eyes had asked the same question Marco was asking himself: What the hell are you doing here?
It had watched him watching it back, before disappearing into a patch of creosote.
* * *
—
SINCE THE COYOTES, time had crawled by increasingly hot and empty, with Marco cooped up in a truck Till Greer had seized from Walter Denbrow, after the old bastard had gotten two DWIs and refused to pay three years’ worth of speeding tickets. It had been sitting in the department impound for about six months, and it still smelled of Denbrow’s cheap cigars and something rotten, like an animal had died inside it. Other than getting out to take a piss against an ocotillo, Marco had been constantly wrapped in that stink, and he was afraid even a good, long shower wouldn’t wash it off.
Murfee was safer for not having Walter Denbrow on the road, but he was slowly killing Marco Lucero.
Marco already knew he hadn’t brought enough water—his throat as thick and dusty as the tires on the old truck—and he would have gladly killed for an icy glass of lemonade or a sweet tea. He had tucked the old truck up in an arroyo, within sight of the gravel drive that led back to the Far Six, and the sheriff had told him to be on the lookout for something, anyone, approaching the ranch, possibly that stranger from Earlys—which made him want one of those Cokes that Vianey always poured for him—but with each passing minute, it was only getting harder to concentrate, to stay away awake.
He was starting to think he wasn’t cut out for this deputy business after all.
His eyes were just starting to slip . . . again . . . when a truck roared up behind him.
* * *
—
MARCO WAS RELIEVED TO FIND OUT that it was only Danny in his Bronco.
Marco had finally broken down and texted the other deputy earlier, wanting some answers, some clarity. He trusted Danny, but the truth was, no one was being clear about what was going on. He knew it somehow involved America, and the old man and girl who’d been staying with her, and Marco figured the sheriff wasn’t saying much to protect them in some way. But it sure didn’t make his role any easier or make him feel any better about it.
Neither did nodding off, when you were supposed to be the lookout.
Danny slowed way down to get a look at him, and when he rolled down his window, Marco could tell he was visibly relieved, too. Marco had assumed that if Danny showed up, it would be in his department truck. But, then again, Marco wasn’t in his duty truck, either—the sheriff had insisted he get Denbrow’s—and that had caught Danny by surprise.
He wasn’t the least bit angry that he’d almost caught Marco napping. Instead, Danny appeared glad he hadn’t needed the gun they both knew was aimed at Marco just beneath Danny’s open window.
* * *
—
“JESUS,” DANNY SAID. “You really are here.”
Marco tried to keep the shakes out of his voice. Danny hadn’t said it out loud, but he might as well have: I almost shot you.
“I texted you that I got a call from the sheriff last night, asking me to hightail it out here and set up where I could see the access road back to the Far Six.”
“Goddamn,” Danny said, shaking his head. “He shouldn’t have gotten you into this.”
Given the look on Danny’s face, Marco was starting to agree. “I don’t even know what ‘this’ is. He told me not to do anything, just call if I saw a car or something out here. He made me promise that. I think he has Till and Dale doing drive-bys on America’s apartment, too.” Knowing how much time Danny spent there, he almost said “your” apartment, but checked himself.
“Okay, okay,” Danny said. “It’s all right.” But Marco could see again all over Danny’s face that it wasn’t all right—not at all—and that Danny wanted to tell Marco to go home, to get as far away as possible from whatever the hell was about to happen at the ranch. Instead, he seemed resigned to the fact that the damage was already done, or that having Marco posted out here wasn’t such a bad idea after all . . .
He clearly wasn’t happy about it, though.
“Listen carefully, Marco. No matter what happens, no matter what you think you hear, do not drive back up to the house. If another car you don’t know approaches you, you head back to Murfee, double-time. Find Till and Dale and the rest of them and wait to hear from me or the sheriff. Got it?”
Marco nodded, now more worried than if he had never texted Danny at all. He stared into the morning glare burning on Denbrow’s windshield, but it didn’t shine any light on what was really going on.
“Do you have your gun?” Danny asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Good, don’t plan on using it.”
“What’s happening?” Marco asked. “Is America okay? Does this have to do with that guy in
the bar? Just tell me something, please.” He was already convinced Danny would lie to him, and he did, easily:
“Everything’s fine, it’s probably nothing.” But his eyes—as bright as that coyote’s eyes—couldn’t help reflecting the truth anyway, just as they had when Danny had first pulled up next to him and rolled down his window.
Do you have your gun?
Just two deputies in unmarked vehicles on a lonely stretch of road with their guns drawn.
Things were far from fine. And if both the sheriff and Danny had decided they needed Marco’s help, things were a hell of a lot worse than that.
Danny smiled at him anyway, and with a wink told him again it was all going to be okay, as long as Marco tried a little harder to stay awake.
FIFTY-SIX
Waiting . . .
Chris tried writing, but the words wouldn’t come.
He’d lost the thread of the story—the one he’d been working on in the months leading up to the debate. Words he’d already written were strange to him now, unfamiliar, as if they were put down by someone else’s hand. He didn’t know these characters anymore, had no idea what they’d say or what they’d do. He couldn’t remember the original ending he’d been working toward, or how to find his way there again.
It happened sometimes. Writing was trying to catch sunlight and shadows in your hands, grabbing hold of fleeting thoughts and impressions. If you were successful, each story became a time capsule, a snapshot of your life right as you put down the words. The problem was, Chris didn’t want any kind of photo of these last few days.
He hoped he wasn’t going to have to spend the rest of his life reliving them.
* * *
—
HE’D PLACED SILENT LOOKOUTS at the Presidio–Ojinaga bridge and the other Customs and Border Patrol checkpoints throughout the Big Bend. He’d made a call to Elgin Bartlett, the old CBP dog handler friend of Ben Harper’s, who’d since been promoted. He didn’t know exactly what Elgin might look for, but at least he gave him the identifiers for America’s parents, so if they legally came through one of the points of entry, he’d be alerted.
And as much as he didn’t want to expose anyone else in the department to what they were doing out here, he’d had Till Greer and Dale Holt doing regular drive-bys of Amé’s garage apartment since last night. They were working from Marco Lucero’s rough description of the leather-jacketed man who’d been asking questions about Amé at Earlys, and Marco himself was parked in the shadows of the tiny bridge over the wash at Ranch Road 19, giving him a long eye on the gravel turnoff that eventually led back to the Far Six. Nothing could come down that stretch without Marco seeing it.
Chris had done everything he could think of.
But all his efforts hadn’t yielded much. Only Marco texting him to say he’d seen a pack of coyotes—the four-legged kind—crossing 19, skulking over the road and into the scrub on the other side. The young deputy had been surprised, amazed, how the animals had suddenly appeared, and then slid fearlessly past his truck into the dry creek run.
Close enough to touch, and he’d never even heard them.
Marco had grown up in Murfee, but had probably never spent much time way out here. Few people did.
All this beauty, all this raw wildness, sometimes came with a steep price all its own.
Marco’s coyotes were a good reminder that even in all this apparent emptiness, you were never truly alone. It was just too damn easy to find trouble you weren’t even looking for.
* * *
—
CHRIS PUT THE PEN and yellow legal pad away, grabbed his A5 and the Remington from where they lay in a patch of sunlight on the kitchen counter, and got up to make another endless, useless circle around the house.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Danny arrived at the ranch and immediately disappeared into a bathroom, and when he came back out, he was in his desert camo fatigues.
America had seen them before, hanging up in Danny’s closet at his place. He’d brought several pairs of them back from Afghanistan, but he’d never worn them, until now.
He was carrying his department-issued AR-15, but slung over his shoulder was another long gun that America didn’t recognize. It must have been what he’d brought into the sheriff’s house wrapped in the Dallas Cowboys blanket.
At his feet were two backpacks.
He had his Colt in his holster, too, and she could pick out the bulk of his deputy’s body armor beneath the fatigues. Her vest was still leaning against the wall by the front door.
He had magazine pouches across his chest and more on his tactical rig.
Yesterday, he’d refused to drive his department truck or wear his deputy’s uniform, and he’d given his Bullhide hat over to Zita. Now, standing in his old fatigues, he’d truly abandoned all pretense of being a sheriff’s deputy.
She’d helped make Danny a soldier again.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Chris walked into the kitchen from out back to find both Danny and Amé standing there, and stopped short. He’d run over a dozen things he wanted to say to Danny when he returned, but now seeing his deputy for the first time in his old combat BDUs, armed with a rifle he didn’t recognize, he didn’t know where to start.
He just said, “Danny, no . . .” and Danny finished for him anyway.
“I’m sorry I’ve been gone, but I needed to take care of a few things.”
Danny moved over to the kitchen window, still talking so Chris wouldn’t have to. “Look, I’ve been thinking about this since yesterday. We’ve generally got good sight lines from the house windows, but we’ll be trapped in here if things go bad, and we have way too many blind spots. With only three of us, we can’t cover them all, not if we’re trying to keep an eye on Fox Uno, too. Plus, someone’s got to expose themselves when Gualterio’s men approach, unless you plan on inviting them in for a cup of coffee. I’m going to take up a position outside, out front. I’ll have a clear view up the main drive, and most of the west side of the house if they try to flank us. I’ll already be burrowed in before they arrive. Just like our cover and contact scenarios . . . you two are contact, I’m the cover.”
“Danny, you can’t sit out there all day,” Chris said.
“I’ll sit there long as I have to, just like you’re having Marco sit out there right now and play spotter in that old truck.” Danny’s voice was tight, angry. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Chris knew Danny didn’t like Marco’s involvement any more than he did. “Amé got the call early this morning. Too early. It was a surprise. I thought we had another twenty-four hours, at least. I wouldn’t give them our location, but they’re pressing. Told them we wouldn’t do this meet until after daybreak. I had to do something. When they do arrive, they’ll have to take that long approach up to the house. That’s the only way in or out. And you’re right, we will need as much heads-up as possible. That’s why Marco’s out here. He was also the only one who got a true look at the man in Earlys, if it comes to that.”
“You can still send him home, get him clear of all this. I’m here now.”
Chris knew he could . . . should. God knows, he didn’t want to hang any more memorial pictures outside his office. But he also knew it was better for all of them to have Marco sitting right where he was, just like it was better to have someone set up right outside the house, as Danny was now arguing for.
If Gualterio’s men did try to ambush them, they could find themselves trapped, pinned down, unable to shoot their way out. The walls would provide some cover, but not enough, not for long. Not if they had to hold out for a while, or if things went from bad to worse.
Duane Dupree’s home had burned down around him.
“Marco stays, Danny. At least out there on the road, he’ll be clear of whatever happens here. But I can’t ask you to do this.”
“And you can’t order me not to, not
now. I’ve trained for this. I know this.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” That’s why you really accompanied Amé out here yesterday. You wanted to size up our situation, make a plan. Chris motioned at the rifle he didn’t recognize. “Do I want to know where you got that?”
“No, probably not. I’m sorry, I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”
Chris stared out the kitchen windows, past the scrub, into the sunlight, where he’d been walking a few moments before. Last night he’d stared into the darkness out there and asked Amé if Fox Uno had changed them, and now, facing Danny in his BDUs, facing the decisions he’d made and what they were all about to do, he had his answer. “Okay, we do it your way,” he said.
Danny pointed at a bag at his feet. “I also brought our handheld radios and earpieces back from the department, and plenty of extra batteries. The range isn’t worth shit, so I didn’t even bother giving one to Marco, but up here at the house, we can use them.” Danny lifted the bag. “I’m going to go get set up, then we’ll test them. You may not have told these men where we are, but they’re going to figure it out soon enough.”
Chris looked through the windows again. “I figure they’re on their way now.”
Danny shrugged. “They’re probably already here. Somewhere close, watching, waiting.”
“¿Por qué?” Amé asked, the only thing she’d said during the whole conversation.
“They’re getting ready. Just like we are,” Danny said. And before Chris could say anything, one of Fox Uno’s phones started to ring.
FIFTY-NINE
Fox Uno did not know how many people he had killed with his own hands, or had ordered killed by the hands of others.
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