He told Johnnie the next time he pulled a goddamn gun on him, he’d better be prepared to pull the fucking trigger.
Then he let Ringo get up and walked past Ortiz and away.
They stood there for a few moments after, Ortiz calming Ringo down and Johnnie half expecting someone to run over or shout, but no one did. And just like that, it was over.
All over a goddamn girl none of them knew.
Johnnie hadn’t planned on crossing paths with Deputy Ford again, until Danny pulled up outside Eddy Rabbit’s trailer.
* * *
—
“A RANCH CALLED THE FAR SIX. Do you know it?” Johnnie asked Eddy.
“Yeah, I know it.”
“Can you get us there?”
Eddy scratched at his dirty scalp, like he was thinking hard, but he was just delaying.
They were all standing in tall grass around their two vehicles, on an unmarked access road, nothing more than an old cattle trail. Johnnie had made them mount up and hightail it from Eddy’s trailer right after Ford left, just in case he came back (and this time with help), so they’d driven around for an hour and found this place, and had been sitting here for another couple of hours, until he finally got the last call.
The Far Six.
The indios told him they needed to get to a ranch called the Far Six. That’s where the old man was. But like everything else in this damn county, it wasn’t easily found on some map. It was here, somewhere.
Ringo was leaning against the Suburban, smoking, whispering with the others. Roman was eye-fucking him, and Ortiz looked like he wanted to shit himself. Only Chavez appeared calm . . . weirdly calm. Ringo had been as put out over seeing Danny Ford as Johnnie had been, and he’d almost shot him through the fucking trailer window just on principle. His pride hadn’t recovered from getting tossed on his ass in that parking lot.
What the fuck was going on around here? What had he gotten them into?
He chewed his matchstick and watched the sky. It was no different from the sky over Terrell. The same pretty, pearly blue, scrubbed over with the same gray-white clouds, but home was a goddamn world away.
The wind blew softly over the grass, pushed it down with invisible fingers. It was still louder than Eddy, who hadn’t said another word since Johnnie put the question to him.
“Goddammit, I’m not asking again. Can you get us there?”
Eddy relented. “Yeah, it’s off Ranch Road 19. Hard to find, but that’s not the real problem.”
“Okay, then what the fuck is the problem?” Of course there’d be a problem. There was always a problem. One problem after another, each of them rammed further up his ass.
“The sheriff lives out there. Sheriff Cherry. That’s his place.”
Of course.
“You’re fucking kidding, right?”
Eddy shook his head, and Johnnie could have sworn that fucker was smiling, like he was enjoying this. “No, that’s the place. I’m sure.”
Johnnie looked at this latest news flash from every angle. What the fuck did it mean? How was Sheriff Chris Cherry tied up with an old narco? Or was it the female deputy?
Danny Ford?
“Juanito, did that piece of shit just say we’re going to the sheriff’s ranch?” Chavez, who’d seemed so relaxed a moment ago, was now loud, suddenly looming over Johnnie. He smelled like dog shit, always like day-old dog shit, like those animals he loved so much.
“Pretty much, that’s what he said.”
They were now all looking at him, Ortiz shaking his head.
“We’re not going to roll up and shoot the Big Bend County sheriff,” Ortiz said, not waiting for the others to agree.
“We’re going to do exactly what the fuck I tell you,” Johnnie yelled. Just like in the bar, he had to get control of this fast. He thought about the empty blue sky above him—these fuckers could shoot Eddy and him and leave them both out here. It might be months before their bodies were found, maybe never.
He drew his gun and aimed it carefully at Ortiz. Just as he’d done back in front of the library, here he was pointing a gun at another cop, and it looked like he’d be doing it again before the sun set. “I don’t give a shit what you think, we’re doing this. It’s done.”
He took a step closer to make sure Ortiz got a good look down the loaded barrel. “This changes nothing. We’re cops, right? Keep your badges on you. We’ll flash them if we need to. We may even be heroes when this is all over. We’re the guys who caught the Big Bend sheriff hiding some narco big shot. We’re the good guys.”
Chavez raised his thick, callused hands. He was all rational again. “We’re cool, Juanito. Ortiz was only voicing his concerns. We’ve all heard them before. We’re ready to move when you are.”
If the others had anything to say, they didn’t share it. Ringo flicked his cigarette into the grass, and after a moment, Ortiz walked over to make sure it was out.
Roman was leaning against the Suburban like Ringo, but his eyes were closed.
It was Eddy who spoke up again, pointing at the Suburban and Johnnie’s Charger. “You plan on driving those right up to the front door? I ain’t really been out there, but if it’s like every other ranch, he’s gonna see you comin’ a mile away. Hell, for all that, you might as well call him and tell him you’re on your way. He might have some cold beers waiting. Or he might not be happy to see you at all, no matter who the fuck he thinks you are.”
There was that secret, amused smile again, and Johnnie almost put the bullet he’d planned for Ortiz into Eddy instead, right then and there. But he still needed him, at least for a few more hours.
And he did have a good point about their vehicles. A damn good point. Johnnie didn’t know why Sheriff Cherry was hiding the old man out at the ranch, but knew why he’d chosen that place.
He must feel pretty damn safe out there.
“Is there anything else out that way? Other ranches, homes? More fucking trailers like yours?”
Eddy looked skyward, as Johnnie had only moments before. “Nah, not so much. Nothing I can think of specifically.”
“But you can get us close, right? Take us up this Ranch Road 19 and near to the place.”
Confusion passed through Eddy’s eyes like the clouds above them. He didn’t know what Johnnie was driving at, and Johnnie wasn’t sure either, but he had the beginning of an idea, something taking shape. If Eddy Rabbit had been betting they’d stop now because of the sheriff’s involvement, or the issue with the cars, it was a gamble he’d lost.
“Sure, I can do that,” Eddy admitted, unhappy.
“Good enough then, let’s go.”
But Johnnie didn’t holster his gun. He didn’t plan on doing that for a while, not until this was over. Really over.
The others started getting into the Suburban, as Johnnie tossed the keys to his Charger over to Eddy. “You drive this time. Lead the way. I’ll ride shotgun, and if you so much as go two miles over the speed limit, I’ll shoot you in the fucking head.”
Eddy bounced the keys in his hand, letting them catch sunlight. “I got it.”
They both walked toward the car.
“Your new friend Deputy Ford didn’t happen to mention where he was going after he left your place this morning?”
Eddy shook his head. “No, not a thing.” Then he added, “Maybe hunting.”
“Hunting, right,” Johnnie said, and spit his matchstick onto the ground.
He’d bet his last few dollars they hadn’t seen the last of Danny Ford today.
But it was okay. Today they were the good guys.
SIXTY-THREE
Danny was having trouble breathing.
It had started slowly at first, a tightening in his chest that had grown fiercer over time, as he lay stretched out on his sleeping bag in the camper bed of the Bronco. It was like a great hand w
rapped around him, around his heart, slowly squeezing him to death.
Just like in Eddy Rabbit’s trailer, then in Amé’s apartment—a hot, crushing darkness descending on him. His goddamn dream. The camper bed was infernal, and although the sun was finally sinking behind the mountains, he was slicked with sweat that was turning his skin to salt.
His bad eye had started to fray, too, like his nerves. A bad lightbulb, winking on and off.
He had to hold it together a little while longer. He just didn’t know how much longer he had left.
* * *
—
DESPITE THE URGENCY on the call several hours ago, Gualterio’s people were now taking all the time in the world, making them wait, letting a covering dusk fall. It’s exactly what Danny would have done, and not very different from when he was working undercover, trying to meet some Hammerskins or Volksfront for the first time. They’d set times and places they all knew no one was serious about, and he’d end up drinking away hours in some shitty bar, only to get a call to move to another, even shittier, bar, or an apartment or motel near a freeway. Maybe he was supposed to meet two guys, and instead eight showed, or no one at all. Other times they’d send a woman, sometimes a teenage kid.
Skinheads, narcos, cops . . . they all played the same game, and John Wesley Earl had been a hell of a real poker player. He used to tell Danny all the time that to win the big hands—to win it all—you had to play patiently, bluff aggressively, and never, ever, be the first one to blink.
During his time with the Earls, Danny had become a pretty good card player, too.
* * *
—
HE’D SET UP THE BACK OF THE BRONCO like a sniper nest.
He had the M110 SASS laid out next to him on the sleeping bag, along with a handful of Clif Bars and a case of Gatorade and two empty gallon milk jugs to piss in. He’d drilled seven ragged holes through the smoky camper shell in three of the four cardinal directions, masking them with electrical tape that he could push away with the muzzle of the rifle or his knife. The raised bed of the Bronco gave him some elevation, the makeshift murder holes presented him clear sight lines and firing angles across the whole front of the property and at least two sides of the house, and the camper shell itself provided cover and concealment.
He’d dropped his AR-15 and some extra mags about ten yards to the south of the truck in a knot of ocotillo, next to the sheriff’s Big Bend truck. That was his fallback position once Gualterio’s men figured out where he was hiding. If they were good, and he was going to assume they were, he’d probably get about four or five good shots off before they zeroed in on him. Maybe more, maybe less, depending on their number and how distracted they were dealing with the sheriff and America and Fox Uno. Sheriff Cherry had said there was supposed to be three total: two bad guys, and Amé’s mother, but it didn’t matter what they’d said, only who showed up.
The truth was, anything or anyone could appear down that gravel drive.
And that was fine with Danny, as long as whatever or whoever it was appeared soon, before he fucking suffocated to death.
* * *
—
AMÉ HAD CHECKED ON HIM A FEW TIMES on the radio, and he could tell by her questions that she was worried he might be having a hard time. Struggling. Despite what he’d told her about his dreams, or what she’d already come to suspect on her own, there was no way she could understand how bad it had gotten. But her voice was still a welcome relief—she’d calmed him, giving him space to breathe, as if she was sharing some of her own air.
So far, she’d somehow kept that huge hand from squeezing him in half.
She apologized again and again, promising him she would make things right. She talked about their date, the things they’d do, the places they could go.
All he had to do was hang on.
But she never mentioned that kiss, that quick moment they’d shared on the porch. Neither of them did. He didn’t know what to say about it, and maybe there wasn’t anything to say.
How had he described it to West? “It’s something . . .”
And some things just spoke for themselves.
SIXTY-FOUR
Coyotes and Danny.
And the sun.
That had been it, all damn day.
Although the sheriff had called him earlier, leading Marco to believe things were finally starting to happen, the hours after his call had passed in maddening silence and heat. The good-time radio in the truck was a bust—for some reason, Denbrow had knocked it out with a hammer—so he’d had only his own thoughts to distract him, and that hadn’t been a good thing at all.
At least now the sun was finally giving him a break, settling lower behind the mountains, turning the horizon pink and orange and blood-red. Eventually the sky would go purple, then dark, before brightening again with stars.
He’d run the AC earlier in the day until the truck had nearly overheated twice, so he’d finally had to shut it off, leaving him to sit with the windows rolled down, tapping his hands on the torn leather steering wheel to keep his focus.
Trying not to think, not to worry.
At least he hadn’t drifted off again, not after his talk with Danny, but now he was afraid they’d all forgotten him.
Maybe everything was already over, or the people he was supposed to be keeping an eye out for had changed their minds about showing up, and the rest of them were all up there at the ranch drinking beers and relaxing or something.
Or maybe something bad had happened up at the ranch, while Marco was sitting out here alone in Walt Denbrow’s truck.
He was about to grab his phone and just call the sheriff or Danny himself, when it buzzed on its own.
But it wasn’t a message or text from Sheriff Cherry, instead it was Vianey Ruiz. She and Marco had started talking some, texting even more, since the debate. She’d sat next to him during the sheriff’s bizarre performance—a performance that had all but guaranteed he’d no longer be wearing a badge two weeks from now—and although Marco still hadn’t asked her out, he was getting closer.
A lot closer.
She was texting now to find out if he was stopping by Earlys later tonight—the first time she’d ever asked him that—and even though he was thrilled, he didn’t know what to say. He had no idea how much longer he was going to be out here, and he still needed to go home and check on Emiliano.
He wanted her to know he wanted to come by, but he couldn’t exactly explain what the hell he was doing.
He was still looking down at his phone, smiling to himself and working out different responses in his head, when a van came rolling slowly down the 19.
It didn’t come up behind him, like Danny’s Bronco, otherwise he would have heard it before he saw it. Instead, it was in front of him, turning into the gravel drive that led back to the Far Six. It was a basic passenger van, nondescript, gray in color, and although it wasn’t dark enough for headlights yet, most modern vehicles with automatic lights would have already had them triggered by the coming dusk.
This van’s lights were out, though, so Marco didn’t even see those reflected in his windshield.
He almost never saw it at all.
It was there and then gone again, disappearing behind some mesquite trees. He caught a flash of it farther down the gravel drive, and then lost it for good behind the cloud of dust it had churned up in its wake.
He had no idea who was in the van and could barely describe the vehicle itself. He’d glimpsed it for only a few seconds, but whoever was behind the wheel probably also hadn’t gotten a clear look at Denbrow’s truck pulled over in the arroyo, either.
He abandoned Vianey’s text and instead started dialing the sheriff. He was mad at himself, but at least he hadn’t completely fucked up.
At least he hadn’t been asleep.
And he did catch the van . . . hopefully in plenty of
time to warn the rest of them at the ranch. That was his only job, but after all the long hours, he wanted to do more. He hadn’t sat out here forever to make one phone call and turn around and drive home.
No matter what the sheriff and Danny had said.
Although he’d been hot and miserable all day, seeing that van move slowly up the gravel drive had made him go cold. As good as it sounded to head back to Murfee and sit at Earlys with Vianey, he didn’t think he could leave his friends behind. He hadn’t joined the sheriff’s department to run and hide at the first sign of trouble.
The sort of trouble that had cost his brother his sight, and his family their home.
As he waited for the sheriff to pick up, he kicked on the truck’s engine.
Denbrow’s battered old truck didn’t have automatic lights, either, so Marco didn’t have to worry about shutting them off, as he turned down the gravel drive to follow the van up to the house.
SIXTY-FIVE
He was lying on his back, eyes closed, when the radio crackled to life.
It was the sheriff, telling him that Marco had finally seen a vehicle, possibly a van, pulling down the gravel drive.
Danny rolled over and got into a crouch, scanning. Directly to his north was the house itself, about twenty yards out. There wasn’t a proper driveway or even a garage, just some crushed gravel and weeds and ocotillo and yucca that served as something of a front lawn, and that’s where he’d positioned his Bronco. To the east was the sheriff’s truck, closest to the gravel drive that stretched back to the 19, which was flanked for its whole length by the occasional stunted mesquite and acacia. Behind and west of the house was a small prefab storage shed that Danny could see the leading edge of, and beyond that was scrub and cat’s claw and sotol and prickly pear and more yucca all the way to the mountains and the horizon beyond. The sun was also heading west, and his Bronco and the sheriff’s truck cast their own long shadows on the ground.
This Side of Night Page 34