Shelton had a balloon and peered out the windshield. He watched Hector’s front door and wondered, should he wait a minute to see if the boy came out, or just bust right in and start breaking shit?
It was strange, but for a moment Shelton pined for the summer. He loved East Cutler in the warm weather, when the kids kicked soccer balls in the street and the men drank cold beers, cervezas, as they stood worrying over the hoods of their Chevrolets. In the summer in East Cutler the women hung laundry from their tiny balconies and stereos blared festive Mexican music. You could smell the grilled meat and the malt liquor and hear the chants of the girls skipping rope.
Shelton felt a little lonely then, thinking about the Mexican families inside their shabby homes, all snuggled up and cozy in the storm. He watched smoke rise from the slanted, weathered roofs and wondered what everybody was doing to pass the time. You could fit a shitload of Mexicans inside those itty-bitty row houses and he imagined whole families gathered around the hearth, making colorful quilts and boiling beans in oversized pots.
Shelton admired much about the Mexican culture, if he sat down to think about it. Mexicans stuck together and valued the extended family. They had a variety of uses for turquoise, which was a beautiful stone, if you wanted Shelton’s opinion. They had also invented the tortilla and had many interesting tales of ancestral suffering. Mexicans were great workers and seemed generally trustworthy, which made this slave trade business all the more disheartening.
Shelton did a blue balloon, then a red one. Red and blue make purple so he did one of those in the name of symmetry. Wha-wha-wha.
He put his helmet on and plucked the Glock from his beltline. He figured he was going to have to go in and root the little fucker out. He couldn’t just sit there all day and wait. Shelton knew how critical the first forty-eight were in the case of a missing person, but as soon as he opened the door he looked up to see Little Hector trotting down the front steps.
He flipped up his visor to be certain, but it was Little Hector all right. Shelton would recognize those baggy jeans and that dirty Dallas Cowboys coat anywhere. The boy fished a cigarette from his coat pocket and Shelton engaged the laser sight and held the red dot between Hector’s jet-black eyebrows and waited for him to notice.
The plan was to freeze the boy where he stood. Keep him still with the laser and then walk up and come across his nose with the butt end of the Glock. Once Little Hector felt the blood rush, once that hard bone and cartilage had turned to sand, he’d be ready to talk. Wouldn’t be no need for clever negotiations.
Hector lit his smoke, then looked up and saw the laser. And that fancy sight paid for itself with the slack-jawed terror with which Hector traced the red beam back to its source.
“That’s right, motherfucker,” Shelton said, and stepped toward him.
Hector shocked him then by pivoting hard to the left and running. It was perhaps the most amazing thing Shelton had ever witnessed, like a miracle or a stigmata. Hector had directly defied him and his Glock, and Shelton was so surprised he stood there for a minute with his Tron laser pinned to the snowbank where the boy had just been standing. Shelton didn’t even think to turn and retake his aim until Hector had disappeared down an alley.
Shelton knew better than to try and catch him on foot. He tucked the Glock away and hopped back in the truck. He jammed the Silverado into drive and sped away from the curb. His tires squealed and spat snow.
He looked for Hector in the alleys and the gaps between row houses, but the little fucker had vanished. Shelton didn’t suppose he got across the Rio Grande by being an easy target.
The mystery of Jenna’s disappearance had been solved, though. If Hector wasn’t involved, why would he take off running? He was knee deep in it. He had to be, to risk life and limb by running from Shelton and his magical red beam.
Shelton turned down a snow-narrowed alley at the end of the street. He took out a few trash cans and snapped his rearview back while the Silverado trailed paint. He pushed down harder on the gas and sparks flew off the brick until the whole alley seemed swarmed with glow bugs.
He barreled onto Jupiter Road and there was Hector, two blocks ahead and running hard through the drifted sidewalks. Shelton didn’t know if he’d ever seen somebody run so fast. Hector was probably in a pair of Kmart high-tops, two sizes too small. Yet there he was, a low-flying flash of Mexican lightning.
Shelton punched the gas and covered some ground. Hector looked behind him, and when he saw Shelton gaining he rounded the next corner and nearly lost his footing, probably would have gone ass over elbows had he not grabbed a stop sign and flung himself forward onto Gibbons Street. Shelton skidded through the four-way himself and had to straighten the truck in the intersection.
Gibbons was a wide road, lined with discount storefronts and gas stations. It was Cutler’s half-mile stretch of suburban sprawl, and Shelton drove it at the speed limit. There were always cops on Gibbons, and while Shelton’s caution allowed Hector to regain his advantage, he was content to trail him as long as Hector was in his sights.
Shelton couldn’t believe the way Hector kept running, the way he maintained his speed. If Shelton had to run as far as Hector he would have already keeled over and died twice. Shelton admired the boy’s grit, which only made their quickly disintegrating friendship all the more difficult to bear.
Hector leapt the fence at the Saint Francis School playground while Shelton came to a stop at the red on the corner of Gibbons and Michigan. There he checked the glove box to see if he had any goodies stashed. He found a pint of whiskey, which was a relief.
He looked for something good on the radio, but it was all commercials. He glanced in the rearview, checked that he was all clear, and hoisted the pint for a swallow. He tapped the steering wheel and waited. There was nobody out, not even in this little ebb in the storm, so he decided to ignore the red and drive right on through. He had another gulp of whiskey, to keep the good times rolling.
Something was playing on the radio, but he didn’t know what it was. He recognized the tune, though, and hummed along. He passed the Amoco Station and the Urgent Care and the comic-book store. He turned off on Stanley Street and there was Hector, finally slowed to a jog on the sidewalk.
He hoped he didn’t have to kill Hector to get Jenna back, or even hurt him too badly, but that was really more of Hector’s decision, wasn’t it? That part didn’t have a thing to do with Shelton. Hector would either cooperate or he wouldn’t.
Meanwhile, the little absconder had run himself into a bit of a predicament. It turned out there weren’t any side alleys or sharp corners on Stanley Street. There was just the road and the razor wire where Stanley’s Used Ford stretched for blocks. Little Hector had trapped himself on a straightaway and Shelton had him dead to rights.
He didn’t guess Hector would stop and try to climb that fence, not when all Shelton would have to do is get out and tackle his ass to the ground. Or maybe shoot him in the back of the knee, but only as a warning and proof of the seriousness of his intent.
At the end of the street was the bike path that ran along the Bear River, which was obviously why Hector had chosen this route. Hit the bike path and he’d be safe, relatively. Shelton couldn’t drive farther than the turnaround at the end of the street, and even as tired as Hector was there was no way Shelton could catch him by foot.
The boy’s plan had been foiled, though. Shelton had caught him long before the turnaround, and he slowed the Silverado to a roll, then parked along the curb. He was no more than five feet behind Hector now, and he gave the horn a couple quick taps in greeting. Wisely, Hector stopped running and turned to face him.
Shelton put the truck in park, then opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. He pointed the Glock and put the laser square on the boy’s chest. Shelton thought about how precarious it all was, life and the universe.
Chapter Eleven
Portis drove the center of Grain Road and the Ranger held a hard, straight line through
the drifted shoulders. The pines were set close and the snow had started to fall again.
Somebody was on the radio, singing about the Houston sky and galloping through bluebonnets. Portis had his window cracked and he smoked as he drove. He nodded at the stereo and said it was Warren Zevon.
“Who is that?”
It was a question I immediately regretted as Portis cast a grieving look in my direction.
“Clearly I have failed you,” he said. “Clearly I did not do enough to teach you what was important when I had the chance.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Who was the third president of the United States?”
“Thomas Jefferson,” he said. “Who was the fifth?”
“I forgot you knew the presidents,” I said.
“That’s only part of what I know,” he said. “And James Monroe was the fifth president of the United States.”
“Just pay attention,” I said. “I can barely tell where the road is.”
“And you wanted to drive.”
Portis leaned forward to wipe at some fog on the windshield and I could see that he was in the height of his glory. He had a smug half smile and clearly believed some critical victory had been won against me. I shook my head at Jenna.
“Don’t mind your uncle Portis,” I said. “He’s just old and sour at the world.”
“For your information,” he said. “Warren Zevon is only one of the greatest American songwriters of all time. In spite of the fact that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has yet to recognize his brilliance. But yet Madonna is enshrined there. As is ABBA.”
“Madonna was a bad-ass,” I said.
“Madonna tongued-kissed a black Jesus,” said Portis. “For which I credit her.”
“What?”
“Forget it,” he said. “Before your time. The point is, they can induct whoever they want into their ridiculous club, but do not expect me to take you seriously as an institution when you deny artists of Warren’s stature in favor of a disco scourge like Barry Gibb.”
I wanted to say something about the road in front of us, how more and more I couldn’t tell it from the shoulder. I wanted Portis to slow down, but feared angering him in earnest, which would only lead him to hammer the gas to spite me.
I held Jenna tight and wondered if it would be better or worse for her if I strapped myself in with a belt. The belt would protect me, but if there was an accident I worried the strap would strangle her.
I thought the best thing was to put the lap belt on and slip the shoulder strap behind me. I did so quickly, worried my precautions would offend Portis.
“He wrote a song called ‘Keep Me in Your Heart,’” Portis said. “It was right before he died of cancer. And I will tell you right now that song will hollow you out with its truth. You will feel as if a piece of your own heart has been carved away. And what did Barry Gibb do? Wore tight pants and made music for homosexuals, that’s what.”
I did not know what there was to say about Warren Zevon or Barry Gibb. I didn’t suppose there was anything I could say. I was just glad Portis had the wherewithal to issue such a rant without slurring. That was really the time to worry about Portis, when he started shaving the edges off his syllables and his words turned rounded and lazy and all slid together in a stew.
I held Jenna and let myself think of what I might do when we cleared the hills. We would take Jenna to the hospital, of course. Then I might grab that hot meal with Portis after all. Lunch at the Elias Brothers sounded pretty good, though what I really wanted was a shower and some sleep. I couldn’t wait to blast off the cold and the filth and then crawl beneath some heavy blankets and close my eyes. I would sleep for as long as I wanted, for as long as I could, and then I would wake and return for Carletta.
I had told Portis earlier I’d never come back to the hills, but even as I said it I knew it was a lie. I needed some rest, but I was no more comfortable leaving Mama than I was when I drove up Grain Road the night before.
I looked out at the Three Fingers and it was frozen where it cut through the pines and pooled. I thought about the white water down the hill and wondered how far north we were of Shelton’s. I was going to say something about it to Portis, about how far we’d come, when I felt the Ranger drop.
It was a bunny hop, really, the brief sense that we were falling before the truck hit the snow and we were pushed forward in our seats. I turned my shoulder toward the dash and smacked it hard, but I kept Jenna from the impact as best I could.
I bit down hard on my tongue and after the truck settled some from the jarring my mouth filled with blood and Jenna started to cry.
“Shit,” Portis said, and tapped the gas.
I could hear the tires spin and Portis put it in reverse, but the truck wouldn’t budge. I spit some blood on the floor and then looked over at him behind the wheel.
“We’re stuck,” he said.
The headlights were cast toward a small stand of birch, and between them and the trees there was deep, drifted snow. Portis tapped the gas and tried to rock us out again. He went from forward to reverse, then back to forward, but the tires only spun.
“I drove us off the road,” he said.
“I could get out and push,” I said.
Portis reached out and punched off the radio.
“Hush,” he said.
He rolled his window down and we were blasted by the wind. I bounced Jenna on my knee to try and calm her. It took me a moment, but then I heard the buzzing.
“Shit,” I said. “Is that them?”
Portis leapt from the truck and told me to grab Jenna’s things. I threw the bag over my shoulder and pushed the door open as Jenna’s crying reached full throat.
“They’re close,” he said.
I nearly fell forward when I hit the ground but I plunged a hand into the snow to keep from going over. The drift was to my shins and I stumbled again when I tried to step forward. Then I felt Portis behind me, grabbing me by the hood to pull me free.
He pointed at a stand of jack pines and said there was a deer blind at the top of the rise just beyond them. The whole hillside was a dull, gray blur to me, but Portis knew every inch and read that little spread of trees like a neon sign. He took off with his own rucksack and the rifle and I followed with both hands cupped beneath Jenna to keep her head from bouncing.
I could hear the sleds nearing but I was afraid to turn around and look. I ran hard and straight and nearly slammed into the blind before Portis swung the door open and guided me in. I’d been looking in the trees and never thought he meant a ground blind.
It was a small square of old, weather-beaten wood and there were openings cut in on two sides for shooting. The ground was dirt and snow-dusted grass, and I fell back on my butt and looked to Portis. He told me to fix Jenna a bottle.
“Keep her quiet,” he said. “Cover her mouth if you have to.”
I dug through the backpack but could not find the formula. Jenna was shrieking and Portis turned to me as he pulled a box of bullets from the ruck and loaded the rifle.
“Cover her up,” he said.
I put my hand over Jenna’s mouth and forced myself to squeeze. I could feel her lips quivering and trailing spit along my palm and when she began to kick I pulled back and her cries spilled out.
Portis squatted beneath the window and pointed at the corner of the blind directly across from him. I slid over with Jenna and backed myself against the wall while he eased up to look through the window.
“They seen us,” he said.
“Shelton?”
“No,” he said. “It looks like Arrow and Krebs.”
“Is it just the two?”
“Yeah. Looks like. They don’t see the blind yet, but they seen the truck. Probably heard us too.”
I jostled Jenna in my arms.
“I’m not running,” I whispered.
“You run if I tell you run.”
“We’ll see if I do,” I said.
Portis aimed the rifle through the wind
ow and steadied it on his shoulder. He asked me if I could see out, and I sat up into a squat so that I could.
“On the right is Arrow,” he said. “The other is Krebs.”
They were both moving in a slow crouch. Krebs had a handgun drawn in the center of the hill, while Arrow carried a pack strapped to his shoulders and moved up the tree line.
“I got a sight on either one of you,” Portis called. “And I don’t mind shooting. Just so we’re all on the same page.”
Krebs froze and then dropped into the snow while Arrow stooped lower, came a few more yards up the hill, and took cover in the pines.
“Here comes the warning,” Portis said, and fired off into the trees.
The men ducked low and Jenna nearly leapt out of my lap. She cried out again and I whispered to her that it was okay. That everything was going to be fine.
It was Krebs that hollered up the hill.
“Who you got in that blind with you, Portis?”
“That is not your concern.”
“I think you got a little baby up there with you. And Arrow said he seen a girl.”
“Well, Arrow can’t see for shit.”
“Baby don’t sound too happy,” said Arrow. “From the way it’s crying.”
“She senses your presence and it does not agree with her.”
“What’s funny,” Krebs said, “is we had a baby go missing last night. Down at the farmhouse. And Rick put out a reward. Five thousand dollars to whoever brings her back.”
“Five thousand,” Portis said. “That ain’t much for a baby. Is it white?”
“Far as I know,” said Krebs.
“If it’s white it should be worth ten. Old Rick’s playing you for suckers, boys. A white baby is worth its weight in gold. Did you know that all around the world, people prefer the white baby to other races? Were you aware of that, Krebs? People will take a white baby over a member of their own tribe. I think that’s sad, don’t you?”
“You know,” Krebs said. “It turns out I don’t have time for your bullshit.”
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