Once on foot, they lost themselves in the oak brush and red oak and mountain scrub, in a maze of canyons. Snow dotted the highest peaks, but the sheriff said the elk were down below, where there was still forage. He knew these lands like the back of his hand, had built tree stands along good water and wallows. They’d first see if they could draw in and stalk a bull before resorting to tracking one. They’d lay up overnight and try with the dawn.
When Chris asked if Caleb enjoyed coming out here to hunt, the sheriff looked at him for a long moment before saying that Caleb never had the stomach for it.
They kept moving as a light rain fell. Chris hadn’t used these muscles in a while, and it played hell on his knee. He lagged behind, the sheriff a shadow constantly appearing and disappearing ahead. That’s what happened out here, in this place; everything disappeared eventually. Chris imagined it all as nothing but one huge ghost town, just memories of people and places and things that were long gone. Scarred middens and pictures painted on rocks. An abandoned mine and a lone wooden lean-to, battered by the wind. Arrowheads and old shotgun shells and musket balls left on the ground. Fool’s gold and the bones of fools.
The going was even harder as they worked their way down the roughs, cutting through a mosaic of spruce, fir, and aspen. They finally found a break in the basin and a scattering of monstrous boulders thrown up hard against a water run, trees circling like a crown. The sky turned dark at the edges with dusk. Sitting on a rock, taking water from his borrowed canteen beneath cracked limestone looming close and tight, felt like being gripped by a huge fist.
Chris was breathing hard, trying to hide it, but the sheriff laughed. “Haven’t been out like this in a while, have you?”
“Hell, I’ve never been out like this. I did a little bit of hunting with my dad, but not way out here. I’m not sure I’m going to be much use to you.”
“Your dad was a helluva dentist, best this town ever had.”
“Yeah, but not much of a hunter.”
The sheriff said, “Well, let’s see what you’re made of.”
By the time they camped they still hadn’t seen another living soul—an eagle, maybe, before nightfall. Something small and dark and distant, high on invisible drafts, held aloft by unseen hands. Later they drank coffee spiked with Black Maple Hill, stared together into the fire. There would have been a million stars if the clouds from the earlier rain hadn’t held over, smattering drops that were now flakes—like white ashes—blowing down and catching in Chris’s hair. Something howled high on a ridge behind them; became a series of barks before fading to nothing.
“Do you like what we do, Chris?” The sheriff nudged the fire with a boot, poured out his cold coffee and bourbon and set up another.
“I’m sorry?” Chris said, unsure.
“Being a deputy, working in Murfee?”
“Sure, sure I do.”
The sheriff watched him through the fire. “Maybe it’s not what you thought you’d be doing, but we’re glad to have you back home. The people like you, they trust you.” The sheriff sipped from his mug. “I’m not always going to be sheriff. May not seem that way, but my day is coming, sooner or later.”
“I think you’ve got a lot of years left. Remember, I just hiked around these woods with you today.”
The sheriff grinned, pleased. “Well, it’s still best to plan, to look ahead. And that’s part of the reason I wanted to spend this time with you. Looking ahead. Someone will sit in my chair one day and they’ll have to run for my office. That’ll be easier if that man has my support.”
“Sir, I appreciate that, but there’s Hayes and Busbee. There’s Duane . . .”
The sheriff kicked at the fire again, releasing smoke, embers. “All good men in their own way, necessary men. Duane is a fine example. You always need a Duane Dupree because he serves a purpose; makes the hard decisions, the ugly ones. The people of Murfee need him and don’t even know it and will never appreciate it the way I do. They can’t, so they won’t follow Duane, and that’s the difference. I think they’ll follow you.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re not the sort of man who thinks that way. You don’t covet another man’s possessions.” He held on to the last a little too long. “That’s another reason why people trust you. They believe you’re decent, and so do I.”
“I’m trying to do a good job, that’s all.”
“Everyone starts that way, Chris. You’d be amazed at how hard that can be.” The sheriff looked up to the dark trees, the faintly falling snow. “Anyway, I want you to give it some thought. There’s still time. I’m not quite ready to hang up the spurs.”
“No, I don’t think you are, and Murfee isn’t ready for it, either.”
“Ah, the town gets on, it always will.” He took another long sip. “How about you? How are you and Mel getting on? Duane’s been chatting her up at Earlys. She seems to like the work there. Is she finally taking to Murfee?”
Chris held his own mug tight. Mel hadn’t said anything about Duane Dupree, and as far as he knew, she sure as hell didn’t like Earlys. “She needed to get out of the house a bit. Earlys is a way to do that. She’s fine.”
“Well now, you know Dupree. He can’t stay away from a pretty lady. If he’s bothering her over there, tell me and I’ll handle it. He doesn’t need to be lingering, drinking his damn pops.”
“No, I’m sure it’s fine.” But Chris didn’t know whether it really was or not. The fire popped, throwing a handful of sparks. They hung in the air, burning in the dark, leaving orange trails in their wake.
“He’s been eyeballing that new teacher, too. Anne Hart. I’ve heard around that you two are friends.” The sheriff’s eyes reflected new fire.
Chris’s hands were as cold as the mug in them. He shook his head. “Not so much. I’ve introduced myself, talked with her in passing, like at the carnival. But just about books. There’s still a bunch of them up at the house. My dad and I saved almost every book we ever had. Mel wants me to get rid of them.” He trailed off.
“Mind that woman of yours, Chris. Otherwise, she’ll bring you sorrow . . . I should know.” He shifted, backing up a bit, disappearing into deeper darkness. “I actually met our new teacher even before she came here, before she’d gone back to her maiden name. She was married to a police officer in Killeen. She was Anne Devane then.”
The sheriff said it as if the name should mean something to him, but it didn’t. “The pair of them got into a mess of their own up there. Tragic. You didn’t know that? Maybe it never came up when you two were talking about all those books.”
“No, no, it didn’t.”
The sheriff was so completely hidden by the dark and fire he might as well not have been there at all. “I’m surprised at that, Chris, really surprised. It was quite a big deal in the news for a while . . .”
20
AMERICA
The house was beautiful, like a picture in one of her magazines. Better than her magazines. It was wide, open, real. Rambling on and on, one room spilling into other, like the whole place was taking wing. There was nothing scary about it at all. Caleb always talked about this place in hushed tones. In the years she had known him, this was her first time inside it—la casa del Juez. Caleb said he was out hunting with Deputy Cherry and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow or the day after, but he didn’t look happy about it.
When she asked about that, something passed in front of his eyes before he said, “I think he’ll be fine. It’s all still okay.”
She didn’t ask any more.
• • •
He got beers from somewhere, warm bottles, too afraid to drink the ones already in the house. She held one but didn’t sip it as they walked from one darkened room to another, everything wrapped in shadow, all light and color gone. He showed her the things his mama had bought, put up on
the walls. She’d cleaned out everything from the other wives and tried to make the place her own. Amé knew it didn’t matter—those past women still haunted the place, and Caleb’s mama had known it as well, every time El Juez touched her. Men didn’t discard things, places, people. They forever held on to the touch and scent and sound of every woman they’d ever had, like holding on to whatever years had passed them by. El Juez saw those other women—remembered them—in every corner, in every shadow, of the house he’d shared with them. Even when Caleb’s mama was here by herself, hanging her own pictures or repainting a wall, she was never truly alone. Her own mama used to say, “Las paredes todavía tienen ojos.” The walls still have eyes.
If Amé had been Caleb’s mama, she would have burned this place to the ground before ever setting foot in it.
• • •
The room for El Juez was different. Simple. If it had ever had a woman’s touch, it was hard to tell. Caleb stood at the door, afraid to enter, leaving the hallway light on for her to see. They were reflected in a big mirror, smoke trapped in the glass, and the bed was smooth as a stone. There was a dresser of pale wood, no pictures, and little else. Caleb stayed silent, like this room explained so much on its own . . . that it revealed secrets. Amé felt her life was nothing but empty rooms just like this, going on and on, revealing nothing. Then they were in Caleb’s room, door shut. The lights were off, only the glow of the iPad on the desk as it shuffled through songs. Songs he liked. They were lying next to each other on his bed.
Earlier they’d stood outside on his back porch and smoked the weed she’d gotten from Eddie Corazon until they were both too cold, her bare arms left shaking. But it was warm here, now, lying next to him. They’d never been this close for this long. He whispered that Deputy Cherry would finally prove that her brother had been murdered, that Duane Dupree had done it. He whispered that everything would soon be different. She didn’t know if he was trying to make her believe it, or himself.
She rolled over, propped herself on her arm. What if no one cared about Rodolfo Reynosa, like no one had cared when he first disappeared? What if no one believed the deputy? Or he told El Juez? He was out there with him now, somewhere in the mountains. What if he was left there, like Caleb had been left, but now forever? If something happened to the deputy, what would happen to her, her family?
“It won’t be like that,” Caleb said. “It won’t. I promise.” But his eyes weren’t convinced, and neither was she. But she let his arm creep over her stomach to hold her and then she let him kiss her—what he’d wanted for so long. And it was okay. For a few minutes, she wanted it to be. She accepted he was incapable of seeing, no matter what she showed him. His beautiful eyes were blind and always would be.
His music stopped, started again, at the first song. The room was so warm—like the paper beaches taped to her walls—and so was he. She remembered then something Rodolfo once said when they were coming back to the United States over the Puente Ojinaga, the bridge above the Rio Grande. Hidden behind his big narco glasses, shiny like mirrors, Rodolfo had watched all the people crossing both ways over the bridge, Mexican and American. He’d said in his perfect English: More than a river will always separate us. He hugged her then, laughed at his own silliness, dropped back to Spanish and called her his star, mi estrella. He reminded her that as long as she glowed, he’d always find his way home.
He disappeared two weeks later.
Caleb’s mouth and hands and body found her and she didn’t stop him. Let the walls watch all they want. No matter what happened, she wanted him to remember this, hold on to it forever. It was all she had to give.
21
CHRIS
He was covered in blood.
They got up before dawn, not that Chris had slept much anyway, to the sounds of bugling and other animal noises, and made their way toward them. They broke cover at a wallow—cold water and colder mud spotted with hooved tracks the sheriff said were fresh—finally settling into a killing spot the sheriff favored.
The sheriff put him downwind with the cow call, told him to work the plastic horn. The sheriff set himself up high in a ridge of Hinckley oak. The elk, if there was one, would come direct to Chris’s calls, sounding him out of his hiding place, but it would be leery, looking hard. Elk were big, but not necessarily dumb. Even if it spied Chris, it might never see the real danger lurking a dozen yards away. He had a hard time focusing and fumbled with the cow call, but kept at it. An hour became two or more. He couldn’t see the sheriff, only wind moving pale branches and flakes in the air. The sky was the color of a bullet.
He couldn’t concentrate, not only because of what the sheriff had revealed about Anne the night before, but because of the call he’d made to Garrison before leaving Murfee. He had a day before they came to El Dorado and pushed the DEA agent on getting the full forensic report on the body from Indian Bluffs; told him it was important, to use whatever pull he had, if any. After that, Chris would meet with him and help him any way he could. Garrison had wanted to know what he was supposed to be looking for. Chris had said he’d know it when he found it.
Chris was finally about to give up on the horn, stand and stretch and tell the sheriff he needed a break, when he heard shuffling, breathing. The elk came into view. It was bigger than he thought possible, the musty stink of it carrying to him. It was losing summer weight but gaining a shaggy winter coat, its heavy antlers crooked, dipped low. It was a bull, the points of the rack wide and sharp like an iron crown; lord of a harem, and curious about that solitary cow that it thought was lost or injured, calling from the underbrush.
It came, slow, nose down and huge dark eyes up, scanning. It spotted Chris, saw right through him, and stopped.
Chris glimpsed the sheriff, picking him out of the undergrowth. His gun was up and aiming and Chris could see right down the barrel even though there was no sunlight to gleam off of it. It was as wide as a canyon, a void big enough to lose the sky in, darker even than the elk’s eye—the big animal a sudden blur and burst of motion at the sheriff’s presence. Kicking and turning and running. It looked back once, accusing, as if to let Chris know it was on to the trick all along. But the trick was on Chris. He knew where the gun was aimed, and he yelled when it went off, surprised it sounded so goddamn loud.
He was covered in blood. The sheriff’s shot took the elk through the rib cage, right in the lungs. The beast dropped in mid-leap, stumbling and pissing everywhere; went down headfirst, huge lungs filling with blood.
It never even made a sound.
The sheriff slid out of his hiding place, leaving leaves and dirt in his wake. Chris imagined the gun was so hot it glowed like a lit match.
“Damn, that’s a big one,” the sheriff called out, mostly to himself, approaching the creature carefully. Chris joined him, breathing twice as hard, as if he’d run a marathon. The sheriff, smiling, knew the answer even before he asked the question. “Damn, son, what was all that yelling about?” Then he poked at the elk’s open eye with the muzzle of the gun, to make sure it was dead.
• • •
He was covered in blood, the natural consequence of field-dressing the kill. The sheriff showed him how to cape and gut it, how to cut its head off. They removed the innards, split the brisket open, and pulled the windpipe free. They tied it up by its legs over the little stream and let the blood run out, which the sheriff facilitated by taking handfuls of muddy water and tossing it into the ruined body, watching it all drain out at their feet.
They did more cutting and quartering and the sheriff got out his collapsible dead sled so they could drag their kill back to the truck. It was going to be a long trip. Chris’s hands were red going to black. All that strange blood was trapped beneath his skin and he felt stained, marked, like he would never get it off of him.
The sheriff clapped him on the back, offered his canteen. “It’s a helluva feeling, isn’t it, Chris? A helluva feelin
g.”
Later they were crawling hand over fist through the undergrowth, dragging that damn dead elk, when the sheriff finally asked him about the agents. They were just stopping for a break, the sled between them stinking of cold copper, pennies, when he brought it up.
“The feds are still poking around, asking questions. It’s a tragedy, a horrible tragedy. I never want to see any of our own hurt. If there’s one thing that keeps me awake, Chris, it’s that.” The sheriff squinted against a sun that wasn’t there. “A damn shame. That memorial was tough . . . emotional. And that young girl, all burned up, still hanging on like that? A lot more questions than answers.”
“A lot of bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time,” Chris said.
“Possibly.” The sheriff rubbed his jaw with a bloody glove. “Neither were born or raised in Texas, so they probably thought they were in the wrong place every goddamn day. This place isn’t for everyone.” He tried a smile. “And that’s what bothers me. What were they doing all the way out in Valentine? Working? Seems like we should have known about that . . . spotted them around. A big ole black Tahoe like that? You know, passing on the road, if nothing else.”
Passing on the road, if nothing else. A cold knot turned in Chris’s stomach. Chris wasn’t sure how, exactly, but the sheriff knew about his stop on 67, maybe even the video.
Who do you trust, Deputy Cherry?
“Maybe we didn’t know because they didn’t want us to.” The sheriff eyed him. “Common courtesy says if you’re working in another man’s backyard, you tell him. Feds, locals, it makes no difference. Trust is necessary. It’s a courtesy that keeps blue-on-blue accidents from happening. Secrets only lead to trouble, Chris. Good people get hurt that way, happens all the time.”
The dead elk was still leaking blood all over the sled. The severed head stared back at Chris with glassy eyes. If he bent closer, he’d almost see himself reflected there. “I don’t know. I really don’t.” But pushing a bit, “I wonder if it had anything to do with that dead Mexican I found at Indian Bluffs?”
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