Bad Country: A Novel

by CB McKenzie

  * * *

  Rodeo slept soundly until false dawn when he sat up in his narrow bed and read some passages from the Book of Luke. He left and made his bed, sponged his head and torso over the kitchen sink and then dressed in loose Wranglers and a long-sleeved khaki shirt. He swept his floors and dumped the dust outside then cooked a frittata with brown eggs and Spam and with a Hatch green chile pod cut over it as salsa. He made a fresh pot of cowboy coffee and ate and drank quickly.

  Rodeo put two cans of ranch beans, a small sack of cracked Green Valley pecans, three snack-sized bags of Fritos and a plastic milk jug full of water in a thick plastic trash bag and stuffed the trash bag into the bottom of his father’s old GI rucksack. He set the pack on his shoulders and snugged the straps then checked the speed-load in his holstered snake gun, a Colt .357 Trooper. He clipped his father’s old Schrade Safety Push-button knife to his belt, slung his binoculars and canteen around his neck. He tried to call Summer Skye on his cell phone but couldn’t get any reception so he set a stained straw Stetson on his head and headed uphill toward La Entrada.

  Since he was not slowed by his decrepit dog, Rodeo marched steadily up the small mountain and didn’t stop until he was within a hundred yards of the cave. There he announced his presence loudly in both English and Spanish and then waited for five minutes so that any Undocumented Aliens or others hiding or resting in La Entrada would have time to collect their gear and move off.

  In all the time he had been supplying the cave, Rodeo had never seen a person in La Entrada though he had seen plenty of proof of human existence, including discarded clothing and sleeping bags, trash bags, blown-out boots, cigarette butts and even human excrement dumped on the floor of the shallow cave and piss stains on the walls.

  So Rodeo was shocked to see the man with one hip resting on the metal footlocker and both feet firmly planted in the ground dirt of the cave, with the black graphite stock of a scoped rifle pressed to his shoulder and the side of his face and with the barrel of that sniper’s gun aimed directly at Rodeo’s chest.

  In this beautiful weapon of destruction are handmade soft-point thirty-caliber two-hundred-gram bullets, said Ronald Rocha. Each bullet with a ballistic coefficiency of point four four eight.

  Rodeo was so surprised he did not even reach for his sidearm.

  You probably do not know what that means.

  I don’t know ordnance too good, Rodeo said.

  It means, friend, that when I squeeze this hair trigger with sufficient force your heart will be exploded beyond your spine and your spine will be dust and you will not even know you are dying you will be so dead already.

  I believe you, Ronald.

  Then extract that revolver from your rightside holster with two fingers of your left hand and toss the gun off the cliff with your left hand, Ronald said.

  This is a vintage .357 Trooper with a custom grip, Ronald. This gun would cost fifteen hundred dollars at auction. Couldn’t we just unload it?

  This situation you’re in right now is not about negotiation for you, friend, said the marksman. But it is rather about simple obedience from you.

  Rodeo unholstered and then tossed his revolver. The big gun clattered down steep stones with a loud noise.

  Now the knife.

  This knife was my daddy’s and I cannot replace it.

  I have got sentimental attachments to things I cannot replace too, friend, said Ronald Rocha. Some days I think these attachments are too numerous to name and remember and might overwhelm me until I am crushed by the weight of them. Yet I have seen these mementos, these physical artifacts of emotional connections, including physical bodies, tossed and gone to dust in an instant. And lost. Forever. But not forgotten.

  So you know what I’m talking about then, Ronald, said Rodeo. You know the value that some things have.

  The man with the rifle shrugged. We honor things by our memory of them as we honor people lost to us through revenge. That is the law of the desert.

  Rodeo did not speak.

  I’m saying lose the little knife or die for it, simple as that, Ronald said. This is not a negotiation. I don’t have to negotiate with you about this simple decision which comes down to keeping the thing or keeping your life. And I am not saying that one choice is better than the other, friend. You have free will to choose. I am happy for you to die for the little knife.

  Rodeo pitched the pocket knife off the cliff and that drop scarcely made a sound.

  Now take off your pack and those binoculars real slow and toss them over the side too.

  With some effort Rodeo managed to sling the heavy pack and his expensive binoculars and all the else he had packed for his normal day over the edge.

  Now turn around and roll up both your pants legs to the knees.

  Rodeo did.

  Now pull up your shirttails all the way up to your neck.

  Rodeo pulled his shirttails out of his Wranglers and up.

  Now turn back around and face me and drop your pants and u-trous to your boot tops.

  Rodeo did so. Ronald Rocha smiled slightly.

  You just got to admire a man sometimes, said Ronald Rocha. He stared at Rodeo for a long moment.

  Whatever you say, Ronald, said Rodeo.

  Then have a seat is what I say now, Ronald said. On the ground. And with bare ass on empty hands and with back against hard rock. And do everything real slow because I am a little twitchy right now, friend. And I read you as a hero type, so do not make me kill you right now because I love to kill heroes. You’re not going to be a hero today, are you, friend?

  I’m never a hero, Ronald, Rodeo said.

  No, you are not a hero, friend. I was wrong to say that. Because I don’t think Indians are heroes, do you? That’s something I never saw on TV.

  Whatever you say, Ronald.

  I served my country, but I don’t think I was a hero.

  I am not any sort of hero either, Ronald, so don’t kill me about that.

  Just follow directions and sit on your hands then, friend.

  Rodeo sat down awkwardly on his bare ass with his bare hands.

  I like the way you can follow directions, said Ronald.

  It’s a habit of mine, said Rodeo. My daddy hit me when I disobeyed him, Ronald. So I never did unless I had to.

  Ronald stared at Rodeo and then moved forward to press the muzzle of his rifle gently up one of Rodeo’s nostrils.

  I do not believe that about you, friend. I bet you fought your father from the get-go. And I bet you also had some harsh criticisms of that man, your father, criticisms you never expressed out loud to him. Is this the case?

  Rodeo nodded his head against the pressure of the rifle barrel up his nose.

  And I think you got something to say about your father right now, do you not, friend? What do you think about your father, friend?

  Ronald lowered the point of the gun and pressed it gently into Rodeo’s breastbone.

  My daddy was, probably still is, an asshole, Rodeo said.

  What else, my friend?

  He’s sane, said Rodeo. Shitty but sane.

  Ronald Rocha glared at Rodeo.

  So if your father is sane, what does that make me, friend?

  The rifle butt slammed into Rodeo’s forehead so quickly he did not even have time to think about raising his arms in self defense.

  Rodeo awoke upright, still leaning with his back against the cave wall. Rodeo’s hands were bound behind his back with duct tape. Ronald Rocha was sitting very near him in an Indian squat the barrel of his black sniper rifle pressed into Rodeo’s chest exactly above his heart. With his free hand Ronald poured Fritos into his mouth from a small foil snack bag.

  Rodeo looked at the rifle then at Ronald. The man seemed calm but Rodeo did not move anything but his eyes. The rifle did not waver any more than the man holding it.

  I love Fritos, Ronald said. He crushed and tossed away the Fritos bag that wafted away on an updraft. Fritos are like AMexica, a blending of the worst of
two cultures that somehow works and tastes right but creates dangerous side effects. What do you say about that, friend?

  Fritos don’t sit well with me, Rodeo said.

  Ronald smiled slightly.

  You persist in your nature? Is that how it is with you, friend?

  No, Rodeo said. I don’t know how it is with me, Ronald. That’s how it is with me.

  Your parents must be very proud of you, of your moral ambivalence and lack of heroic expertise, friend.

  My mother is dead and my daddy fucked half the women in southern Arizona then abandoned us and went back to Texas, said Rodeo. I’m not too concerned about the opinion of my parents anymore, Ronald.

  I killed my parents before they could kill me and I doubt anyone will ever find their bones because I ground them up and ate them. And that’s how that is with me.

  Rodeo nodded.

  But we are not getting friendly with each other now, friend. I am not here to be your friend, friend. You are not going to talk me into or out of anything I want to do with your use of pathos and ethos and logos. And if you persist in trying to be some kind of smart-ass detective I can and will make you suffer so much that you will fuck your own dead mother. You will unearth her and fuck her back to death and be glad to do that just to avoid me. Do you understand what I am saying, friend? I am the reason for this. I am the reason for all of this. You are not the reason. You got that?

  Yes, Ronald. I got it.

  I just want your attention, friend? Do I have that?

  Yes, you got my attention, Ronald. Undivided.

  Ronald Rocha licked the salt off his chapped lips.

  Good because I am not going to remind you on how stupid you are anymore, friend. Because I studied up on you, so I know you are smart enough so you can find and kill a man nobody else could find to kill like Charles Constance. And you killed him with your hands, which is harder than some people might think.

  I appreciate the compliment, Ronald. Coming from you.

  Okay then. Let’s not play dumb with each other anymore.

  I won’t, Ronald. I’m not playing dumb anymore.

  So you got some news for me about my Sammy then, friend?

  Not yet, said Rodeo.

  Now there you go, friend. You said you weren’t going to play dumb and then at the first opportunity that is exactly what you do. Ronald scanned the cave. And this would be a bad way for you to go out, friend. Trussed up in your own hideaway place. Dying of thirst. And you think some of your Mexicans coming along here will save you but they would just take the food and water you have freighted up this mountain for them and then leave you here to die of thirst which will be a profound irony if not an important one. Ronald looked at Rodeo. You know your Mexicans would do that to you, don’t you?

  They are not my Mexicans, Rodeo said. But they probably would. Immigrants don’t like trouble.

  So you are not doing good deeds, stocking this earthly storehouse so that your storehouse in your Father’s Heaven will be stocked?

  Bringing food and water up here is just a hobby that occupies some of my time because I am underemployed, Ronald, said Rodeo. Like most good deeds most people do it’s just a hobby.

  Ronald cracked a smile. He tilted his head around the cave at the supplies stored behind him then looked at Rodeo. I see now that you do think things out, friend. You have reasons for your actions and understand them and do not overestimate the worth of them. You are a selfish man though some would call you selfless and you know this. Ronald nodded profoundly. I like that about you, friend. You know how it is with yourself and so you make a world where what you think makes sense makes sense, even when you are wrong about what you think makes sense. And you know that.

  It might be like that with me, Ronald.

  And so I imagine since you know yourself so good and you think you and me are so similar then you see how it is with me right now, said Ronald. And so now you got something to tell me, right? About my Sammy’s bad death?

  Like I said, Ronald. Not yet.

  So you will not tell me what I really need to know so I can get my revenge? Ronald asked.

  I got no trouble telling you what you need to know whenever I really know it, Ronald, said Rodeo. But I can’t tell you who killed Samuel Rocha until I’m sure who is most responsible for his death. Because I know you are going to kill that person in cold blood. I know that’s what you really want, Ronald. Revenge, plain and simple and hard for the person who suffers it from you. You want to torture the person who killed your Sammy and then look them in the eye as you kill them in cold blood. So you see how I have to be right about it, don’t you, Ronald? You see how I have to be sure about it or I will be responsible for the torture and murder of an Innocent and I don’t want that sort of blood on my hands, not Innocents’ blood.

  As you say, friend, there will be much suffering first. Ronald moved to Rodeo and lifted Rodeo’s chin with the thumb of his free hand and locked eyes with him. Is this suffering what you have a problem with, friend? Knowing what I know about you, I do not see how it could be since you once beat a man to death with your bare hands. That could not have been pleasant for him.

  Rodeo shook his head to loose his captor’s thumb.

  So what is the problem, friend? Why won’t you tell me who killed my Sammy?

  What if the person really most responsible for Samuel’s death is not someone you’d expect, Ronald? asked Rodeo. What if it’s not some gangbanger or some punk you can kill easy? Or another soldier? Or a cop? What if it is someone you would not have suspected? Someone you cannot anticipate and relish torturing and killing?

  If it is the Pope and the Virgin of Guadalupe and Baby Jesus or even myself that killed my Sammy, friend, then I will kill all of them.

  Ronald turned his eyes away for a moment and then returned them misty to Rodeo’s dry eyes.

  I will do what I have to do to whoever I have to do it to including myself, said the man. Because this is my code. This is the code that I have known all my life and created with my life. This is the code of my desert. The code of all deserts. That all are the same in my eyes, friend. And there is perfect equality only when each eye that is lost is replaced by another that is lost.

  I understand an eye for an eye, Ronald.

  It makes no matter whether you do or whether you don’t, friend. Your understanding of the situation is not relevant because you are not Me. And that is what makes all the difference between the world of the Master and the world of the slaves, said Ronald. That is what separates man from superman. Ronald leaned his head toward Rodeo. That I do as I please is as I please, friend.

  I hadn’t worked out all this philosophy as good as you have, Ronald, Rodeo said. So life might be a little more complicated for me than it is for you. But just on a practical level I need a few days to finish my investigation, so give me a few days to clear up Samuel’s death. Give me some time to figure out this particular situation in the correct and accurate way.

  What is correct and accurate on one day is correct and accurate a thousand years before now and a thousand years from now, friend, said Ronald Rocha. He rolled his eyes toward the roof of the shallow cave and then rolled them back down. But gods can be generous, so I will give you three days. And then I will kill somebody. Somebody you still love. Or somebody related to you maybe in the White Mountains. Or I will establish myself on your mountain here and just kill somebody on your property. Or kill your dog.

  All right, Ronald. I got you.

  And if you test my patience beyond that then I will keep on killing the Innocents around you until you will wish yourself dead and then eventually I will kill you too, friend. Slowly. Because I will know that you are undependable and simply not competent, so there will not be any continuing need for you in my life or in this world which amounts to the same thing. But you will not know the day or the hour that I come as death to you. So you will be plagued all your life, what is left of it, by that thought that nags you—where is he? when will he come?
You understand that, friend? If you cannot help me, I will destroy the world you live in and then I will kill you slowly.

  I got it, Ronald. I got it.

  The man stared at Rodeo then looked away. When you find out who was responsible for my Sammy’s death leave the name and contact information in this storage box right up here, right in this Indian cave of ours, said Ronald. Because we are Indians this will be our sacred space.

  When I’m sure, when I am dead certain who killed your Sammy then I will leave you the name of that killer, Ronald. I promise. But I got to figure it out first.

  I wish I could do it myself, said Ronald. But even the gods have limitations. And so there are things I know how to do, said Ronald. I can be invisible, for instance. Once apprehended, I can make people confess to crimes and even to desires. I can kill a human or a beast from a mile or more distance. These are things I know how to do that the Colonel taught me to do in the Gulf War and these are my warrior’s powers that all the other gods of war envy. But if you make people speak in tongues and have not the ear to hear what they say, then what they have to say is useless.

  Did you get Billy to talk to you before you killed him?

  Ronald Rocha squinted.

  The Billys of this world are expendable too, friend. They are not protected by their ignorance.

  He saw you and Samuel on A-Mountain shooting your rifle.

  You can discover things. This is clear, friend.

  So you’ll let me do the discovering and then you’ll do the judgment and execution?

  To each worker his work, said Ronald. That will work for me, friend, said Ronald. And you do not care about any of this anyway, do you? In your heart, you do not mind if detection is your business and revenge mine.

  No, Ronald, Rodeo said. I don’t really care.

  The captor stared at his captive for a long time.

  I believe that might be true of you, friend, said Ronald. I believe it might.