by Lynne Hinton
“Looks the same as the pie last week,” Oris said, just before taking a sip of coffee. He was sitting at the counter.
Bea just walked away, rolling her eyes.
“Weren’t they just in Phoenix last month?” Oris asked, wiping his fork on his napkin.
“What if they were in Phoenix last month? Francine’s got a good friend in Arizona,” Bea replied. “Last time I heard, there’s no law against going to Phoenix every month.”
“Maybe Francine and Bernie have something to do with Fedora’s meth-making gypsies camped out on the forest road.” Oris grinned.
“I’m sure that’s why they ran off to Arizona, Oris,” Bea responded. “Bernie and Francine are running the big Catron County drug ring everybody’s talking about.”
“Well, you just never know; you might want to run it by those guys.” Oris motioned over in the direction of the FBI agents. “It seems like they could use a real lead.”
Bea just shook her head.
“Is there coconut in this?” Oris asked as he picked at the pie with his fork. “You know I don’t like coconut.”
“There’s no coconut in chocolate pecan pie, Oris.” Fred had decided to join the conversation. “There’s chocolate, and there are pecans. If coconut was an ingredient, it would be a chocolate pecan coconut pie.” He hit the bell in the window and yelled, “Order up.”
“There’s sugar in it, isn’t there?” Oris asked, taking a bite. “It ain’t called chocolate pecan sugar pie,” he noted. “And butter? There’s butter too.” He chewed. “That was a stupid argument you just made. Just because there’s an ingredient in the recipe doesn’t mean it’s in the name of the dish.”
Bea walked over to the window where Fred had placed the plates of food and picked up the two lunch specials. She headed over to the booth where the two FBI agents were sitting and put the plates in front of her customers. “You want extra chile?” she asked the younger agent, the one who had taken to ordering extra chile when he came in for lunch.
Agent Cochran smiled at Bea. “That would be great,” he replied. “The hot one,” he added. “And some more tea, if you don’t mind.”
“You need anything else?” she asked the other agent.
He just shook his head.
Bea wiped her hands on her apron and headed to the kitchen. She returned to the table with a bowl of hot chile sauce.
Agent Williams watched his partner pour the red sauce on top of his chicken enchilada. He turned up his nose. “That can’t be good for your digestive system,” he said. “I’m surprised you don’t have holes all the way down your esophagus.”
Cochran shook his head as he took a big bite. “Nah, that’s the thing, red chile is good for the system. The heat keeps everything moving.” He was tall and skinny, wore his dark hair in a crew cut, and preferred brightly colored, narrow ties.
“Yeah, that’s what bothers me,” Agent Williams responded as he took a bite of his turkey sandwich. “It moves with heat when it comes into your system, and it moves out with heat when it leaves it.” He chewed his bite of lunch. “I’ll stick to my American food, thank you very much.” Williams was stocky and short. He was carrying more weight than he should have been as an FBI agent, but even heavy, he always managed to pass his annual physicals.
Agent Cochran shrugged and kept eating.
The two were back in Pie Town after having been gone a couple of days. Frank Twinhorse was still being held at the Albuquerque Detention Center, and even Roger had been denied visitation. They were claiming that his arrest was still being processed and the detainee couldn’t meet with anyone other than the federal agents until the process had been completed.
They had brought other agents into town with them this time. There were a couple of young guys at the garage with orders to get another statement from the fugitive’s girlfriend. Two new recruits were parked outside Frank’s trailer in a stakeout, and a vanload of others had driven up with horses and were out combing Catron County on horseback.
The FBI had questioned everybody in town about the suspect Raymond Twinhorse and about where he might be, but it appeared as if the people of Pie Town had collectively decided to seal their lips and say nothing to the federal agents about the boy who had grown up in the area and now was considered their local hero. The only one who seemed interested in helping them was the bar owner, Gilbert Diaz, and he was starting to rub them the wrong way with his accusations and threats. If anyone listened to him, they’d think Raymond Twinhorse was not only the biggest drug dealer in the state but was probably fighting on the side of the Taliban when he was in Afghanistan.
The bartender in Datil might have agreed to help the agents locate Raymond Twinhorse, but in Pie Town they were getting no help at all. The FBI heard lots of statements like, “You should leave this to the sheriff,” and, “That boy ain’t done nothing to concern the federal government.” They had been given more than a few testimonials to how courageous the suspect was, how much he had done for the country, and how it was wrong of the FBI to be involved in a local saloon robbery.
Agent Williams could feel the town’s resentment, but unlike the younger Agent Cochran, who thought they’d have an easier time of it with the townspeople if they were a little more congenial and not so pushy, Williams seemed to thrive on being disliked. He thought the disdain actually helped the interviews, and he was not put off in the least by the things he heard. He seemed to enjoy the role of “bad cop.”
Agent Cochran had also tried to convince his partner to release the father of the fugitive. It was obvious to them both that Frank Twinhorse wasn’t going to tell them anything about Raymond’s whereabouts, and Cochran believed that keeping him locked up just made the people of Pie Town even more uncooperative. He also knew that they really didn’t have cause to detain the man. There were no drug-related charges lodged against him—or his son, for that matter. There was only speculation, and that came from the bar owner in Datil, the one Agent Cochran was beginning to believe was just a loudmouth who wanted revenge.
On the other hand, Williams thought he was making an important statement by keeping Twinhorse in jail. He thought it added credence to the investigation and represented a necessary show of power to anyone who might be connected to the drug ring he was convinced was being run somewhere in the county. He refused to change his mind or his plan of action, even though Cochran argued that he was only making things difficult for everyone.
“You boys check out my tip about Fedora Snow hiding the Twinhorse boy?” Oris had already eaten his pie. He was drinking his coffee to wash it down.
Agent Williams put down his sandwich and turned to the older man sitting at the counter. “It’s against the law to make a false statement to a federal officer,” he answered.
Oris had made a call to the FBI office in Albuquerque to report that he had seen a boy matching Raymond Twinhorse’s description behind Fedora Snow’s house late on the evening after Frank had been arrested.
The agents surrounded Fedora’s house when someone else called in the same report. After more than a couple of days, Fedora Snow was still filing complaints about the raid, making phone calls to everyone in the FBI, and demanding that the broken door on her greenhouse be fixed and the medical bills she had been given by her gardener be paid.
Stan Ortez had been tending to Fedora’s early tomato plants when he was ambushed, knocked to the floor, handcuffed, and read his rights before the agents realized he wasn’t Raymond Twinhorse. He was later taken to the urgent care center in Socorro and treated for bruised ribs. No one admitted to making the second phone call to the FBI, but everyone had seen Oris and Mary Romero grinning at each other every time they were together for the next few days.
“It wasn’t a false statement,” Oris responded. “There was a young, nondescript brown man in Fedora’s backyard. How was I to know it wasn’t Raymond?” he asked. He winked at Bea.
“If you make another call like that again,” said Agent Williams, turning in his sea
t and glowering at the old man, “I will personally drive up here and arrest you myself. I like nothing better than to put troublemakers behind bars.” He wasn’t as amused with Oris as his partner was.
“Yeah, we all know how you like putting people in jail and just how good you are at making arrests. Bad thing is, you just keep making the wrong ones.” Oris put down his coffee cup. “I figure that’s the real reason why you’re so interested in Raymond Twinhorse anyway. You’re trying to find some way to clean up the mess you made last week.” He paused.
“Hey, if you boys are still in town,” Oris continued, “you’ll enjoy the Alamo Elementary School Summer Program.” He stood up and reached for his wallet to pay for his pie. “Oh no, wait, I forgot. That was called off because the principal is still recovering from one of your personal arrests.”
He took out a few bills and placed them on the table and then took a toothpick from his front pocket. “Bruised ribs, heart attacks . . . makes me wonder what other ailments you’ve caused for innocent folks. Makes me wonder exactly what you’re doing to Frank Twinhorse.” He stuck the toothpick in his mouth.
Agent Williams turned back in the booth to face his plate of food. “Well, maybe it should make you wonder,” he sneered and glanced up at his partner. He didn’t see Oris until the older man was right beside him.
Oris was leaning down, talking right into his ear. “You’re wrong to come around here stirring up trouble with the locals, accusing people of things they ain’t done. Raymond Twinhorse fought for this country, and he deserves better. He didn’t steal no money from Gilbert Diaz, and he sure as hell isn’t involved in dealing drugs. And as far as his dad goes, there’s not a finer man in this whole state.” He inched a little closer.
“And let me just say this, you lay one hand on Frank Twinhorse and I guarantee you that you’ll have more than one crazy old woman bugging the hell out of you and your bosses. I may be old,” he said, his face right up next to the agent’s, “but I’m mean.” He turned to walk away.
“I could have you arrested for threatening a federal agent. I certainly have enough witnesses here.”
As Agent Williams glanced around the diner, everyone there who had been watching the exchange quickly turned away. No one would make eye contact with the federal agent. No one would look at him at all.
“You ain’t got shit,” Oris said, walking away. He nodded his farewell to Fred and Bea and headed out the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
Father George was returning to Pie Town after having spent the afternoon in Albuquerque. The sun was setting, and he was heading southwest, chasing the last bit of light. He had visited Millie Watson, back in the hospital after another fall and injury to her hip, and then he had stopped by the detention center hoping to visit Frank Twinhorse again.
Like the sheriff, he had been denied visitation on two previous attempts, but that afternoon Agent Cochran had been at the center and had let the priest in to see his friend. Maybe it was because he was wearing his collar and looked more official, or maybe Agent Cochran was Catholic and believed the priest had a right to visit the detainee. George didn’t know.
Before he had left that day, he had seen the young agent in Pie Town with his partner—Williams, George thought was his name—at the diner for lunch. He had observed earlier that Cochran was less pushy than the older agent, seemed more like he was trying to get along with the citizens in Pie Town, and that day he had seemed as congenial as usual. George had mentioned to a few folks in the diner that he was going to Albuquerque, and he wondered if the agent had overheard his plans and assumed he would try again to visit Frank. He wondered if Agent Cochran had made a point of being in Albuquerque at the detention center and allowing the priest to visit. George didn’t know how it all worked out; he was just glad it did.
From what George could see, Frank was fine. He was not hurt, he had been eating, and he had been allowed to go outside his cell once a day. Father George hadn’t really expected to see evidence of torture or physical trauma, but after learning that even Roger hadn’t been allowed access to Frank, he had begun to worry about how his friend was being treated and what they were doing to him without legal representation or even what appeared to be due process of the law.
Frank didn’t talk much. A guard stood close by, obviously able to overhear the conversation, and it felt to George as if they were being watched during the visit. He could tell that Frank was uncomfortable; he fidgeted and glanced around a lot. Between his fingers he had been twirling a string of leather that reminded the priest of rosary beads, but it was just leather and Frank wasn’t Catholic.
Father George headed down the interstate, making the turn at Socorro for Highway 60, watching the fading sunlight, and thought more about his visit.
Without giving out too much information, he had tried to explain to Frank that, for the previous two days, he had been searching for Raymond. He mentioned that he had seen Francine and had a lovely chat with her about Bernie and the big ranch he owned, hoping that Frank would figure out that George knew about Raymond’s bike being there and that he knew that Francine had seen the boy near Bernie’s place the day after the power went out. He told Frank about the camping trip he had taken that started out past the King ranch and continued in the area beyond Highway 603.
He casually called out names of specific places like Tres Lagunas and the Sawtooth Mountains and talked about the falcon he saw flying over the North Plains. He told Frank that he had driven over to the Malpais, gone to the visitors’ center there, walked along the lava beds, and enjoyed a morning of exploration around the La Ventana Natural Arch and the Cebolla Canyon. He must have talked for twenty minutes about every square inch he had hiked and walked, hoping for some sign of recognition, some signal from Frank that would let the priest know where he had been with Raymond so that George could go and find him.
Father George sighed. Why hadn’t Frank told him somehow where Raymond was? he wondered. Did he think the priest was just going to turn him in? George knew he wasn’t trying to find Raymond to turn him in; he was trying to find Raymond to bring him to Roger, to keep him from walking into Pie Town and right into the custody of the FBI. He had wanted to convey that to Frank, but Frank had seemed more concerned that others were listening to their conversation.
George had spent two days searching for Raymond, two days searching everywhere he knew to search north of Bernie King’s ranch, but in those two days he had never figured out what he planned to tell the young man when he found him. Even after seeing Frank, he still didn’t know what he would say to Raymond if he managed to locate him. He just knew that he needed to get to him before the FBI agents did. He needed to talk to Raymond, make sure that he was safe and that he knew what was waiting for him before he returned to Pie Town.
George drove along, watching the shadows of the late summer evening dance around him. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. It had taken a while, but he had come to love this part of the country. Even after making a mess of things after he first arrived, he had started to think of Catron County and Pie Town as home. It had taken a lot of months, and there were still some folks who were suspicious of the priest from Ohio, but most of the people had come to accept George as one of their own. He had made a place for himself in Pie Town, and they had let him do so.
He loved the desert. It surprised him to think that upon his arrival he had seen the landscape as nothing but brown and barren. Now, he saw wonderful things across this part of the Southwest. He noticed things. Small purple flowers blooming, sagebrush tumbleweeds rolling across paths, thin clouds, and streaks of sunlight falling on canyon walls. He had his breath taken away more than once by what he encountered in the desert.
He drove along and recalled the sights he had seen during his most recent outing. He had walked over the sandstone cliffs and across the plains, up on the Malapais, and through the Narrows, and even though he was supposed to be searching for Raymond, he had found himself lost in wonder in such a magnific
ent place. He had walked a lot of miles, worn through a good pair of hiking boots, missed a couple of church committee meetings, gotten sunburned and fallen a few times, become chilled to the bone while camping at night, suffered with sore muscles and a painful blister on his heel—but he had never experienced such beauty in his life.
A vehicle sped past George, and he realized that he had dropped below the speed limit and drifted a bit across the yellow lines. He wasn’t paying close enough attention to his driving. He shifted in his seat and tried to clear his mind of the thoughts of the past few days and instead focus on where he was; still, George couldn’t help but remember all the times in the past couple of years Frank had tried to get him to go out in the desert with him.
Recalling the few times he had agreed to go, he remembered that Frank had tried to show him small details of the desert: the way desert flowers bloomed, the fossils and rocks strewn across the earth, the angle of the sun as a way to tell the time. George had always tried to appreciate what his friend was sharing, but he had never fully understood any of it until these last two days. And he had wanted to tell Frank, explain it to him. As he drove back to Pie Town, he realized, however, that in his excitement about wanting to share what had happened for him in the desert and his anxiety about trying to get Frank to give him details of Raymond’s whereabouts, he hadn’t been very reassuring or comforting to Frank during his visit.
George noticed that the flatbed truck that had just passed him had pulled over to the side of the road. As he drove by, he could see there was a man behind the wheel, and he seemed to be making a phone call. The license plate was from Texas, and the black truck was a newer model, one of the larger ones. The man watched the priest as he passed. George kept heading west, but he suddenly slowed down, wondering if he should stop and turn around to see if the driver needed assistance. Highway 60, he knew, was long and desolate. He soon sped back up, however, after deciding that the driver of the truck had probably just pulled over to make a call and wasn’t in any need of help.