by Chris Fabry
Something squeaked behind him, metal on metal. The old woman, braking. The car took a painfully long time to stop, the brakes like fingernails on a blackboard. Muerte stood over the body and stared at her, willing her to keep going. When she didn’t, he motioned for her to move, and the dog jumped at the back window with its head at an angle, whiteness covering the left eye with a cloudy film. Its tongue slapped the window and a cascade of saliva ran down the glass.
The woman hit the Power button for the passenger window and the glass inched down. She spoke over the barking. “Is that fellow dead?”
Muerte gripped the pistol behind him and leaned down. His stare should have been enough to move her, but she seemed confused. Ancient hands gripped the wheel. Her skin was opaque and wrinkled, and fat hung from the undersides of her arms.
“If you know what’s good for you, ma’am, you’ll keep driving.”
“Is that a threat, mister?” She scanned the scene. “What happened here?”
She studied Muerte and then rose up a little to see the body. Muerte took a breath and counted to three, glancing at the road, giving her time to move. When she didn’t budge, he brought out the gun.
“I don’t know what’s happening to this country,” she said. She stepped on the accelerator and crawled between the cars, talking as she drove, the window still down.
Muerte nudged Miguel with his foot but he could tell the stare of death. He took the man’s wallet, retrieved the laptop from the damaged car, and moved to the truck. The passenger door was still open. He pulled out the registration under the name John David Jessup and shoved it in his pocket. He thought about dragging Miguel’s body into the Escalade and torching the car but decided it would take too much time, and there was no telling when someone else would come upon the scene. Besides, by the time the authorities figured out what had happened here, the girl would be dead and the country in shock. It would take a long time to make the connection between this road mishap and what he had planned. Maybe they never would.
The image on the screen moved toward the city, so he swung the car around and drove away quickly. Another two miles down the road, he passed a police car heading the opposite direction, its lights off. He slowed his breathing and checked his speed. He couldn’t let paranoia overcome him. He was simply another car on the highway. A hunter, in control.
He would wait until the girl and her friend stopped, wait until they landed, like flies, and then he would strike. Hard. Catch them unaware, finish the chapter, and move to the next.
9
SMALL DECISIONS LEAD TO BIG ONES. That’s what J. D.’s father had always said. Integrity comes in inches, not miles, and is built over time. Brick by brick, day by day, one decision after another. The mortar holding it all together is truth and love for your fellow man. If you care for others more than you care for yourself, you’re on the right track.
These were J. D.’s thoughts as he drove, reflections of his life, words from his father that sounded good growing up, things J. D. had seen at work every day. Integrity was cumulative, compounding like interest on a debt, growing in the heart and mind as his father said. He had tried to live by the rule, but at some point another equation took over, almost the converse of the postulate: It only takes one decision to begin unraveling the cord. One misstep can lead from integrity to devastation and encompass everyone in a man’s path.
There had been a series of arguments, of fallings-out between J. D. and his father. The two were as different as night and day, and his mother struggled to become both dusk and sunrise to bring them together. His brother, Tyler, had been the uninterested bystander.
In spite of his desire to live as an island, wanting his choices to affect only himself, J. D. knew he was connected. The ripples of his life touched the beachheads and inlets of a thousand hearts. Just like his father’s life. The one he had not measured up to. And he was beginning to understand he never would. He would never be the man he wanted to be, the man his father wanted. Life didn’t allow that now.
But he had also seen through his father’s facade. The parent who said he only wanted the best for his son had shown he simply wanted a problem-free, worry-free retirement without encumbrances. The man’s own cord had unraveled, and J. D. saw the spiraling free fall of his father’s life with all the feathers and the hard pavement underneath. J. D.’s choices had revealed these hidden cracks and fissures. He hadn’t seen it when he was younger, when he was reaching for the top, striving for success, but now that he was at the bottom he could. And that was a gift—one he would never have put on a list, but there it was.
He drove in the noisy silence of the Suburban toward the city. Even with the windows up, there was a whistling of wind through the sunburnt window molding. The air conditioner had desperately needed recharging ten years earlier. He was sweating in places he didn’t know he had. But going toward people instead of away from them seemed right. Hide in the middle of the crowd rather than behind a saguaro. There were problems with that plan, but it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances.
Still on I-19, his cell rang and he answered.
It was Win. “Did you find her, J. D.?”
“I did, but there’s a long story behind the finding I’m not ready to tell.”
“Where you at?”
“Can’t tell you that either, compadre. Probably better you don’t know. But I’m going to have to borrow your vehicle. You okay with that?”
“Sounds like you’re already on your way and it doesn’t matter if I’m okay with it.”
“You’re probably right.”
“How far you going?”
“Can’t say. Just need to get out of town.”
“Are you in trouble, J. D.?”
“It appears so. Feels like I’m coasting toward trouble downhill with the engine in neutral.”
“And you have bald tires and wheels out of alignment. I know the feeling.”
“Well, it’ll work out.” He said it with a measure of dread.
“Yes. But . . . I’m concerned.”
“I know how to take care of myself, Win.”
“All right. Just know that’s a farm truck. It’s not meant for the open road. I drive it around here but there’s no registration. Add some oil when you fill up.”
Maria rolled her window down, and J. D. had to plug his left ear and hold the steering wheel with his knee.
“There’s something else you ought to know,” Win said.
“What’s that?”
“There’s a loaded .45 in the glove compartment. I keep it there for coyotes.”
J. D. looked at Maria, her hair swirling in the hot wind. Like a vision of something that fell from heaven or crawled up from hell—he couldn’t tell which.
“I’ll get the truck back to you. But I can’t say when.”
He could picture the man’s face, grimacing with regret. “I’m praying for you, J. D. That you’ll go to the police. Let them handle this.”
“It’s not just her now, Win. I’m mixed in too. Do me a favor and call Slocum. I won’t be back today or at the farmers’ market tomorrow. Explain what happened.”
And then it hit him. He had a stash of cash in the schoolhouse. For an emergency. He thought about asking Win to retrieve it, but he couldn’t do that. The police would be at Win’s any minute. In fact, they might have heard the whole conversation.
“Good-bye, Win. Thanks for everything.”
He flipped the phone closed, and like a flash of lightning, Maria grabbed it and tossed it out her window.
“Why’d you do a fool thing like that?” he said. “That’s our lifeline.”
“It’s also a way to locate you. It will get you killed or arrested. The same with your credit card. They will find you. And if they don’t, he will.”
“You talking about Muerte?”
She nodded.
“Who is he? How do you know him?”
She shook her head, and he interpreted the silence the same as hi
s words to Win. The less he knew, the better, at least from her perspective.
“You keeping quiet isn’t helping—”
“Your friend is right. You should go to the police. Drop me at the next exit.”
“I’m not dropping you anywhere.” He glanced at the mountains all around them and the blue sky so clear it looked like a glass bowl over them. “So what do you suggest we do?”
“I try to stay alive.”
“This isn’t just about you. I’m throwing in with you, as they say back home. Good or bad, we’re together.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I feel sorry for you.”
She didn’t respond.
“You said yourself that maybe God brought us together.”
“What do you believe about God?”
“I don’t think it matters what I believe. It’s an exercise to make sense out of stuff we’ll never make sense of.”
She was quiet, so he went on. “But if you’re right and the big guy is up there pulling the strings, there’s a reason I’m mixed in with you. And the question becomes, how is he going to help us survive?”
She said something he couldn’t hear, then turned to him with those big brown eyes all cloudy and red. “I said I don’t know.” She choked it out before turning to stare out the window again. He thought she was probably thinking of the place where she grew up or maybe her mother’s tender kiss at night or a favorite dog she had as a little girl. Who can know what goes on inside the mind of a beautiful woman with secrets?
They passed a sign for a Quality Inn and another cheap hotel, but it was too close to La Pena. There was a Holiday Inn at the Duval Mine exit, but he kept driving, kept the engine gauge moving upward toward hot.
“We could head up toward Phoenix. Maybe stay at Casa Grande. Someplace this Muerte guy wouldn’t think to look.”
Maria shook her head. “I need to stay here.”
“And why’s that?”
She didn’t respond. When they passed the Harkins Theatre, she was all eyes, taking in the restaurants and stores.
“When’s the last time you went out to see a movie?” he said.
“We have only a small theater in the town where I live. They play old movies.”
“Well, when this is all over, what do you say we go?”
“I would like that, but I don’t think this will ever be all over.”
J. D. shook his head and banged on the steering wheel. “All right, let’s talk. You and me. A sit-down, come-to-Jesus meeting.”
“I don’t understand.”
“‘Come to Jesus’ means we come clean. You tell the truth about what’s going on. You and I are dancing around it. You’re scared of what’s about to happen with Muerte, and I don’t know who he is and what you’re mixed up in. The only way we’re going to get through this is for you to tell me what’s really going on.”
“All right,” she said. “If you tell me the truth, I will tell you the truth.”
“Deal.”
Her back was straight now as if she was ready for a fight. “Are you married?” she said.
He took a deep breath. “I was.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I was and I don’t have a wife now. I don’t see what that has to do—”
“You wear a wedding ring.”
“Right, I do.”
“If you are not married, why do you wear a ring?”
“That’s a long story.”
“Now it’s you who is dancing. Tell me.”
“All right, I’ll tell you about the ring after you tell me about Muerte and why he wants you dead. Deal?”
She nodded. “Let’s go somewhere safe. Where we can have this come-to-Jesus discussion.”
He kept going toward I-10, then took one of the first exits heading toward El Paso. It looked like the Route 66 of his childhood with souvenir stands and Wild West memorabilia.
They came to a stretch of fast-food restaurants—chains and local taco stands that were the gateway to hotels and motels you wouldn’t find on the Internet. The cheapest was $21.95 a night with no questions asked. The sign outside the one he picked said ESPN and HBO were available and the pool was open year-round, but nobody was staying there for the pool or what might happen to be on TV. In fact, nobody was staying there at all, it looked like.
He could hear the roar of the interstate leaking through the back window of the office as he paid cash for one night. The desk clerk said they needed to keep a credit card on file for any damages. He was a slight man with a rubber tube under his nose, an oxygen pump seeping fresh air into him while he tapped a Camel on the ashtray. Looked like a dangerous combination to J. D., but who was he to judge?
“What if I don’t have a credit card?” J. D. said.
The man got a faraway look and stared at the green computer screen. “Everybody’s got a credit card. Can’t buy anything these days without a credit card.”
“Well, I’d just as soon pay a cash deposit if you’ll let me.”
“Can’t do it. Manager would have a fit.”
“Then I’ll just head on over to your competitor. They said I could pay cash.”
The man pushed a key across the counter with the number 12 on the plastic fob. “Give me enough for two nights and I’ll refund it if you leave tomorrow. First floor, down the way.” He pointed his cigarette.
J. D. gave him the cash and then another twenty. “If anybody comes asking about us, or if you see a Mexican fellow hanging around, call the room, okay?”
The man took the bill and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He studied the girl in the front seat of the Suburban and J. D. could see the tumblers turning in his brain.
“Don’t make me regret this,” the man wheezed. “I got a job here and I want to keep it.”
“I understand.”
J. D. thought about getting two rooms, the voice of his father talking about integrity again. “Don’t let it appear wrong to anyone. Don’t take a chance.” But J. D. decided against it. If somehow Muerte found them and Maria died, he’d blame himself. He decided to keep her close no matter how it looked.
Room 12 had two double beds, one with a “Magic Fingers” machine mounted on the headboard. Inside was hotter than his place at the ranch and had a wet-carpet smell, but once he turned the air conditioner on, it cooled. There were orange bedspreads, an ice bucket and plastic bag on a little table with two chairs. He couldn’t get the curtains closed all the way, so he pushed the table near the wall and propped up one of the chairs to hold them together.
He placed the automatic on the bed closest to the window and walked outside to check if anyone could see in. Then he drove the Suburban three full blocks away and parked on a residential street that looked rougher than a cob. He retrieved the handgun from the glove compartment and placed it in the back of his jeans, letting his shirttail cover it. It would be just his luck if he shot himself in the rear.
The shower was going behind the closed bathroom door when he returned and he wondered if she was still there. He stood at the door, ready to call out her name or knock. Then the toilet flushed and he relaxed. He tossed the key on the table and hid the pistol in the nightstand under the Gideon Bible and the Book of Mormon. He lay on the bed, his boots on, and listened to the air conditioner hum. It wasn’t the Hilton, but the room was a step up from Slocum’s place.
Exhaustion reached him like a wave, something he tried hard to keep at bay on the farm. Of late they had been stopping outside work at eleven because of the heat, but he found it hard to stay inside. He gravitated to the shade tree behind the farmhouse where the kids would find him and bring a cool drink, then stay out to push each other on the tire swing. The sounds of their giggling and calls to go higher took him back where he didn’t want to go. Just a hand on the tire was all it would take to make them happy, and he couldn’t give it.
What had become comfortable and normal was gone. How had his life fallen apart so quickly? The answer sto
od in the plastic shower stall fifteen feet away, naked as the day she was born. He pushed that thought away when he heard her crying. At least he thought he heard soft sobs through the thin walls.
He clicked the TV remote and was about to flip the channel when the local news teaser appeared.
A woman with blonde hair and thick makeup looked into the camera. “Here are the stories we’re working on in the Action 4 newsroom.” Video of yellow police tape at Dr. Mercer’s office flashed on-screen. “A beloved Benson doctor is dead and police are following leads on the shoot-out that took his life. Details at six.” There was nothing about the man in the Escalade.
He switched to ESPN and watched grown men kicking a soccer ball and grown men and women in the stands by the thousands, and he thought there was no hope for the world. Like watching cows graze. Actually, the cows were more interesting. At least with golf, the ball went in the cup at the end of each hole. Plus you could make fun of the clothes.
Maria walked out barefoot, her hair wrapped in a towel. She had pulled up her sweats, revealing scratches and bruises on her legs. She had removed the bandages. She looked through the peephole, moving like a cat, no wasted motion, and it reminded him of high school and his first sweetheart, a gymnast. Just the way she walked down the hall with her books clasped tightly to her chest could have been an Olympic competition.
“See anything?” he said.
She shook her head and sat on the edge of the other bed.
“You getting hungry yet?”
“No.” She dried her hair with the thin towel, droplets falling on the bedspread and leaving little dots. “Are we safe?”