Outside, the day went on. Traffic bounded up and down the farm-to-market road out of Wellington, unaware of what was happening inside the store, pushing through puddles, offering an occasional splash. It was a rare sound.
The storm had pushed northeast, like most storms did, and the sun beamed brightly down from a pure blue, cloudless, sky. Fingers of steam filtered up from the hoods of cars in the muddy parking lot, and from the roofs of buildings across the road. Heat had already returned with a vengeance, and before long, everything that was wet would be dry again, faded brown instead of rich chocolate, and the days would fall back into the normal, desolate pattern that was nearly always the promise of summer.
But from where Sonny stood, nothing would be the same. He didn’t feel lucky to be alive, to have survived the deadly armed robbery. All he could feel was regret. He could barely look at the sheet, at Tom Turnell bound for the mortuary, toes up, eyes closed, his body already cold.
Jonesy walked over to Sonny. He was a head shorter, a little soft in the middle, and had wiry white hair growing out of his ears. His head was bald, blotched with red spots that resembled islands on a map, and was usually covered with a hat. Sonny couldn’t remember a time when a Jonesy hadn’t been the county sheriff. It was their family business, just like the Texas Rangers was his.
Jonesy was getting to the end of his term, and rumor had it that his younger son, Bob—Bubba inside the family—was already angling for the position, campaigning on the sly to the men who it mattered to most in Wellington and farther reaches of the county.
“I‘m gonna have to ask you to come down to the station and sign a formal report, Sonny,” Jonesy said. His voice was scratchy, like sandpaper lined his throat. “I hate to ask you to do such a thing.”
“I know the procedure,” Sonny answered. He looked away from the body and stared down the aisle where his .45 lay, untouched where it had fallen—out of reach. “I‘d like to take my gun home with me, Jonesy, if it’s all the same to you.”
“You didn’t get a shot off?”
Sonny shook his head.
“Not to be indelicate, Sonny, but why in the hell did you have a gun with you in the first place?”
“You leave yours at home when you go out off-duty?”
It was Jonesy’s turn to shake his head.
“Well, there you have it. Force of habit, and you’re not being indelicate. My arm was amputated. This is the first time I‘ve made it out of the house since I come home from the hospital. I might not have an arm, but I‘ve always carried my gun. Didn’t see a reason to change any more things. Be like bread without butter, now wouldn’t it?”
“Well, I reckon I‘d a done the same thing, if’n I was you,” Jonesy said. “You say one of them called the other by the name of Eddie, and they was Mexican-skinned?”
“I‘m certain of it.”
“Sounds like the Clever, Clever boys to me, the Renaldo twins,” Jonesy said with a sigh. “This is a big step for them, up from runnin’ gin and pickin’ fights in the school yard. A murder and all. They’ve been small time, until now. Sure never expected this from them. But there was a girl with them, you say?”
“Driving. I think. Behind the wheel.”
“But you’re not certain?”
“It was raining, hard to see. The windows in the car were fogged up. I couldn’t make out any features. There were three of them. I‘m sure of that, but it’s all I‘m sure of.”
Jonesy stroked his chin. “That’s interestin’, to say the least. I don’t know about no girl they’ve been palling around with. Maybe there’s more to this than I think there is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just thinkin’ out loud, I suppose. But I got two unsolved murders on my hands at the moment. First ones in a coon’s age. Two Jane Does tossed to the side of the road, beaten and soiled in a foul way, if you know what I mean. No leads, no clues, a year apart, but pretty much the same MO from head to toe. The one Renaldo is pretty smart, while the other one, well, he’s a little slow, unpredictable. I might have to look at them a little closer now that they’ve shown some meanness. I didn’t think they had in them.”
“You really think there’s a link?” Sonny asked.
Jonesy shrugged. “Hard to say, but I figure it won’t hurt to poke around. See what else those boys have been up to. If they can kill a man like Tom Turnell, they’re liable to be able to do just about anything, the way I see it. Sure is a sad day.”
“It was the quiet one that pulled the trigger. Tom had the talker subdued.”
“With the cheese wire?”
“That’s right.”
A car turned into the parking lot and headed straight for the door, garnering both men’s attention.
“Put the closed sign on the door, if you don’t mind,” Jonesy said to Sonny, his voice a little deeper with the order.
“It’s Jesse,” Sonny said.
“I wondered when the Rangers were gonna show up. Put the sign up anyway. Word’s gonna get out. We don’t need no carnival here. And I sure don’t mean no offense, Sonny, but things sure ain’t been the same since you hung up your Stetson.” Jonesy glanced up at Sonny’s bare head.
“Thanks, Jonesy. Jesse’s still young. He’s got a lot to learn.”
“If you say so.”
Hugh Beaverwood slid Tom Turnell’s body into the back of the hearse. It was nothing more than a delivery truck, black in color, of course, that also served as an ambulance when the need arose. The coroner lowered his head solemnly, then closed the door of the hearse as gently as he could. “Be anything else, Sheriff?”
Jonesy, Sonny, and Jesse stood clumped together, just off the short porch that fronted Lancer’s Market. Bertie had remained inside.
Jonesy shrugged. “No, not unless Ranger Burton needs anything more.”
Both Sonny and Jesse shook their heads at the same time. It was a hard habit to break. Some days Sonny felt like Ranger was his first name instead of his vocation. Probably always would.
Jesse noticed Sonny’s action and stepped forward. “I‘d like to keep this as close to the vest as we can. If these boys are spooked, they could cause more of a ruckus than they already have, Mr. Beaverwood.”
Hugh Beaverwood agreed with a nod, then looked over to the sheriff for real approval. Jonesy tilted his head forward subtly.
“All right,” Beaverwood said, “if the newspaper comes snoopin’ ’round, I‘ll send them your way.”
“That would be good,” Jesse said. “I‘d appreciate it.” He tipped the brim of his hat and smiled broadly. Anyone within a mile could see it was forced. Sonny knew Jesse had to work at being polite, but he’d never noticed it so much as he did just then. Probably because the sheriff had expressed some hesitation about Jesse’s skills as a Ranger.
The coroner stood stiffly for a long moment, staring at the three men, then backed away and didn’t turn around until he was just on the other side of the hearse.
Not one of them said a thing until the hearse started to pull away.
Jonesy shook his head, then looked at Sonny. “Man’s got ice running through his veins.”
“I‘ve always tried to avoid him,” Sonny said.
“You and everybody else,” Jonesy answered.
Jesse stepped back so he was in line with both men. “He doesn’t look like he’s aged a day since I was a kid.”
Jonesy sighed. “All the stories about him are the same, too, that he takes pictures of dead girls and does unspeakable things to their bodies. But truth is they’re just stories. I poked around early on to see if they were true or not. Turns out he’s just a loner, a confirmed bachelor, a man that keeps himself busy with other folks’ troubles. I guess he’s like a buzzard, cleanin’ up the mess that nature leaves behind. Somebody’s gotta do it. This is bad enough,” he said, letting his words trail off with a thrust of his head back to the store.
“You got anything else to tell me?” Jesse said to Sonny. It was an official voice, hard a
nd to the point. Sonny knew the tone when he heard it. Had used it a million times himself. It sounded like an echo.
“I‘m gonna check on Bertie before I go,” Jonesy said, heading back inside the store.
Jesse waited until the sheriff was out of sight before he said anything else. “What the hell were you doing here in the first place?”
“What the hell do you think, Ranger Burton? I was hungry.” Sonny stiffened, stood taller than he had all day. He didn’t like what he heard in Jesse’s voice.
“You could’ve called. I would’ve run you some food out, or Bertie could have delivered something.”
“I thought it was best to get out of the house on my own,” Sonny said. “Has to happen sooner or later. I didn’t expect this. How could I have known? Besides, you made it clear that you preferred to stay in town.”
“Because I‘m not a boy anymore and no matter what you say, you’d treat me like one if I took up residence in my old room. You’re doing it now.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. I got a job to do, Pa, and it’s hard enough steppin’ into your shoes. I don’t need to be in your shadow, too.”
“Well, then, pull down your damn hat,” Sonny said, pointing to Jesse’s white Stetson. “You look like you just got off the damn train.”
Starting the truck the second time around was a lot easier than the first. The routine came back to Sonny pretty quickly, and navigating the exercise with one hand and one set of fingers was going to come easier to him than he originally thought it would. Either that or he was in a hurry to get away from Lancer’s Market, which was more the truth. He thought little about the mechanics of his own existence once he stepped on the starter.
He wanted to be as far away from Jesse and the smell of death as he could. With about as much grace as he could muster, Bertie had carried a box of groceries out to Sonny’s truck and refused payment for them. Sonny had insisted, but Bertie was forceful in his refusal. “You did your best to save him, Sonny. Thank you. This is the least I can do.”
There was nothing for him to do now but go back home. Close himself off from the world and try to figure what was next. The robbers were the sheriff’s problem. Jesse’s, too. But something told Sonny that Jonesy would be the one that brought the Clever, Clever boys to justice and not Jesse.
For a brief second, Sonny thought about turning around and going back, offering his help to Jesse. But the boy had made it clear that he was already struggling to fill his shoes. No need to rub his face in it.
The road was already dry, and the late afternoon sky was a perfect blue sheet that hung for as far as the eye could see. It met with the scorched vista, brown open land that looked to hold no life at all—a barren field that went on and on until Wellington rose out of it in the distance. No downpour could green things up instantly. It would take days of rain, a hurricane blowing up and weakening from the Gulf, to bring life back to the blades of grass now.
Sonny couldn’t see the town yet, and his turn came long before any of the buildings would come into sight. But the openness of the way forward seemed even more lonely than it had earlier. The rain and clouds had closed everything in. Now there was nothing in between him and the emptiness of North Texas. He could already feel dread creeping back into the farthest reaches of his mind, but Sonny didn’t mind being alone at all. Especially after everything that had happened.
He downshifted, and, as he turned south toward home, the box in the seat next to him slid forward, like it was going to topple over onto the floor. Out of instinct, he leaned over to stop the box from falling, but he did so with his invisible right arm. The groceries tumbled to the floorboard.
Sonny had taken his eyes off the road, and when he settled back up behind the wheel there was something standing in the middle of the road. A dog. He swerved to miss it. But he was too late. He hit the dog, sending it spiraling into the ditch with an eardrum-shattering yelp.
CHAPTER 13
Carmen Hernandez had never liked to run. Her knees were turned in slightly. She wasn’t pigeon-toed exactly, pigeon-kneed maybe. It wasn’t like she was a cripple, even though she’d been born early. Her mother’d had a hard labor, and she’d died three days after giving birth. Her father never forgave her for being the cause of her mother’s death. The physical defect, if it could be called that, was barely noticeable when she walked, but her whole body arched to the right when she ran, and she was never very fast on the fly. She had never needed to be. Until now.
She ran away from the motel, from Felix Massey, as fast as she could. Tears blurred her vision, and she wished it was still raining so it would wash away the smell of the fat clerk pressing against her, grinding his hardness into her. She’d wished for a knife, too, but was glad it was out of reach. She already felt the guilt of blood on her hands. She didn’t need any more.
But it wasn’t raining. The clouds had pushed northeast. Only a dim gray line on the horizon remained, with an occasional flash of lightening, offering itself to Carmen as a reminder of the storm, of the gunshots inside the mecado and the lingering assault that came after Eddie had dropped her off at the motel.
Her lungs began to burn, sweat dripped down her throat, and, to make things worse, she had little idea of where she was. She knew how to get home, to get to Memphis and Wellington and back, but not what stood in between, off the side roads, down the farmer’s lanes. Out in the middle of a field she was lost. She could barely tell north from south, east from west, but the sun saved her. She could tell where she was running based on its place in the sky.
The motel stood like a decaying monument alongside the road, surrounded by vast, open fields. At one time the building had been a stagecoach stop on the route north. Rooms for let had been added on over the years, but it wasn’t until the advent of cars, of lots of cars, that the rooms had been converted, in haste and greed, as an offer of rest to travelers again. It had been a perfect place for Eddie to hole up and mix his gin.
Carmen looked behind her every few seconds to make sure she wasn’t being followed. So far, she was alone. Felix hadn’t appeared on foot or in a car. There was no sign of anyone.
She had to watch closely where she stepped. Rabbit holes became snake dens, and during the heat of the day rattlers slept on the lip of the entrance, soaking up sun to keep warm, so they would stay alive during the cool nights. The last thing she needed was to get snake bit or break an ankle. She could fall and disappear into the scrub, lie there and die. She wondered if Eddie would come looking for her—or be done with her now that she had disappeared, ran out on her own? There was no way to know the answer. Carmen didn’t know what Eddie would do when he came back and found the room empty of her and her things.
The ground rose up in the distance, giving her sight of a long berm. It was a railroad track running north and south, parallel to the road, though it sat about a half mile from it. The tracks gave her a place to run to, a place to follow. Farther to the north, a line of trees poked up along the tracks. Telephone lines edged along the berm both ways. Some of the poles tilted one way or the other. They looked like giant cactus, offering no sustenance, only a place for the crows to roost.
She picked up her pace and didn’t stop to catch her breath until she was on the far side of the railroad tracks. It wasn’t a perfect place to hide, to rest, but it would have to do. She sat down and tucked her head between her legs so she was out of sight, at least from the road, and tried to settle herself down.
Carmen’s heart raced, nearly outrunning her mind, as she allowed all of the day’s events to play out behind her closed eyes. She began to sob, cry from the depths of her belly. She trembled and shook, then vomited again, just like she had inside the motel room. Only now it was just bile, offering a sad, familiar taste in her mouth. Salty tears crossed her lips just after, adding to the discomfort and desperation of her situation.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and realized that she was thirsty and hungry. The thought only made her c
ry harder.
She wanted to go home, but she knew she couldn’t.
Sonny slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a stop. The engine coughed and protested but kept running. He looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see the dog try to stand up in the ditch, then fall back down into the mud.
He exhaled deeply, muttered, “Goddamn it,” then reached over, picked up the .45, and pushed his way out of the truck.
A warm breeze greeted Sonny, wrapping around him, offering up the smell of the recent rain and of mud and decay. He was in the middle of a crossroads, and the nearest house sat a mile up the road. It had been empty since the middle of last winter, when the Crunhalls, all eight of them, had loaded up into a flatbed truck, along with the belongings they could fit into it and hadn’t used as firewood, and headed west to the promised land of California.
The dog could’ve come from anywhere. It could have been dumped off by somebody without the means to feed it. Or it could have run off from a nearby farm, simple as that. There were still a few farmers trying to hang on. Whatever the animal’s story was, Sonny didn’t much care. He was just unhappy that they’d crossed paths in such an untimely way.
He made his way to the side of the ditch with heavy steps, then stopped and looked down. His trigger finger edged its way across the slim piece of metal, finding its proper place with ease. The weight of the .45 on his left side made his shoulder droop like the scales of justice. He was off balance, sinking in mud.
The dog stared up at Sonny and whimpered. It looked underweight, ribs showing just under loose fur, like it had been doing a poor job of scavenging food, just like every other creature left to fend on its own this side of Wall Street.
Sonny would have been surprised if the dog weighed twenty-five pounds soaking wet. But it wasn’t a pup. There was some gray showing on its upper lip, contrasting starkly against its black coat—what part he could see that wasn’t tainted with mud.
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