A Thousand Falling Crows

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Carmen waited with baited breath for an answer to come from the backseat—but none did.

  Somewhere in all of the mechanical madness, a rabbit had tried to dart across the road and got caught up in the melee. A wheel crushed its head and split open the animal’s soft, warm belly.

  Two crows had watched the whole thing from atop a power pole. They cawed in unison and descended down to the road to inspect the kill.

  The first one pecked at the rabbit’s eyes, while the second, the larger of the two, drove its black bill straight inside the furry creature, not stopping until it reached the kidneys. They were still warm and soft, easily pulled out of the body with a tug.

  The larger crow lifted off into the air, holding its bounty as tight as it could. Others would come and try and take the meal away. The crow was sure of it. Just as sure as it was that there was more blood to follow. Today was going to be an easy day to make a living.

  CHAPTER 19

  Sonny turned left onto the farm-to-market road, just like Betty Maxwell had told him to. The first house was abandoned and looked like it had been that way for a while. Shredded curtains fluttered through open windows. The barren yard was littered with glass shards, shining in the sun like ice that would never melt, and not much else. Even weeds refused to grow there.

  He looked past the first house to the second. It wasn’t in much better shape than the first, except that there was glass in the windows and all of the curtains were drawn tight. It was a single story house in serious need of paint and maintenance, but that cost money and didn’t look to be in the plans anytime soon. An old Model T truck sat behind the house, rusting away slowly. All of the good parts had been filched, probably traded, sold, or stolen. It was a metal skeleton, sinking into the ground one wheel at a time. There was no one to be seen, man or animal, around the house, and Sonny had to wonder whether it was occupied or not. It was hard to tell these days.

  There was no question that the third house was occupied. Sonny slowed the truck, turned, and came to an easy stop. “This should be it,” he said to Blue. The dog’s ears perked up. He had sat next to the passenger door the whole trip, head out the window, licking at the wind, enjoying the ride.

  Aldo’s house sat off the road farther than the other two houses. It was two stories and had probably been built late in the last century, around the time Sonny had been born, by an optimistic farmer or land owner. An old barn sat out back, and what had once been a pasture was still fenced in. There were long brown blades of buffalo grass waving in the wind, long dead, but not brittle enough to break off. The pasture was empty, mostly hard dirt that couldn’t feed anything, and the barn’s roof was starting to collapse. A few relaxed pigeons bobbed about near a boulder-sized hole at the peak.

  A tall oak tree stood next to the house. It was so close a squirrel could have skipped over to the roof and hidden an acorn under a shingle—if the tree was healthy enough to bear fruit—without any effort at all. The leaves were sparse, and the tree looked like a palsied fairy tale giant standing guard over a decaying fortress.

  “Stay here,” Sonny commanded Blue as he angled out of the truck. The dog didn’t move. Nor did it take its eyes off Sonny. “I‘m glad you’re an old dog so I don’t have to teach you everything.” Of course, there was little worry that Blue would dart out of the truck. It was difficult for the dog to walk with the splinted leg, more less break into a run. Regardless, the mutt seemed content to just stay and wait.

  Sonny headed down the narrow lane that led to the house, eyeing three goats carefully. They looked to be tied to long iron stakes driven deep into the ground, bound by a collar of the same metal. The collars looked uncomfortable, but goats had a mind of their own and liked to wander. A big buck stood guard atop a pile of rusted barrels, while the two does lay on the bare ground in the shadows. The goats noted Sonny’s presence, but they weren’t guard dogs and did nothing to announce his arrival. Still, he gave them a wide swath. He’d seen the power and cleverness of a goat before.

  Along with the goats, there were two white chickens pecking about the dirt in front of the house’s porch. There was surely a coop around somewhere, but Sonny didn’t see one.

  Instinctively, he looked up to the sky in search of a soaring chicken hawk, but didn’t see one. The sky was as clear as a crystal blue lake that went on for miles and miles. Yesterday’s rain was just a memory for Sonny and the dirt.

  Aldo appeared as Sonny walked up to the house. The Mexican eased out the front door, dressed in his janitor’s uniform, like he had been every other time Sonny had seen him, and stood in wait at the top of the rickety porch stairs.

  “I went up to the hospital. Figured you’d be there,” Sonny said, as he came to a stop at the freshly swept stoop.

  Aldo’s house was in no better repair than the one next to it, but it was tidier upon closer inspection.

  “Hola, Señor Burton.” Aldo spoke in Spanish, and there was a sparkle in his eyes, even though he looked tense in the shoulders.

  “Hola,” Sonny replied, a little flustered.

  A brief smiled flashed across Aldo’s weathered face. “One of the cabras chewed its rope and wandered off. They are too valuable to not chase after.”

  “Those are some fine looking goats,” Sonny said. He looked over his shoulder. It must have been a special goat to have had a rope lead when all of the others were bound with a metal chain. It was just a thought, and he decided it didn’t matter. Just curious that one of them could have gotten away. Of course, an errant goat could explain the need for metal over rope.

  “Tasty, too.” Aldo smiled, flashing a mouth full of uneven teeth.

  Sonny nodded. He’d had birria, a traditional goat dish served in tortillas more times than he could count when he had been a boy.

  The air was already thick and hot, even under the sparse shade of the oak tree. Sonny looked over his shoulder again, this time to check on Blue. The dog was sitting in the truck where he’d been left.

  Two old hitching posts stood off to the left of the porch steps, and the sight of them darkened Sonny’s mood almost immediately. His days on horseback were most likely over, and that was a loss he had yet to accept. He was not sure he ever would.

  The smell of something cooking caught Sonny’s nose, and he suddenly felt like he was intruding. “I‘m sorry. I guess I could have asked Nurse Betty for your phone number and called to warn you I was coming by. I just thought after your visit last night, you’d be interested in what I had to say.” Sonny started to back up, intending to leave.

  “No, no, stop, por favor. I have no phone, señor, so it would have done you no good. It is fine that you are here. I was hoping to see you today. Have you had desayuno?”

  Sonny shrugged. “I had a bit of breakfast before I left the house. I was thinking maybe we could go into town to the Rangers’ office and see if we can’t get ahold of Frank Hamer, one way or another. It’s the least I can do.”

  “I appreciate that, though I believe my fears have come true. I am certain Carmen is with the Clever, Clever boys, and they are on a fierce ride.”

  “You’ve heard about the robbery in Drummond Station, then?”

  Aldo nodded. The weight of sadness and defeat forced his neck to bend forward, so he was staring directly at the ground. “I have failed her.”

  Sonny shifted his weight. “Do you really think she’s with them on her own accord?”

  Aldo didn’t answer straight away. When he finally looked up, his eyes were glazed with tears yet to fall, and he nodded. “I do, señor. I do. And I am certain that it is my own fault. I have spoken some harsh words to Carmen that I wish I could take back, but that is impossible. She is angry with me and now that anger has put her in the company of men who do not wish her goodwill. They will destroy her. She was such a sweet, innocent chica when she was small.” He shook his head in disappointment.

  “I‘m sorry, Aldo. We all say things to our children that we come to regret.”

  Aldo looke
d up, took a deep breath, and said, “I fear Carmen, she is already dead. You listen to the news. You saw firsthand the power of the newspapers, making Bonnie and Clyde heroes so all of the boys and girls want to be like them. You saw how that turned out. She will be dead or in prison for a long time. Either way, my dreams for her are gone now. Poof. Like that, she is mala forever.”

  “I can help,” Sonny said. A goat bleated behind him, but he paid it no mind. “You can’t give up hope. Maybe we can find a way to save her. I‘ve been face-to-face with those boys, and I don’t think they’re so clever. If I‘d been better prepared, if I had both of my . . .” He stopped before he said arms, gathered himself, then continued speaking. “If I‘d had my wits about me, I could have taken them both. Maybe Tom would still be alive and your girl would be home where she belongs.”

  “One Ranger . . .”

  “Something like that.” He wanted to get even with the Clever, Clever boys one way or another. Justice needed to be served for the murder of Tom Turnell, even if he had no power to serve it.

  Aldo exhaled and looked over his shoulder. “Would you like a cup of café before we go?”

  “Yes, sure, I would like that.”

  It had been a long time since Sonny had been in a Mexican kitchen. The floor was covered with red terra cotta tiles, and the walls were painted yellow. At one time, the walls had been bright yellow, but they had faded over the years. Two windows let in a good amount of light, warming the room. A simple pan sat on the two-burner stove, with remnants of uneaten porridge in the bottom of it.

  “Sit, señor, I‘ll be happy to get you a hot cup of café,” Aldo said.

  Sonny sat down at a long wood table, cut from an oak tree, with seats for eight. The chairs were all in various states of repair but functional. From what Sonny could see and hear, Aldo was the only person in the house. It was quiet beyond the kitchen, and there was no sign anyone else had been at the table.

  There were smells and utensils in the kitchen that Sonny hadn’t been exposed to in a long time. Once he’d married Martha, his diet had consisted mostly of German-influenced food—potatoes, boiled meat, cabbage in a variety of forms but mostly fermented into sauerkraut. It had taken him a long time to adjust to the digestion of such food. Of late, before the loss of his arm, Sonny had been trying to recall more of Maria Perza’s recipes. Bad thing was, he’d never spent much time at her apron as she had gone about her duties of the day, cooking and providing for him and his father. He wished he’d paid closer attention now to what she had been doing and how she had been doing it.

  Aldo set out to make coffee, and Sonny sat back and tried to relax. The stub of his arm itched even though he had washed it roughly and covered it with a half a sock to keep the tender skin from rubbing on the inside of his shirt. Doc Meyers had told him it would take a couple of years to toughen up, sooner if he wore the prosthetic.

  He noticed a clay comal, a flat plate for making tortillas, roasting and charring chilies, and toasting other vegetables and spices, sitting off to the side of the stove. Maria had used one nearly every day. It had come from Mexico with her abuela. It was a treasure. Aldo’s looked nearly as old.

  Other utensils jarred Sonny’s memories, things he had forgotten about over the years, as he’d moved farther and farther away from the Spanish way of living and eating. A molcajete, a gray mortar and pestle made of basalt volcanic rock, sat on the counter, just under a strand of poblano chilies that dangled from the ceiling. The molcajete was used for grinding corn, garlic, rice, or whatever else was called for in a recipe.

  But the thing that really caught Sonny’s attention and warmed him the most was the molinillo. It was a short wood whisk with a bulb at the end, marked by several deep indentations. It was used to make the froth for hot chocolate. Just the thought of the warm drink made by Maria Perza’s thick, knowledgeable, brown hands, brought a smile to Sonny’s face. The happy feeling, though, was quickly followed by a flash of sadness. He had not mourned the woman properly. He knew that now.

  “Is something the matter?” Aldo asked, as he began to grind coffee in the molcajete.

  “I was admiring the molinillo.”

  Aldo cast a glance at the whisk. “Carmen always enjoyed a good cup of hot chocolate.”

  “With cinnamon and ground almonds?”

  “Sì, of course. I will make some for you one day, if you like?”

  “I would enjoy that,” Sonny said, as he settled back in the chair. He felt more comfortable than he had in a long time, and the memories that Aldo’s kitchen had brought him were a welcome surprise.

  Aldo chose to ride in the bed of the truck, leaving Blue in his spot next to the passenger door. The gesture disappointed Sonny and made him happy at the same time. He enjoyed talking with Aldo, but he appreciated the fact that the Mexican realized that Blue could cause himself more harm in the bed of the truck with all of the stops and starts between Aldo’s house and downtown Wellington. Concern about the dog’s welfare made Sonny forget about his itchy stub—some of the time, briefly, but enough to be a respite from his own pains and suffering. He probably should have brought a dog into his life long before he did.

  The sun had burned all of the color out of the sky, and the way forward was unhindered by any weather at all. As Sonny drove into town, his thoughts wandered in and out about Frank Hamer, hoping the ex-Ranger could help them. Hamer was famous now that he’d put an end to Bonnie and Clyde, and he hoped the man would have some time to help them find Carmen, or at least put them on a trail that would eventually lead to the girl’s safe return home. Sonny knew saving Carmen was a long shot. It might not be possible. Especially if the police got to her before they did. And there was nothing to say that Carmen was not culpable for her actions. She might very well deserve to be handed over to the police. He knew he would have to prepare Aldo for that possibility before it came.

  The road was dry and left a plume of dust behind the truck. Sonny had adjusted to the mechanics of driving with one hand, but on occasion, he still missed a shift and ground the gears. Which is what happened as Sonny came to a crossroads, stopped, and started again. Blue looked at Sonny oddly, and Aldo yelled from the back, “Are you all right, señor?”

  Sonny nodded, frustrated, looked down, shifted again, and made a smooth transition the second time around. “I‘m all right,” he yelled back and caught sight of Aldo settling back down into the bed.

  When Sonny looked back up, he saw a car ahead of him, pulled off to the side of the road. There was no mistaking that it was the sheriff’s car, Jonesy’s new-model Ford. He pulled his foot off the accelerator and slowed as he approached the car.

  Jonesy was standing out in a field, about thirty feet from the berm. He was looking down at something like he was puzzled. The engine drew his attention, and he looked away from whatever it was he was looking at and made his way back toward the road.

  Sonny eased up alongside the Ford and stopped, leaving the engine running.

  Jonesy was standing at the edge of the fender. A piece of short grass dangled out of the corner of his mouth. “I thought that was you, Sonny.”

  Sonny nodded, hung his left arm out the window, and looked out into the field but didn’t see anything of note. “Something the matter, Jonesy? You look a little pale.”

  It was true. The sheriff’s face was white as a fresh-bleached sheet.

  Jonesy shook his head. “Hard to believe.” He sighed heavily.

  Aldo had edged from the middle of the bed to the driver’s side and nodded at Jonesy, but the sheriff ignored him. He stared straight at Sonny and said, “There’s another girl out there, Sonny. Murdered and dumped like she was trash. Dead as a doornail, but still fresh enough to bleed out like a stuck pig.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Sonny stepped out of the truck with a heavy sense of dread racing up the back of his neck. It wasn’t like he’d never seen a murder victim before. Hardly—not after nearly forty years as a Texas Ranger—but he’d been prepared for t
hat when he was on duty. Not so much these days. If there was one thing he hadn’t missed about being hale, hearty, and on the road with a badge on, it was being a witness to the unexplainably violent things human beings did to one another.

  “You stay here, Blue,” Sonny said, as he closed the door. The dog had limped across the seat and stood on all fours next to the steering wheel, wagging its tail, wanting to follow along. Sonny ignored the dog the best he could. “You best stay here, too, Aldo,” he said.

  The Mexican nodded, then looked at the floor of the truck bed without saying a word.

  Sonny made his way to Jonesy, who still looked pale and haggard from the find. The sheriff said nothing once Sonny caught up to him, and they walked on, matching steps easily, toward the spot he’d been originally standing in.

  The girl was apparent now that Sonny knew what he was looking at. A lump of earth-tone clothes that, in the right light, melded into the solitary landscape. Only her skin stood out, alabaster white, like broken bits of porcelain obscured by drought-hewn weeds and out-of-place fabrics.

  “How’d you see her?” Sonny asked. He stopped before arriving at the destination of the death. He wasn’t ready to see the details of it all just yet. Instead, he looked past the body like it was an old log and scanned the horizon.

  An abandoned house sat off in the distance but not much else. Just fields as flat as the bottom of an iron. The brown ground met the blue sky with a few withering trees in between. Only the crossroad brought the promise of movement, of life, and even then the traffic was nonexistent. Not one car or truck had passed by since Sonny had stopped.

  “Saw a glint in the sun,” Jonesy said. He’d stopped short of Sonny without voicing any opposition. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to see the girl again, either. “She’s still wearing a pendant on her neck. My eyes have been trained by the other finds. Always on the lookout, I suppose.” There was a sadness in his voice that was unmistakable. It was a hard job being a sheriff, being a law man. Moments like this never made the newspaper in election years.