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When It All Comes Down to Dust (Phoenix Noir Book 3)

Page 19

by Barry Graham


  In the late afternoon, she drove East, out of Phoenix, through Tempe, through Mesa, to Apache Junction. As she drove, she looked at the desert, wondering if a girl’s body was lying out there, mummifying in the sun.

  She found a bare lot, with a trailer on it and a car parked outside the trailer. It wasn’t the car that was registered to Frank.

  She went to the door of the trailer and knocked. As she heard someone come to answer it, she took a deep breath, forced her body to relax, took a couple steps backwards and put a hand under her jacket so she could get to her gun.

  The guy who opened the door was in his late fifties or early sixties, wearing cargo pants and a sweatshirt. He was barefoot and had a can of Coke in his hand. He looked at her but didn’t speak.

  “I’m looking for Frank del Rio,” she said. “Does he live here?”

  The guy shook his head. “No, I live here by myself.”

  “Do you have any idea where Frank is?”

  “I don’t know him. Never heard of him.”

  “You know his mother.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “His mother owns this lot. Or rather she did. She died a few weeks ago, so now it’s Frank’s.”

  “I don’t know her. I just rent it.”

  “Who from?”

  “Some guy. I don’t know his name.”

  “You don’t know the name of the guy you rent from?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “What are you calling me names for? I ain’t done nothing to you.”

  “You either stop lying and talk to me or you can talk to the cops.” She took out her cell phone. “Want me to call them right now?”

  “No.” His voice had lost its angry tone and now had a whiny note. “Look, okay, I’ll talk to you, Laura. Just don’t make trouble for me...”

  “Okay.” She put the phone in her pocket, then froze. “Wait. How do you know my name?”

  They looked at each other, and then he punched her hard in the face. It spun her around and sent her staggering, but she managed to stay on her feet. Another punch, just as hard, sent her into the dirt.

  He was on top of her, punching her with both hands. In spite of his age, he had a strength from years of manual labor that cigarettes and alcohol hadn’t managed to weaken. Laura tasted blood, and felt herself slip away.

  Not sure if she was dead or just unconscious, he stood up and let himself rest before trying to carry her into the trailer. When he bent down to touch her, he saw her start to move. He threw himself at her, but she twisted away, pulled a gun from under her jacket and stuck it in his face.

  She said something, but her mouth was so torn and swollen that he couldn’t understand it. She cocked the gun, and he backed away from her with his hands up. She spat out blood, clenched her broken teeth and said, “Get in the trailer.”

  The living room was dirty, furnished with old carpet, a small T.V. and an ancient couch. “Lie down on the floor. On your stomach,” she said. The guy obeyed. “Spread your arms out, palms down.” He did.

  Laura took a cushion from the couch, shoved it into the back of the guy’s head, shoved the gun into the pillow and squeezed the trigger.

  She sat on the couch. The guy lay there on the floor and twitched and gurgled for quite a while. Then he stopped. She didn’t know if that meant he was dead, and she didn’t care.

  It was eight in the evening, dark, when Frank got back to the trailer. Everything looked all right. Tommy’s car was parked outside, and the light was on in the living room. Frank opened the door and went in.

  Tommy was on the floor, his head covered by a burnt, bloody pillow.

  Laura sat on the couch. Frank almost didn’t recognize her at first, because of the mess of her face. She was wearing a business suit, but it was covered in dirt and blood.

  “Oh,” Frank said.

  “You should have known I’d find you,” she said.

  “I did. I told Tommy you’d come.”

  “I checked land deed records. The cops will too.”

  “Tommy hurt you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I waited hours for you to come back.”

  “I came back.”

  “Is the little girl coming back?”

  He looked away, like a child caught in mischief, and shook his head.

  “Oh God, Frank.”

  “I’m sorry.” He started to cry. Laura sat there and watched him.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said.

  “Are you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me instead of taking the girl?”

  “I wanted to. But I promised you I’d leave you alone.”

  “I wish you hadn’t.”

  “I missed you all those years,” he said.

  “I know, Frank. I missed you too.”

  “Did you really?”

  “Yeah. You were the first person to show me any love when I was a girl. Nobody else ever did. If they had, you wouldn’t have gotten me.”

  “Laura, I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

  “I know. It’s okay. Come here.”

  He went and sat beside her on the couch. “It’s okay,” she said again as he cried. She put her arms around him and kissed his tears away with her bloody mouth.

  “You’re not going to let me go, are you?” he said.

  “You know I can’t, Frank. You’ll hurt little girls.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I know.”

  “They hurt me in prison.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m really scared. They’ll hurt me again.”

  “No, they won’t.” She stroked his hair. “I won’t let them.”

  “They will. You can’t stop them.”

  “Yes, I can. I’m not a little girl anymore, Frank. I’m big now, and I’m going to protect you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, I promise. You know I love you. I’ll protect you.”

  “I love you too,” Frank tried to say, but he couldn’t say it because Laura brought up her gun and shot him in the head. Still holding him, she felt his body shake, his blood hosing over them both, and he pissed in his pants. She let him fall to the floor, and shot him until the gun was empty.

  Her ears rang and she felt dizzy from the noise of the gunshots. She went to the bathroom, got a smelly towel, and wiped off as much of the mess as she could. Then she walked outside and got in her car. She wondered if anybody who heard the shots would call the cops, or if they’d think it was just business as usual for the local yahoos.

  She felt calm as she drove to Tempe. She didn’t see any of her neighbors as she walked from her car to her apartment. She stripped off her soiled clothes, threw them in the trash, and then took a shower. She stayed there for a long time, until the water that ran down the drain was no longer red. She kept expecting the cops to knock on her door, but they didn’t. Maybe it’ll take them a while, she thought.

  After showering, she put on jeans and a T-shirt and pulled her wet hair up under a baseball cap. She looked in the mirror at the ruin of her face. She checked her cell phone, which she’d turned off earlier. She had a bunch of voice messages, but she didn’t listen to them. She fed Tubby Franklin, then went out, got in her car, and drove to central Phoenix. The car stank of death, but the windows were rolled down and the desert night would soon suck the smell away.

  She went to the Emerald Lounge. Nobody said anything about her face, thinking the obvious. She got a beer and went and sat at a table by herself. As she drank, she wondered if David would keep his promise never to write about her again.

  We don’t know when the first star exploded, or when the sun caught on fire. We don’t know when the sun will stop burning and turn cold and dark, though we know it will.

  In between
the fire and the cold, life beginning and ending, Laura, sometime after being born and before dying, talks to children she has never met and never will meet.

  On a speck of dust in what they call the universe, David and Frank no longer search for Laura. La Llorona searches for her children. Whitney is no longer sad. They have all found love, but love was not what they thought it would be.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The places described in this book are real. The depiction of Phoenix is accurate. The Federal Public Defender’s Capital Habeas unit does exist. However, this is a work of fiction, and all of the characters (with the exception of public figures such as the artists and politicians named) and events are the product of my imagination.

  For support and encouragement, I’m grateful to Mr. Larry Fondation, Mr. Nick Hentoff, Mr. M.V. Moorhead, Mr. Dale Baich, Mr. Patrick Millikin, Ms. Cecily Dubusker and Ms. Lonna Kelley.

  As always, there are people who have helped me who, for reasons of good taste or cases pending, would prefer not to have their names mentioned here. My gratitude to them is no less.

  Most of all, I thank Ms. Daishin Bree Stephenson, for everything.

  BG

  Sitting Frog Zen Center

  Phoenix, AZ

  Year of the Dragon

  REQUEST FROM THE AUTHOR

  If you enjoyed this book, please review it on Amazon, and on any social media that you use. Thank you.

  About the Author

  Barry Graham is a novelist, reporter, columnist, poet and Zen monk, and the author of more than a dozen books. Originally from Glasgow, Scotland, he lives in Portland, Oregon. Readers are welcome to email him at barrygraham@fastmail.fm.

  Read more at Barry Graham’s site.

 

 

 


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