He cannot do it like that. Maggie is in the truck. If it is Henry, then Maggie is in the truck. And he has already been shot. If he is going to kill Henry and get his Maggie back he will have to be much more subtle than that. Much more careful than that.
He sighs, curses under his breath, and rotates his left shoulder. He figures he’s got another three or four hours of driving left in him today, and then he’s done. He’s tired and in pain and having trouble breathing. The heat is tremendous. Cold chills run through him, giving him goose-flesh. He is covered in a sickly sweat.
‘Shit,’ he says about everything and nothing at all.
Then turns on the radio to block out his thoughts.
From Fort Stockton to Sierra Blanca the land empties further. Traffic is sparse. Rock formations litter the horizon, and the scrublands spread out before you like a sheet.
Looking at this while he drives and eats barbecue-flavored corn chips and the second half of his dry tuna fish sandwich Ian thinks, not for the first time, about how ancient this land is. After he finished high school his mother-still mourning her husband’s suicide-sent him traveling through Europe, visiting London and Paris (where he met his first wife) and Rome, and the history there made him feel very strange about coming from such a young country. It made him feel like an orphan somehow, without any real history to call his own. The curse of the American mutt: you come from nowhere, son. In America you build yourself from scratch, from the ground up, making your own bootstraps to pull yourself up with, or you don’t exist. Don’t expect to stand on the shoulders of those who came before: this is a land for which there is no before. But Burroughs was right: America is not a young land. It is old and dirty and evil. It lay here for millions of years in silence, waiting; it lay here home only to beasts with no language but the hunt, waiting; it lay here ancient and scabrous, waiting. And finally twenty thousand years ago, thirty thousand years ago, people arrived, but still the evil of the land remained trapped in the soil. Then the Europeans came to the eastern shores, and they pierced the soil with their flags, and released it. And it spread across the land and polluted the waters and the vegetables and grains whose roots the waters fed. And through the food it got into the people.
Ian pops the last of the sandwich into his mouth and washes it down with a swig of water.
As he nears Sierra Blanca he decides, because he wants to see if the gray Dodge Ram follows him, to stop someplace and buy a Coke. The town is less populated than the last one he went through, and if it is Henry behind him, perhaps he can end it here. He pulls off the interstate and onto El Paso Street, glancing in his rearview mirror. The gray Dodge Ram is just in view, a glint on the horizon. Which means his car should be just in view too.
He drives past a dirt lot, then the firehouse, a red fire engine parked inside and a sign on the garage door that says DO NOT BLOCK. Beyond the firehouse, an empty parking lot. He stops at a stop sign. There are no other cars around. Brown hills float in the distance. He takes his foot off the brake. On his right he passes a white Spanish-style building and on his left a brown structure advertising ICE and COCA-COLA. Sweat trickles down the side of his face. The ICE is very tempting.
He glances at his rearview mirror. The road behind him is empty.
If the truck was going to follow him into town it should have done so by now. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Henry Dean did not own a gray Dodge Ram pickup truck. But of course even a dumb man would know to get rid of his own vehicle while on the run, and while Henry probably isn’t well-read-ain’t book-smart, as they say-Ian does not think he’s dumb. He thinks he’s sharp as a blade and merciless in exactly the same way.
He passes a grocery store and then a place called Best Cafe with a wood shingled roof and tables draped in red checkered cloth set out on a concrete slab. He passes a motel and a Southern Pacific train car sitting on a plot of dirt. He passes the Historic Sierra Lodge and a turquoise-painted gift shop with a Dr Pepper machine out front and an American flag hanging limp in the dead heat. He glances into the rearview mirror once more.
Nothing.
He pulls to the dirt lot in front of a place called the Branding Iron Steakhouse and steps from his car. The white hot sun beats down on him.
He squints at the road behind him and sees nothing.
‘Fuck,’ he says.
He no longer wants a Coke.
He’s shifting into third when he sees the gray truck on the side of the interstate, a Hudspeth County Sheriff’s Department car parked behind it and a sheriff’s deputy standing at the driver’s side window.
As Ian drives by he tries to catch a glimpse of the man behind the wheel but the deputy is blocking his view. Then as he passes he glances over his shoulder thinking maybe he can see through the windshield, but it’s late afternoon now and the sun is in the west, and its light glints off the glass making it impossible to see anything.
He shifts into fourth and looks behind him once more. He simply can’t tell. It could be Henry. It could be anyone. It could be Jesus behind the wheel with a couple apostles piled onto the seat beside him.
‘Is there wine in that jug, sir?’
‘It was water when we left. I swear it, officer.’
As he continues on he can see eastbound cars pulling off the interstate and into a lane leading through a border checkpoint.
He wonders again if that was Henry back there. If his daughter was in that truck.
He doesn’t know if he hopes it was-or if he hopes it wasn’t.
Maggie is looking through the cab’s rear window, watching the road fly out from under the truck like a gray ribbon, when she sees the police car flash its lights.
‘Shit,’ Henry says.
He slows the truck, downshifting, and the police car comes nearer. The man behind the wheel is big, with a round pink face and a mustache. Maggie smiles and waves at him and he waves back without smiling. His hand looks very big.
‘It’s the police,’ Maggie says.
‘Shut up.’
Henry flips his turn signal on and pulls the truck to the shoulder of the road.
‘Turn around in your seat,’ he says, grabbing Maggie by the shoulder. ‘Buckle up.’
‘He already saw me.’
‘Just buckle the fuck up.’
She sits down and fastens her seatbelt. She looks up into the rearview mirror to see where the policeman is, but cannot see him. The angle is wrong. She listens to traffic. A car flies by. A moment later another one. She hears footsteps on asphalt. She leans forward, past Henry, and sees a policeman appear in the window. He is broad and has black hair and for some reason his mustache looks kind of fake up close. Maggie remembers a friend having a mustache like that. He wore it when he dressed up as a pirate for Halloween.
‘Afternoon,’ the policeman says.
‘Howdy, sir,’ Henry says. ‘Hot out, ain’t it?’
‘Do you know why I pulled you over?’
‘Can’t say that I do.’
Maggie wants to mouth two words to him. She wants to but he will not look at her. He only looks at Henry.
‘You were going ninety-two miles an hour.’
‘Was I really?’ Henry laughs. ‘I’ll be goddamned, I sure am sorry about-’
‘There’s no need to take the Lord’s name in vain, sir.’
‘Aw, shit, I’m sorry. My mouth runs about five steps ahead of my brain sometimes.’ He flaps his right hand like a talking puppet.
‘I’m gonna need to see your license and registration.’
Look my way, look my way, look my way. Maggie thinks this with great concentration while staring at the policeman’s sweaty pink face.
And for a wonder he does look at her. The policeman looks right at her and their eyes meet and he has green eyes like her daddy has green eyes, like she has green eyes, and he nods his head slightly.
Help. Me.
He blinks at her, not seeming to understand.
‘You mean a sorry don’t cut in this county?’
‘License and registration, sir.’ Then he glances back toward her.
Help me. Please.
Another blink. And then, as if suddenly poked in the back by a sharp stick, his whole body stiffens and a light flashes behind his eyes. He licks his lips and his right hand drops toward his weapon. He takes a step back. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.
‘Step out of the car, sir.’
‘Hold on, now,’ Henry says, reaching under his seat. ‘I think I got the registration down here under the-’
The policeman draws his gun and aims it at Henry. ‘Put your hands where I can see them,’ he says. ‘No, freeze. Freeze.’
‘All right.’
The policeman licks his lips. He looks confused. He takes a step back and then a step forward. He licks his lips again.
Henry is leaning forward with his right arm underneath his seat. He moves slowly, pulling away from there. Maggie thinks he has a gun under the seat.
‘I said freeze!’ the policeman says. ‘That means don’t move.’
‘I’m froze, sir,’ Henry says. ‘I’m a fucking popsicle.’
‘Shut your mouth.’
‘You’re making a mistake, officer.’
‘I said shut up.’
The policeman reaches to the truck door and pulls it open. He licks his lips again. He looks very scared and Maggie feels kind of sorry for him. She’s afraid that he won’t be able to stop Henry. She’s afraid that Henry will kill him. Should she open her mouth and tell the policeman that Henry has a gun? Will that make him panic? Will it make Henry panic? Maybe Henry will just pull his empty hand from under the seat. But she thought in hopeful maybes last night and two people got killed.
‘Okay,’ he says to Henry. ‘Pull your hand out from under that seat. Slow.’
‘Okay.’
‘Your hand better be empty.’
‘Okay.’ Henry pulls his hand out from under the seat. Slowly.
Sweat trickles down the policeman’s face. Keeping both hands gripped around his service pistol, he wipes his face off on his shoulder, shrugging the sweat away.
Maggie opens her mouth to speak, but too late.
Henry pulls out a gun.
Henry can feel the wooden grip of the Lupara in his sweaty palm. It feels grimy there and foreign. His face is hot. He looks to his left and can see the deputy aiming his service weapon at him. He can’t be more than thirty-five, and he’s scared, which makes Henry nervous. Scared people are jumpy and jumpy people are dangerous.
Henry’s eyes feel hot in their sockets. They sting. Sweat trickles down the bridge of his nose and drips from the end of it. He can feel the rhythm of his heart in his temples. He swallows back bile and wishes he could chew an antacid.
Did the cop recognize him? One second the guy was cool and the next he was pointing a gun in Henry’s face. Something happened. Did he recognize him? Did Sarah signal him in some way? Did Beatrice?
He wants to believe that Bee would never do anything like that, but he does not. She might. She has not been herself. If she has become scared of him she might do something like that. He doesn’t want it to be the case, but he knows it’s a possibility.
Stop. Focus.
It is silent now but for the sound of his heart beating. Slowly he pulls the weapon from under the seat. Waiting for his moment. Waiting for his-
The deputy shrugs a trickle of sweat off the side of his face.
Now.
Henry whips the Lupara from under the seat of the truck. It almost catches on something, he feels it bang against a metal bar, but it does not catch. He brings it around quickly without raising it, just turns it in his fist, and pulls the trigger with his thumb.
The first shot hits the deputy in the hip and spins him around. Maggie screams and the smell of gun smoke fills the cab. He pulls the Lupara up and gives the deputy the second barrel. It takes away the left side of his chest, simply wipes it off like the skin from a rotten peach, revealing the meat beneath. He staggers backwards and then falls to the asphalt.
A screeching of brakes.
Henry looks left and sees a red Chevy sedan coming to a stop, turning sidewise on its locked tires and leaving a trail of burned rubber behind it. It comes to a stop only inches from the stricken deputy who even now is exhaling his last two or three breaths from colorless lips.
Henry opens the break and pulls out the spent shells, dropping them to the asphalt (there’s no point in pretending he needs to be careful now), and reloads the Lupara with shells from his Levis. He aims the shotgun at the blond woman behind the wheel of the Chevy and says, ‘Get the fuck out the car right now or I’ll shoot you dead.’
He looks to see how many cars are around and finds the road mercifully empty. For the moment, anyway.
The woman behind the wheel is frozen in place, staring at him with wide cow’s eyes.
‘Get the fuck out now! Do you wanna die?’
Still she does not move.
Henry walks to the car and yanks open the door and pulls the woman out. He throws her to the ground, and is taking aim when he hears Beatrice’s voice.
‘Sarah, get back here!’
He looks toward the truck. It is empty.
Beatrice is limping pathetically after Sarah as she runs across the flat, dry West Texas landscape toward the low, weathered buildings of Sierra Blanca.
‘Sarah, no!’ Bee says. ‘Come back!’
Henry runs after them, saying, ‘Sarah, stop, goddamn you!’
Beatrice trips and falls and lets out a wounded-animal yelp.
Henry runs, feeling heavy and uncoordinated, and as he does the Lupara slips from the grip of his sweaty hand and drops to the ground. He stops for it, looking around. It is lost in tall dead grass. He cannot see the goddamn thing anywhere and-
‘Henry! Henry, get Sarah!’
He looks toward Beatrice. She is still sitting where she fell. If he lets Sarah go, Bee will never forgive him. He can see it in her face.
He nods, leaves the Lupara-he can get it on the way back to the truck-and runs after the small girl frantically fleeing across the scrublands toward the white and brown buildings of Sierra Blanca, which are scattered across the ground like a child’s forgotten toy blocks.
Two and a half hours after passing through Sierra Blanca Ian reaches his limit. He has driven through the seemingly alien landscape of far West Texas, reaching Sparks and Southview and other suburbs of El Paso, then plowed through the city itself, Mexico visible on his left as Interstate 10 scooped down near the border, passing Holy Family Church America-side and Doniphan Park in Juarez. He left the city behind, tempted to stop only once, as he passed a place called Rudy’s Country Store amp; BarBQ near a hotel, the thought of a hot meal and a soft bed in a cool room briefly causing him to pull his foot from the gas pedal. But he was tired of Texas-it seemed to stretch on forever, and after fourteen hours on the road just getting across the state line became a goal-so he continued on, into New Mexico, and through Las Cruces and a closed border checkpoint. And now, after having passed through it, with airplanes flying overhead, landing at and taking off from Las Cruces International Airport just to his north (he can’t see it, but he knows it’s there to his right because he saw a sign pointing him that way), he is finished. He has made it through Texas and into New Mexico. He hasn’t seen the gray truck since Sierra Blanca, and he has convinced himself that it wasn’t Henry at all. Henry is on the road up ahead. And by tomorrow he will be waiting for Ian in a town called Kaiser, California, and that is where Ian will kill him. Ian will kill him and he will get Maggie back. That is the plan.
But that is for tomorrow.
The orange sun is sinking into the ground for another night. The sky is turning gray, the color spreading in the clear sky like a cloud of kicked-up mud in a once-clear pool of water, and soon the entire dome will be tainted by night.
He is done. Done and done.
He pulls off Interstate 10 and cruises along on an unnamed county road th
at runs parallel for half a mile before pulling into a dirt parking lot in front of a place that seems only to be called Motel/Food. The sign is hand-painted in white on the front of a rotting wood facade, behind which, he assumes, the food is served. The motel part of the operation looks to be about a dozen mobile homes parked willy-nilly behind the restaurant.
His tires kick up a cloud of dust as he brings the car to a stop. He kills the engine and waits for the dust to settle. With his lung in its current state he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to breathe it in. But once the air is clear he pushes open his car door and steps out into the hot day. He pulls his soggy cigar from his mouth and spits into the sand. He puts the cigar into the front pocket of his shirt and squints out at the interstate.
It is just empty asphalt.
He straps the satchel containing the Pleur-evac system over his shoulder, takes off his sunglasses, hangs them on his shirt, squints in the suddenly bright light, and heads, past a couple tables with salt and pepper shakers set upon them, into Motel/Food.
A stainless steel counter in a window between Ian and the kitchen. A short-order cook, guy in his sixties with tufts of gray hair sprouting from every orifice like shrubbery, is hunched over the counter, flipping through a titty book with a limp cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. A cloud of smoke around his head.
As the bell above the door rattles-it certainly doesn’t ring-the guy stands, straightening the greasy white box of a hat on his head. A couple inches of ash drop from the end of his smoke and fall onto a centerfold model before rolling down into the fold between the pages. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth, blows the ash to the floor, folds the magazine, and stashes it under the counter.
‘Howdy. Food or bed?’
‘I could use something to drink.’
‘Monica’s in the shitter and Betsy’s stepped out a minute, so that’ll have to wait a sec. Not hungry?’
Ian coughs into his hand, then wipes his palm off on his Levis.
‘I could have a burger,’ he says.
‘Cheeseburger?’
‘Okay.’
‘American, Swiss, cheddar?’
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