High White Sun

by J. Todd Scott

  “Daily contact? On the phone? You should know, Agent Nichols, that cell reception is bad down in the Big Bend. He might not always answer right away, or at all. Maybe you won’t hear him quite right even when he does,” Chris said. “And would he really tell you if he did know anything about Bravo’s murder? We’re talking about his son, his family. The same son he’s supposedly doing all this for. Do you really trust him that much?”

  “He doesn’t want to go back to jail. He’s got a lot on the line . . . I believe him,” Nichols said.

  Harp: “No, you have to believe him, or you’re fucked. He’s out there running around on your dime. This only gets better by the moment. That piece of shit gets to call his FBI friends to tell us to back off.”

  “And we’re talking about a homicide,” Chris added, “not an unpaid parking ticket.” He shook his head. He needed another coffee after the long drive here—a drive that was going to feel a hell of a lot longer going back. “You’re asking a lot, maybe too much.”

  Nichols tapped the table, as if the decision had already been made. “I get it. It’s an uncomfortable situation for all of us. But all we need is for Flowers to show up, which should be any day now. Earl knows the minute he does, he has to close the deal and it’ll be over. Then I’ll personally squeeze Earl over what happened in Terlingua. If his brother or Jesse had a hand in that, they’ll have to stand for it . . . all the way, no deals. I promise you that. Until then, all you have to do is stay out of the way and out of the picture.”

  The room was quiet, all of them looking down at the table. Somewhere deep in the building, an air-conditioning unit kicked on, making the room hum around them, but not any cooler.

  “Of course, that means I have to believe you,” Chris said, shaking his head. “This is happening right here, right now, in my backyard, and if it wasn’t for what happened in Terlingua, you never would have come forward and said a thing about it. Not about Earl, or Jesse, or Flowers. They’re all down there plotting God only knows what, and in the meantime, you’re putting my town and my deputies at risk . . . your fellow law enforcement officers.” Chris pointed at Nichols. “You keep talking about we and us a lot, but right now, as far as John Wesley Earl goes, I only see you sitting at this table. So if this goes south, you’re the one who’s going to have to stand for it, all the way.” Chris shook his head one last time, realizing how he sounded like Harp. “And I can promise you that. It seems to me Earl is your damn trusty shooter. I hope you’re comfortable with that.”

  Then Chris turned to Stackpole and Major Dyer, both of whom had sat still as stone throughout the long conversation with Nichols.

  “Okay, so what does all this have to do with your man Danny Ford?”

  16

  They’d left for Lubbock earlier that morning without her. The sheriff had apologized for not taking her, but really, she was okay with it. As much as she liked both Sheriff Cherry and Harp, she didn’t want to be cooped up with them for the eight-hour round-trip journey.

  Besides, she had plenty of things of her own to get done.

  * * *

  • • •

  SHE CHECKED ON AVALOS when Victor brought him his lunch—a bologna sandwich with one swirl of yellow mustard, a bag of potato chips, and a carton of milk. Another day locked up, and Avalos seemed paler, smaller. He was falling in on himself, reminding her of a pescado that had been left out in the sun. She and her papa had fished together many, many years ago at a place where a lot of the locals went—a hard jumble of rocks and river grass at a bend in the river below the Puente Ojinaga. One morning when they went there she found un pescado that someone had forgotten to free back into the water the day before. It was lying there on the rocks, not much bigger than her child’s hand; the scales that had once been bright as silver pesos and that had once reflected rainbow light were dirty and dry and flaking away. Its eyes had sunk in, disappeared, and there was a bit of frayed fishing line running from the rusted hook that had twisted in its mouth. She’d cried hard at seeing it, at how it must have twisted and flopped while trying to get back into the water to its mama and papa, and her papa had told her, sí, it was a sad thing, but the water was muy mágico and it would soon bring the pescado back to life again. He’d then slipped it beneath the cool, dark water, where it had floated alone until it dropped away and she lost sight of it. She knew her papa had lied to her, but was glad he did, and after catching a dozen big shiny pescados of her own, she gave it no more thought. The tiny one had been too small to keep and too easily forgotten.

  Whoever Avalos was waiting for still hadn’t come. Not yet, and maybe never, and other than her stopping by to look in on him, his only other visitor was his appointed defender, Santino Paez. The lawyer’s visits were brief, necessary, leaving behind the pepper and orange scent of his aftershave, and leaving Avalos mostly alone, except when Victor was there to keep him company. Sometimes Avalos talked to him in Spanish, questions about the town and the people in it, but other than that, said little. Victor told her all of this and shared everything Avalos said to him, but none of it was much use. None of it explained why Avalos thought he knew her or why he was in Murfee.

  She watched him eat his bologna sandwich but he wouldn’t look at her, and when he was done, she took away what he hadn’t finished.

  * * *

  • • •

  SHE THEN MET WITH PAEZ in his small office by the Hamilton, where it smelled like burgers outside, and that orange and pepper aftershave of his on the inside. The office was filled with fake plants, too bright and green, almost like a jungle. Paez was smaller than she was, with equally small, manicured hands, and his fake plants towered over him. His hair was slicked back tight against his head, gleaming with oil, and his suit was dark and creased sharp. He sat across from her with his fingers spread flat and a bright gold watch circling his wrist.

  He apologized there was nothing he could say about his client, raising his hands as if in prayer. Estas cosas son lo que son. It was all a horrible mistake, tragic for everyone, but Mr. Avalos would have his day in court, and everyone would understand his side of it.

  She asked Paez if Avalos had any serious interest in talking; maybe there were some details he could provide that really would help everyone see his side of it, without the need for a trial. Deputy Milford wasn’t dead, after all, and nothing that had happened couldn’t be undone. She was willing to bet one or more charges could be dropped in exchange for just a few words explaining why Avalos—the young man from Phoenix—was in Murfee, Texas.

  What had brought him here . . . what was he doing?

  Paez sat back, eyes narrowed. She had seen him wear these silly glasses before: thin wire-rims where the lenses were nothing but clear glass. She knew he could see perfectly well without them, the way he was seeing her right now. He brushed at something invisible on his desk with his thin fingers and their gleaming white nails, and asked her point-blank if Royal Moody knew about this visit; if, in fact, the district attorney was officially offering a deal, of if she was, all on her own. They both understood that anywhere other than a small town like Murfee such a discussion wouldn’t even be taking place, but this was Murfee, and she and Paez and Avalos shared language and cultural ties that extended across the river at the town’s back; the same river that more than half of Murfee’s citizens went back and forth over every day.

  She shrugged, letting her silence answer for her. Paez stood up, smoothing out his tie with tiny gold suns on it, and said he’d think about it. He’d speak of it with his client and let her know.

  Veremos . . . we’ll see, he said, raising his hands skyward again.

  He walked her to his office door, opened it for her, and asked if she might be interested in going out for a drink in the coming days. There was a new place in Artesia, a bar that was supposed to be quite good . . . for Artesia, he added with a laugh. She knew he had gone to law school in El Paso, but he acted as if he had b
een away to Houston or Dallas or even New York. He had no idea of the cities she had visited.

  As she slipped on her sunglasses, she thanked him for his time, and asked him if his family in Presidio and San Angelo was well. When he mentioned the bar in Artesia again, a touch more insistent, she just smiled again . . .

  Veremos . . . she finally said, as she walked past him and left him standing in the doorway.

  * * *

  • • •

  SHE THEN WENT AND SAW TOMMY at Hancock Hill, and as she walked in, caught him trying to slip a Penthouse beneath the sheets. She’d brought him more books and magazines and cold beers, and sat with him for a bit, filling him in on the Bravo case. All of the deputies had been taking turns visiting him every day, so she really wasn’t telling him much he didn’t already know, and she could see that he was tired and listless and anxious. He was supposed to be discharged in another few days, but it’d be months before he could truly walk again, and maybe never quite the same. They wouldn’t know until he started rehabbing his leg. Still, he was glad that she visited, and she held his hand while she talked to him, and when there was nothing more for either of them to say, she told him he could get back to his dirty magazines. He ogled her and raised his eyebrow up and down, told her she was hotter than any of the women in there, and that left her laughing as she left.

  Finally, unable to avoid it anymore, she went and picked up Billy Bravo’s body.

  * * *

  • • •

  IT WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON when she left for Terlingua to meet Billy’s girlfriend, Vianey. She had called the girl the day before to make sure she was staying out in Presidio, telling her it was safer for her to be with family and friends while they continued to look into Billy’s death, but there was one more thing they could do together in Terlingua. Two things. The department was done with his trailer, so if there was something personal from it she wanted to take, that was fine. And they were also done with the body, so if she wanted that, it was hers as well.

  Despite what Ben had threatened to Jesse Earl, there wasn’t much hope they’d find any evidence on Billy. There wasn’t a whole lot to suggest he’d ever put up any sort of fight. Still, his clothes and his nails had been scraped and a thousand pictures had all been taken, until Doc Hanson had said there was nothing left he could do with the body. Whatever story it might tell was finished, and he’d write it all down and let them know. Billy had been cremated at Pearl’s Funeral Home, and she’d picked up the small box wrapped in plastic before leaving Murfee.

  She rode with it in the front seat next to her and tried not to look at it, or the small brown bag next to it, while driving.

  When she got to Terlingua, Vianey was already sitting outside on the stoop of Billy’s place, smoking a cigarette and looking up at all the words people had spray-painted on the trailer. The little yard, what there was of it, was filled with upright beer cans and bottles, pushed hard into the dirt; standing tall at attention, like soldados on watch. There had been a party last night in Billy’s memory and the people in town who knew him best and the other river guides he’d worked with had come out and toasted the life lost, writing remembrances on the skin of his home.

  She’d passed a similar display where his body had been found, the ground now sporting a hundred bottles like dark flowers, half filled with the last of the day’s sun.

  She and Vianey stood together outside for a minute, silently reading the words people had sprayed there: We love u Billy . . . Cross the next river . . . Follow the sun brother . . . See ya soon Bear . . .

  They didn’t say much more, either, when they finally went inside the hot trailer.

  For the next hour they looked through Billy’s things, and although she’d found and set aside a Nike shoe box if there was anything Vianey wanted to keep, nothing went into it.

  Still . . .

  There was Billy’s collection of arrowheads he’d found while out on the river, and a small ashtray of blood-dark musket balls.

  There was a bunch of small notebooks of his sketches. None of them were particularly good, just good enough that America could make out what he’d intended—a butte or a mesa lorded over by a perfect round sun; a long-legged pájaro, head dipped down toward the water; a bear peering through broken grass; a girl who was not Vianey with a tattoo of a dragon over her shoulder.

  There was a Mason jar full of old concert and movie ticket stubs, crushed together like a hand squeezing dry leaves, many over ten years old.

  A dream catcher with blue and purple feathers hanging just over the bed.

  A knife without a grip, just a naked blade still bright.

  A small gift wrapped in Christmas paper, long faded and never opened.

  There were dozens of old pictures of people neither of them knew, in places they didn’t recognize; one of a small boy, hair a mess, standing on a carpet of green grass, holding a fishing line that dangled a catfish. The boy was half trapped in shadow, the legs beneath his shorts tan, and the arms gangly and sticking out at angles from the sleeves of a thick-striped T-shirt. Because of how his face was split by sun and shade, it was hard to see if he was smiling or not. Someone had written something on the back of the picture, but the words were long ago smudged away.

  And last, there was a more recent photo, of Vianey, her arms raised toward the camera, hiding the full, naked curve of her breasts; her head thrown back, laughing. The image was spotted with drops of sunlight, like drops of rain, and it was a good picture, natural. The girl in it was far more beautiful and alive than the girl standing next to America in the trailer. Vianey looked at it for a long time, as if seeing herself for the first time, before slipping it, along with the photo of the small boy, into her jeans pockets.

  America took the rest of the pictures and the notebooks and dumped them into the box she’d set out and carried it outside, where she poured it all into Billy’s grill, and Vianey lit it on fire with one of her endless cigarettes.

  And then, just like before, when they’d read the words on the outside of the trailer, they stood silent together, watching those things burn.

  Vianey may have been crying, or she may not.

  Ben liked to go on and on about how people never changed, or couldn’t change—not for the better, anyway—but America wasn’t so sure. Maybe she felt like she needed to believe otherwise, because Azahel Avalos was sitting up in the Big Bend County jail, acting as if he knew something about what she’d been and the things she’d done. And she didn’t really want to accept that Billy Bravo had died because of his past mistakes—few people deserved to die like he had outside the Wikiup—and in the years since he’d settled in the Big Bend, he’d worked hard to be a better person in spite of that past. The words spray-painted on his trailer seemed to prove that. Had he done enough? Y ¿qué importaba de todos modos? Maybe you could never completely leave your past behind, but if that was true, it was just as true that there were things you could never quite take with you, either.

  Arrowheads and musket balls and dream catchers and old presents.

  A picture of a boy catching his first fish.

  Someone like the girl standing next to her, watching sketches and pictures and memories burn.

  Y ¿qué importaba de todos modos?

  She thought about Duane Dupree and the money under her bed and Azahel Avalos, while she waited for Billy’s things to become ashes and embers. And after those went cold, she scooped them into the shoe box.

  Then she and Vianey got into her truck and followed Terlingua Creek down to where it met the river.

  * * *

  • • •

  THEY PARKED AND GOT OUT with both boxes and the brown bag, walking until they found a place where the reeds were pulled free—a curved patch of sand like the moon, where people slipped canoes in and out of the river. The area was wide and flat, the sun slanting low and orange against it, and the drough
t-low water of the river moved like a snake, thick, its skin brown and pebbled.

  Crickets filled the silence, making the air tremble and hum, and big libélulas in a thousand colors hovered as still as the water below them.

  She asked Vianey if she wanted to say something and she nodded. She gently took the box holding Billy’s ashes and held it out over the water . . .

  Santa Muerte, te convoco. Santa Muerte, te invoco. Dame justicia, justicia contra mis enemigos . . . justice against those who hurt and harm me. Santa Muerte, hear my cries, punish my enemies, as only you can punish them. Santa Muerte, you know that I am not an evil person, this is a problem only you can fix. Use your scythe to cut down my enemies, as they had me pushed down to the ground, and you gave me a hand to stand back up. Cut them to the ground, Santa Muerte, thank you for your protection, thank you for your help, thank you for hearing my cry . . . Amén.

  It wasn’t the Catholic prayer America expected or knew from her own childhood, it was instead a plea to Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte, the female skeleton wrapped in robes and carrying a scythe, the woman called Saint Death. Even in Murfee, her worship had increased over the years, brought over the river from all the small towns like Valverde, Nueva Holanda, Potrero del Llano. She was popular with the poor and the narcos because they believed in her ability to grant miracles and to ensure a path to the afterlife. America didn’t know much about it, but the prayer Vianey had offered had nothing to do with Billy’s soul.

  It was a prayer of protection . . . and revenge.

  After she finished, Vianey shook open the original box and watched Billy’s ashes spin and scatter over the river, held aloft by a slight wind. America did the same with the shoe box of burned photos and drawings, and for several seconds all of it mingled together in the air, a white cloud drifting down into the water below.