by Simon Toyne
She crossed the road about forty yards back from her house and cut up the driveway of a house she knew to be empty. She slipped down a passage between the house and the garage and entered the rear garden. It was like hers, cultivated, but wild and open at the back to the desert beyond. She moved through the garden and stepped over the low fence that marked the boundary. She could see the backs of the houses and made her way to her own using the trees and plants as cover. She had the key to the car in her pocket. All she had to do was get in it and drive away.
It felt strange, creeping up to her own house through grasses and flower beds that she had planted and had always associated with relaxation. Now it was a place of trepidation and fear. She crouched behind the same clump of deer grass Solomon had hidden behind and studied the house. It seemed still. Empty, but that didn’t mean it was.
She watched for a while then moved across the ground, keeping low, heading for a gate that joined the garage to the house. Her car was beyond it. It had been sitting there for a week and the battery was old and sometimes needed boosting. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Too late now. She pulled the keys from her pocket and held them tightly in her hand, the jagged edge of the key out in front like a tiny knife.
The hinges on the gate squeaked as she opened it. On any other day she wouldn’t have noticed but today it sounded like the loudest noise in the world. Her Toyota was right in front of her, the red paintwork and windows streaked from the earlier rain. She moved to the driver’s side, eyes wide and fixed on the house. The doors thunked as she unlocked it. She opened the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. The key rattled against the ignition slot, her hands shaking, and she had to lean forward to see what she was doing before it slid into place.
Please start—she whispered and pulled the stick into neutral. The car was old and so was the hand brake, so she always left it in gear to keep it from rolling down the hill. Please start—she said again.
She twisted the key. The engine turned, sounded sluggish. Didn’t start.
A hand banged on her window and Holly’s heart leaped into her chest as she turned to face whoever was standing there.
“Margaret,” she said, more a sigh of relief than a word. She wound her window down and glanced back at the house.
“You okay, Holly?” her neighbor said. “Only I saw you drive away in the police car earlier.”
“I’m fine, Margaret, thank you.”
Margaret leaned in and lowered her voice. “Heard someone took a shot at Chief Morgan.”
“Imagine that,” Holly said, and twisted the key in the ignition again. The engine turned and labored, then coughed into life. It was a piece of junk, but at least it was a reliable one.
Margaret stepped back. “Well, so long as you’re okay,” she said. “Anything you need, just holler. Anything at all.”
Holly smiled and revved the engine a little to warm it up. “Thank you, Margaret,” she said, checking the street behind her for cars. “That’s very kind of you.”
61
MULCAHY STOOD BY A GRAY SINK THAT HAD ONCE BEEN WHITE AND SPLASHED water on his face. The faucet said Cold, but the water dribbling out of it was blood warm from sitting in the pipes all day. He had let it run awhile but it hadn’t made any difference.
He looked up at his reflection. The washroom was a piss-stinking sweat box with a bulky air conditioner that filled the room with a death-rattle sound and moved hot air around. The mirror on the wall was small and rectangular and framed in blue plastic with a starburst crack on one corner where it had been dropped on the concrete floor. The glass was cracked too, probably from the same incident, a single jagged line running diagonally across the middle in a way that made the upper part of his face appear slightly out of line with the lower part. The mirror hung from a length of greasy string hooked over a nail that had gouged in the plaster a crater that resembled a bullet hole.
Mulcahy ran his hands through his hair and studied the split image of his face. He could see his mother in it. Same eyes, almond shaped and slightly turned down at the corners in a way that made her look sultry and him sad. Same coloring too: pale freckled skin and auburn hair that suited the Irish name his father had given him. He wondered if his father saw her in him too and that was why he often seemed mad at him. Maybe it wasn’t him he was mad at and never had been. He pulled his phone from his pocket, checked the time, then called his father’s cell.
He opened the door a crack while it dialed and started to ring. Tío was standing by the pump, the sky behind him glowing red like an ember. He was half-bent over a five-gallon can with the price label still tied to the handle, one hand on the gas nozzle sticking out of the can, the other on his hip. He didn’t notice Mulcahy spying on him. He was too busy studying the legs of the woman at the next pump who was leaning against a Harley while her boyfriend filled it up. To anyone else he would look like a small-time Mexican farmer getting gas for his generator. The phone connected and he let the door close.
“Bueno.”
“Could I speak to my father, please?”
There was a sigh and some handling noise, then his father came on the line. “What the hell, Mikey!”
The sound of his father’s voice made his throat feel tight. “You okay, Pop?”
“I been better.” He sounded tired and old and frightened.
Mulcahy swallowed, cleared his throat. “They treating you okay?”
“I guess. They ain’t hurt me again, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“They ain’t going to hurt you, Pop. You’ll be out of there soon, you just got to hang in there a little longer is all.”
“How much longer?”
“Not long. They’re going to get a call in a little while, then they’ll let you go. When they do, you take off, okay? Don’t go home, don’t go anywhere anyone might know you. Check into a motel someplace, eat takeout and watch TV for a few days until you hear from me, okay?”
“Okay, but I don’t got much cash on me.”
“I’ll make sure you get some. Just do what I say, all right?”
“What the hell is this, Mikey? What did you do?”
Mulcahy closed his eyes. He wondered if his pop would have ended up where he was if he had never met his mother. Would he have carried such sadness around with him and gambled so hard? Who knew. It didn’t matter really. He was in a fix and Mulcahy could get him out of it. That was what mattered. Everything else was just details.
“Listen, Pop . . .”
“What?”
“You know I appreciate all you ever did for me, you know that?”
“Sure. What are we talking about here?”
“I love you, Pop.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What you saying that for?”
“In case.”
“. . . In case what?”
“In case I forget to say it later.” He cleared his throat again and wiped water from his cheek with the back of his hand. “Put Gomez back on, would you? And remember what I said.”
“Sure, Mikey.” There was a pause, then his father spoke again, softly, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I love you too, son.” Then he was gone.
Mulcahy stared at his split image and wiped more water from his face that wasn’t water anymore.
“¿Si?” The voice sounded bored and Mulcahy wondered how many of these kinds of jobs Gomez had done.
“Thank you for looking after my father,” he said. “I appreciate it. You’ll be getting a call soon. When you do, give my father some cash. A few hundred or so will do it. I will consider it a personal favor and will make sure you get paid back triple.”
“The fuck you say?”
“Just wait for the call,” Mulcahy said. “You’ll understand when you get it. And give him his cell back too. He won’t give you no trouble. Wait for the call.”
He hung up before the man could say any more, this stranger who would kill his father without thinki
ng twice. He studied his cracked image. His mother’s eyes staring back but leaking tears for his father. He doubted hers ever had. He wondered if they had ever cried any for him.
He opened his messages, found one he had been sent a month earlier when he had first been contacted with the proposition he had ultimately taken, the one that meant he might finally be free. The message contained a phone number and he dialed it. The phone clicked in his ear as someone answered. “We’re an hour away,” he said, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. “You can track me on this number, I’ll leave it switched on.”
“Good. We’ll be waiting.”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“My old man. Any chance you can let him go now? He’s old and the stress of all this will kill him if he spends any more time with a gun to his head.”
“I’ll make a call.”
“Thanks. I told the guys holding him to give him a few hundred bucks too—you think you could remind them of that?”
“You want me to get him a hooker and some takeout while I’m at it?”
“I’m giving you the keys to the kingdom here, a few hundred bucks is nothing.”
“All right, I’ll tell them. Just make sure you’re there in an hour.”
“We’ll be there.”
There was a click and the phone went dead.
Mulcahy slipped the phone in his pocket and looked at himself again. He blotted his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. He didn’t want Tío to see he’d been crying. Tío fed on the discomfort of others and Mulcahy didn’t want to give him any fuel.
An hour.
He took a deep breath of unpleasantly moist, piss-tainted air and blew it out again.
One more hour.
62
MORGAN WAS PARKED ON THE MAIN ROAD BEHIND A HOTEL SIGN THAT KEPT him hidden but gave him a view of the junction into Goater Way, the street Holly Coronado lived on, named after one of the town’s original citizens. He watched the red Toyota pull out onto the main road and head out of town. He hunkered down as it passed him, then rose again and watched it in his mirrors until it was far enough down the road for him to pull a U-turn and start following.
He was driving the county coroner’s Crown Victoria because it was about the most inconspicuous car ever manufactured and was a lot more discreet than his cruiser. Still, he kept at a steady distance. From what Janice had told him, Holly was jumpy and he didn’t want her to spot that she was being followed: he wanted her to continue where she was going and take him to Solomon Creed.
Solomon was the one loose end he still needed to tie up. He’d run some further searches on him, got a friend of his at the hospital to check the AMR to see if he was on the medical register, but he wasn’t. If he’d gotten his medical training in the United States, there was no record of it. He’d even tried to find out if there was a national register for albinos, but all he got was a Facebook page that looked more like a political action group. He had scanned some of the pictures but Solomon didn’t really resemble any of the people on it. They were generally more pink—pinkish skin, pink eyes, freaky—whereas he was pure white and his eyes were a pale gray and he was extraordinary looking, he had to give him that. Probably had no bother at all with the ladies. Hell, plenty of women would be into him, thanks to all that vampire shit they had these days. Maybe that’s what he was—a vampire.
He caught sight of the Toyota up ahead, the brake lights glowing red before turning off and heading up another road. Morgan slowed right down. He didn’t need to follow closely to know where she was going. The only place that road led to was the cemetery and this road was the only way in or out.
He turned onto the road then pulled over and left the engine running while he checked his phones. No messages on either. He unclipped the safety tab on his holster and removed his gun, checked it over, oiling the slide, removing the magazine and slotting it back in again. He had never once fired his gun anywhere but the range, not even to shoot cans out in the desert. That didn’t mean to say he couldn’t. But Solomon was a fugitive from justice now, which meant he was more likely to do something stupid and desperate. And if he did, he would put him down, no question. There was far too much at stake for some loose cannon to come along and mess it all up.
Morgan flexed his hands and felt the ache spread beneath the dressings, then picked up his phone again and dialed dispatch.
“Hi, Chief.”
He never could get used to caller ID. “Hey, Rollins, you ever off duty?”
“Never. What you need?”
He told him, then sat back and waited, thinking about Janice Wickens and the easy life he might have with her if she didn’t get too clingy and naggy like they usually did.
Four minutes after he’d put in the call, a cruiser drew up alongside him. He wound his window down and saw Donny McGee behind the wheel and Tommy Miller riding shotgun. “Follow me, boys,” he said, and put his car in gear. “Get yourselves ready for a resisting-arrest-type situation.”
He pulled away and threw the car into the turn on the mountain road. He slid up over the loose gravel and kept the speed up until he saw the red Toyota parked up ahead by the tourist office. He pulled up in front of the car and Donny slid in behind to keep it from getting away.
Tommy was out first, a dark vest tied tight over his shirt, his gun pointing at the ground as he ran. Donny was close behind. They ran past Morgan’s Crown Vic and he followed.
He heard shouts ahead, then a scream, and he took out his gun and picked up his pace. He passed through the gate and saw a pickup truck parked in the shade of the cottonwood and Billy Walker tied to a tree with his dog Otis asleep on the ground next to him.
Margaret Bender was standing in front of Donny and Tommy, her hands raised, her eyes wide as she pleaded with them. “He was like this when I found him,” she shrieked. “I was only trying to untie him.”
Morgan stepped forward, starting to realize what had happened. “Where’s Holly Coronado?”
“I’m not in trouble, am I, Chief Morgan?” She looked terrified.
“No, you’re not in any trouble. Just tell us why you’re driving Holly Coronado’s car.”
“She asked if she could borrow my station wagon because she wanted to get rid of a bunch of stuff—you know, Jim’s stuff. She said after the funeral she wanted to clear out some things, take them to the church hall.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re driving her car, Mrs. Bender, or why you came up here.”
“She said she left her purse up here at the funeral and couldn’t face coming up to get it, so of course I said I’d be happy to fetch it for her and she gave me the keys to her car, then asked if I wouldn’t mind doing it while she was away borrowing mine.” She pointed at Billy Walker and his dog. “They were like this when I got here. I didn’t have nothing to do with this.”
Morgan looked over at them. Donny was on his knees, checking Billy.
“He’s alive,” he said. “Dog’s alive too.”
Morgan turned back to Margaret and caught her staring at the dressings on his hands. He clenched his fists and felt them sting.
Goddamn woman had played him for a fool again.
PART 8
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.
—“OZYMANDIAS,” PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
From the private journal of the Reverend Jack “King” Cassidy
I write these words on the twenty-third day of December in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and twenty-seven. Two days from now it will be my birthday. I will be eighty-six years old, or I would be if I were to make it that far. In truth I do not intend to. I cannot face another gang of well-wishers or panegyric sermon that will do nothing but make me shrivel inside. I deserve none of it. I am weary of life and am sure it feels the same about me. We are like a married couple who have long since fallen out of love and run out of things to talk about. There i
s only one thing left to say, but, as I have no one to say it to without poisoning their life in the way it has poisoned mine, I will take the coward’s path and write it down instead. Before I quit this life and face the consequences in the next, I need to confess the great secret I have carried with me ever since I found the fortune that has so shaped my life. But to do so requires that I restore some omissions from that millstone of a memoir of mine and complete the picture of what I did and who I truly am.
The account of my travels in my published memoir is true up to where Eldridge lay dying of thirst in the mesquite stand with me close behind. It is true also that I prayed to God then to grant me safe passage back to Fort Huachuca so I might bring Sergeant Lyons to justice. But I also prayed for other things, which I omitted from my memoir out of shame. For the thing I prayed for most was a selfish thing. I prayed for God to spare my miserable life. I begged Him not to let me die out there all alone save for the company of dead strangers. I pleaded for Him to show me what he required of me that he might spare my life. And when those prayers were met with silence, I rejected Him. I took the Bible I had carried so far and threw it aside in anger, calling Him cruel and powerless and hateful to have led me on and brought me here only to abandon me to death and oblivion. And as I raved and howled in my self-pity the wind blew through the trees and riffled the pages of the Bible, turning them not to Exodus, as I wrote in my memoir, but Genesis. The priest had marked a section here too and when I read it now I saw new meaning in it. I had prayed to God to spare my life, to show me a sign of what he wanted of me, and here was my answer: