River Runs Red (The Border Trilogy)

by Jeffrey J. Mariotte

“Jeez, Mom,” he said. He had never known anyone who’d been murdered, and wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” she said. She wrapped her arms around him. Thankfully, his erection had vanished.

  It didn’t take long for the details to come out, at least as rumors passed from one of Kenner’s schoolmates to another. Officially, the sheriff remained tightlipped about it all, but Joe Ed Botkin’s dad was a deputy, and he told Joe Ed, and pretty soon everyone had heard.

  On the night that Wade had been losing his virginity with Angela, Russ Kenner had been out in the desert, drinking with some buddies. They’d convinced someone to buy them a couple of six-packs, and got a pretty good buzz on. But Julio Robles, who was nineteen, had driven them out there in his old Firebird, and he had to get up early the next morning to drive his pregnant sister to El Paso for a doctor’s appointment. So at ten, he announced that he was heading home, and anyone who wanted a ride had better come now.

  All the guys piled back into the car, complaining the whole way. Julio didn’t even take them all home, but dropped them off at the intersection of Palo Duro and River—in the parking lot of the Bottle Stop, in fact, where the beer had been purchased—and let them walk from there.

  Russ Kenner lived about three miles away. He walked on River part of the way, then cut across some fields to Burns. It was on Burns Road, according to Joe Ed, that he met someone else.

  Whoever that someone was, Joe Ed claimed, he was strong. He took Russ into an irrigation ditch at the edge of a cotton field and choked the life from him, kneeling on his chest with one knee, pressing down hard enough to snap some ribs and send one of them through Russ’s right lung. Then he took a sharp knife, like a hunting knife, and made a cut across Russ’s forehead and two more down the sides of his face. That done, he peeled Russ’s face from his head. Joe Ed’s dad speculated that he did this to make it harder to identify the victim. When the sheriff’s deputies found Russ, though, alerted by his parents when he didn’t come home that night, they were able to confirm his identity by the wallet in his back jeans pocket. His fingerprints were intact, too. And they found the raggedly torn-off face, or most of it, hanging on top of a stake that held a bollworm trap, a quarter mile up the ditch.

  The news sent a shock wave through the teenagers of Malo Duro. They’d been enjoying their summer—some were working (Byrd had a job as a stock boy at the Mercantile, while Wade had picked up odd farm jobs here and there), while others were just hanging out, maybe experimenting with sex like Wade and Angela, or booze and dope, like Russ and his pals. Suddenly, it was as if a noxious cloud floated between them and the sun, the murder in their midst casting their summer in a new, terrible light.

  What made it worse was that it was only the first.

  Joey Quivira came next. He had been working on a car in his garage one night. When his parents went out to look for him, they found him on the ground with his throat slashed and screwdrivers jammed through his chest and into his lungs.

  Kurt Brown had been driving home after dropping off his date—they’d gone all the way into El Paso to see Aliens—when he’d stopped on a quiet country lane for an unknown reason. His killer had propped him up with his head in the door of the car, and slammed it enough times to pulp his skull. Brains and blood had leaked onto the road and soaked the floor mat.

  The county sheriff started warning people, particularly teenage boys, against being outside alone at night. Most of the guys took it to heart. Byrd and Wade started spending nights at each other’s houses—usually Byrd’s— so that if they were together in the evening, neither of them had to bike home alone. But some didn’t get the message, or didn’t heed it, and the murders continued through the rest of that summer. Jason Barnett, shot through the head three times, his eyes gouged out with a spoon. Kenny Trimble, stabbed multiple times, partially scalped. Emilio Villanova was knocked unconscious, and then his body was placed on the ground with his head right in front of a tractor wheel. The tractor had passed over his skull at least twice, leaving something that looked, as Joe Ed Botkin had claimed, like strawberry applesauce.

  Not all of these guys were on Byrd’s football team or in Wade’s class, but most of them were. They were all students at Palo Duro High.

  The sheriff admitted that he didn’t have any solid leads. There had been tips, hundreds of them, most of them useless. Joe Ed said a woman had called from Ely, Nevada, to confess. A Baptist preacher from Hardeeville, South Carolina, had called to say that he believed one of the men in his congregation, who he was sure was a homosexual, might be to blame. A few people around Malo Duro told of seeing a dark pickup truck out on some of the nights of the murders, but it would have been more unusual in that area for anyone not to have seen a pickup or two around town.

  By the time Jason Barnett died, Wade was pretty sure he knew the truth.

  When Kenny Trimble and then Emilio Villanova were murdered, he was certain.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “It’s my dad.”

  “Your dad?” Byrd echoed. “What is? What are you talkin’ about, dude?”

  “Killing all those guys.”

  They were at the cave. Screwing Angela there had changed it for Wade, somehow, had stolen away some of its youthful innocence. It had been like something out of Tom Sawyer, but now it was more Huckleberry Finn—an adult tale disguised as a kid’s adventure.

  “Your dad?” Molly asked. She was only twelve. Wade had not wanted to say anything in front of her, but they’d started talking about the murders and it had slipped out. She’d been sitting on the dirt floor reading an Archie comic, but now she left it spread open on her lap, forgotten, and stared at Wade with eyes so wide it must have hurt. “Your dad’s the murderer?”

  Wade blew out a heavy sigh. “I think so, yeah.”

  “You’re nuts,” Byrd said. “You’re absolutely bugfuck.”

  “Byrd!” Molly snapped, as she usually did these days when he employed language she considered obscene or inappropriate. Which, given that it was Byrd, was fairly often.

  “Sorry,” he said to her. “But you are, Wade.”

  “I don’t think so. I wish I was wrong. I just don’t see how I could be.”

  “Why, you catch him washin’ blood off his hands or somethin’? You find the keys to the tractor he ran over Emilio with?”

  “Someone got ran over with a tractor?” Molly asked. They’d done their best to keep her out of the rumor loop.

  “Never mind, Moll. Maybe you should go play with dolls or somethin’.”

  “Forget that,” she said. “I want to hear about Wade’s dad.”

  “Fuck it, I don’t care,” Wade said. He balled his fists and punched the cave floor. “Look, he’s been going out a lot at night lately. Ever since…you know, Byrd. He hasn’t laid a hand on me or Mom since then, but he’s been going out. I thought he was drinking with his friends from work, maybe. He’d come home sometimes, pretty late, acting a little buzzed, but never as drunk as he used to get.”

  “Sounds like our little talk had a positive impact,” Byrd said.

  “Maybe,” Wade said. “But the first murder was Russ Kenner, right? That was the night of July nineteenth.”

  “How do you know that?” Byrd asked.

  “Never mind, I just do. Anyway, I remember my dad was out that night. He came home after I’d gone to bed, and I went to bed pretty late, and then couldn’t sleep. I heard him come in and shuffle around in his workroom for a while before he went to bed.”

  “So what?”

  “So then when Jason Barnett got it, he was out that night, too. I couldn’t remember for sure if he’d been out the nights of the other murders, but after that I started paying attention. Kenny Trimble, he was out. Emilio Villanova, he was out. That’s four of them out of, what…six? That’s a pretty bad record.”

  “Maybe,” Byrd said. He pursed his lips. Wade had never looked at him quite the same, since he’d watched him kick the shit out of his father. He was a
handsome guy—deeply tanned, well muscled—and now he took on the air of a superhero in Wade’s eyes. “But it’s all, whaddyacallit, circumstantial, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.” Wade dug into the backpack he had brought to the cave with him, in which he carried an extra flashlight, batteries, cassette tapes, some reading material, and other odds and ends. He pulled out an object wrapped in a paisley bandanna and unwrapped it, revealing a large knife in a brown leather sheath with a pocket for a sharpening stone. “So I went snooping around in his workroom, and I found this.” He tugged the knife from its sheath, displaying a wicked blade, serrated across the top edge.

  “Shit,” Byrd said.

  “Yeah. Joe Ed’s dad said he thinks the knife that stabbed Kenny was the same one that cut off Russ Kenner’s face, and maybe the same one that sliced Joey Quivira’s throat.”

  “Joe Ed’s dad is so dumb he’s practically retarded.”

  “Mom says that’s not a nice word.”

  “Mom’s right, Molly. But it’s true.” Byrd inspected the knife without touching it. “Dude, you have to take this to the cops.”

  “I want to,” Wade said. “But like you said, it’s all circumstantial. Even this—it’s just a knife, and there’s not a speck of blood on it that I can see. I’m finally kind of getting along okay with my dad, for the first time in my life, pretty much. If I turn him in with no real proof, what’s he gonna think about that? I mean, he’ll hate me all over again.”

  “What do you want to do, then? You can’t just sit on it.”

  Wade put the knife back into its case, wrapped it up, and shoved it deep in the backpack. “I have an idea about that.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to keep an eye on him when he goes out.”

  “Won’t he be drivin’?”

  “Sure. But there aren’t a lot of roads around here, you might have noticed. There are plenty of fields, and trails across those. I think on my bike I can cut through and mostly keep up with him. He won’t be watching for anyone following him that way.” He had flopped around in bed most of the night, trying to get comfortable, trying to forget the lurid stories he’d heard of John Wayne Gacy and Henry Lee Lucas and their kind. His father had always had anger issues, to put it mildly. Had something tipped him over the edge, sent him into a murderous rage from which there was no coming back?

  He could never whisper a word of it to Byrd, but Wade couldn’t help wondering if it was the fight, getting his ass kicked, finally, by a seventeen-year-old that had done it.

  A tentative smile played about Byrd’s lips and eyes. Wade had seen that look on Byrd before, usually as a prelude to some sort of outrageous suggestion that might get them both in trouble. That look had accompanied a thousand I-dare-you’s and hey-why-don’t-we’s and I’ve-got-an-ideas. “Okay,” Byrd said. “I’m in.”

  “Me, too!” Molly added, jumping to her feet as if she’d been invited into the fun house at the carnival.

  “Wait,” Wade said. He pointed at Molly. “No. Byrd, I’m not asking for volunteers. It’s my dad, and I’ve got to do something. I have to know for sure. But—”

  “Wade,” Byrd said. The single word carried a flat finality, the way he spoke it, a shut-up-and-don’t-argue certainty. “We’re in this together, dude. We’re all in it, for that matter.” His gaze swept the room, encompassing his little sister. “I don’t want anybody gettin’ hurt. Anybody. So I’m in, and I’ll look out for Molly.”

  Molly had clasped her hands together in front of her waist, and she stared at Byrd like he was the Second Coming. “Molly, you need to keep quiet about all this. And do exactly what I tell you. Without question, without hesitation. Can you do that?”

  With all the gravity a twelve-year-old could possess, she lowered her eyelids halfway and nodded her head. “Yes, Byrd.”

  “Good. Okay, Wade, what’s the plan?”

  * * *

  For the next few nights, Wade’s dad stayed in. He watched TV, he drank a couple of beers. From time to time Wade even caught him engaging in civil, good-humored conversation with Mom.

  Summer was drawing toward a close, the days speeding past as the beginning of school neared. Wade hung out with Byrd whenever Byrd’s job at the Mercantile didn’t keep him tied up. He and Angela were still dating. In the timeless tradition of teenage sweethearts, the only caution they exercised was their studious avoidance of the word “love.” Possibly as a result, Wade didn’t know if he was in love with her, but being away from her made his chest ache and being near her made other parts sore. He saw Angela most evenings, always breaking away (an exercise in willpower he was surprised to win) in time to be home before nine. On the nights his father had left the house, presumably to go boy-hunting, he had always taken off around ten.

  Five nights after the meeting in the cave, Dad went out again. Just before ten, he tugged on a denim jacket and a ball cap with the Dallas Cowboys star logo because a summer thunderstorm had opened up the skies an hour before and hadn’t let up, growled a cursory “See you later,” and stepped out the door.

  As they had discussed, Wade rushed to the phone and dialed Byrd’s number. Wade let the phone ring once, hung up, dialed the number again, and once again hung up after the first ring. Byrd would be able to hear it from wherever he was in the house, and he’d know to get outside and grab his bike. Molly, Wade hoped, was already sound asleep.

  The timing worked just as they’d hoped. After making his two aborted calls, Wade ran to his bike and started pedaling for all he was worth, cutting across a field instead of taking McHenry Road. Mud sucked at his tires, trying to drag him down, but he pushed through. The route led to River Road, heading toward town. He could see the diffuse glow of taillights through the rain, probably Dad in the pickup. By the time his dad reached the McCall place, Byrd should have been outside on his bike, ready to ride.

  Soaked and winded, his lungs screaming in protest and his heart jackhammering in his chest, Wade rode into Palo Duro. As he came into the glow of the streetlights, which only extended for a quarter mile or so from the crossroads at River and Palo Duro, he heard a low whistle and squeezed the brake handles, having finally traded up, a year before, from the ancient Stingray to a new mountain bike.

  He came to a shuddering stop, rear wheel kicking up a small fantail of rainwater. Byrd came out of the shadows between the BBQ Shack and the Mercantile, straddling his own bike. His cheeks were red with effort and he had to suck in a deep breath before he spoke. “He went into Betty’s,” he said, pointing at the Night Owl Saloon down the street. “Hasn’t come out.”

  “Anyone see you leave the house?”

  “Don’t think so. I can’t stay out too late, though.”

  “Go ahead on home, man. I can stay.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s covered.” Wade’s mom had watched him leave but she hadn’t asked any questions. He figured her world had been turned so upside down that she wouldn’t know where to start. He might have some awkward explaining to do when he got back. Then again, maybe not.

  He’d try not to worry about that until it happened. Until then, he had to keep an eye on Dad, make sure he didn’t go all Texas Chainsaw Massacre on some other poor kid.

  Byrd took off, and Wade decided his spot was a good one. From the shadows he could clearly see the pickup truck and the front door of Betty’s Night Owl. Neon liquor signs glowed in the building’s curtained window. He put down the bike’s kickstand and sat on an unpainted wooden step leading to the BBQ Shack’s big screened patio. The driving rain against the building’s tin roof made a noise like a never-ending train clattering by. The space between the buildings smelled like piss, and the broken glass strewn about made him worry about his bike’s tires. But there was an overhang above the door that kept most of the rain off him, and he leaned back against the door and tried not to think at all.

  After a couple hours, his dad staggered out, climbed into the truck, slammed the door, and drove toward home. Wad
e followed. When he pulled into the driveway, the truck was sitting there, the engine ticking. A light blazed upstairs in his parents’ bedroom, but the downstairs was dark.

  Wade stole inside and crept up the stairs and into his room without being observed. Once the door was closed, the enormity of what he had tried to do, of what his father might have done, surrounded him all at once, like a giant’s fist closing in on him, crushing his ribs, compressing his lungs. He broke into an icy sweat. He peeled his wet clothes away and sat on his bed in his underwear, trembling.

  Can I do this? he asked himself. Can I really do this?

  On the other hand, how can I not?

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It went on like that for a week. Dad leaving around ten on two more nights, going down to Betty’s for an hour or so, then returning home. Wade followed, with Byrd—and once, Molly—joining the chase as Dad drove past their house.

  Saturday came. School would start a week from Monday. Wade felt like his last weeks of vacation had passed him by, his worries overwhelming the sense of freedom he should have exulted in.

  Angela’s parents had gone to San Antonio for the weekend, leaving Angela in charge of her little brother, fourteen-year-old Alan. Wade spent the day with her, swimming in the river and fooling around, while Alan hung out with buddies from his class. That evening, Angela let three of the boys stay for dinner, which consisted of frozen pizzas from the Mercantile, Cokes, and celery sticks that mostly went uneaten. Afterward, in the early twilight, she and Wade went for a long walk in the undeveloped desert near their place. The Mills family lived way out of town, in the direction of Smuggler’s Canyon, and their farm contained the last cultivated fields for miles. A nearly full moon rose early and hung low in the sky, yellow as autumn grass.

  “I’m sorry we fought yesterday,” Angela said, twining her fingers in his. Holding her hand never stopped being a thrill, as if she were plugged into an electrical outlet and conducted the current directly to his heart. She wore perfume that reminded him of fresh peaches.