River Runs Red (The Border Trilogy)

by Jeffrey J. Mariotte

  The next to give way was his right arm, which had begun to buckle under his weight when he lifted his left hand. When he shifted onto it again, it collapsed beneath him, snapping off at the shoulder. He grunted and dropped, blood from his face and obliterated shoulder soaking the dirt. A nauseating odor, as if he’d accidentally wandered into a dysentery ward with backed-up plumbing, flooded over Wade like a wave.

  “Dad…” Wade said, horrified in spite of his anger and hatred. “Dad, are you…?”

  His father tried to rise again, but his left wrist snapped. He pushed himself up on the stump for a moment, bone shards digging into the soaked earth. He might have been trying to say something, but his ruined face made it impossible. With defeat dulling his remaining eye, he slumped back onto the blood-pooled dirt.

  It happened fast after that. His skin bubbled and disappeared, like foam breaking up on the side of a beer glass. Wade wasn’t sure what he was looking at beneath it—muscles and fatty tissue and bones, he guessed, like the models he’d seen in biology class, but before he could really grasp it, they dissolved, too.

  Molly started to scream—long, keening wails that hurt Wade’s ears. Byrd had fallen to his hands and knees, puking on the dirt. Wade’s guts were doing backflips, but emotionally he was numb, worn out and wrung out, and watching his father turn from a powerful, evil man to a puddle of softly burbling goo and soaking into the desert floor didn’t do much to change that. He had already given up on the man. Now there was no man left to worry about.

  * * *

  Molly had often described memory as a river, sometimes calm on top while beneath the surface it could be roiling and churning madly. You couldn’t tell unless you ducked underneath and checked.

  Submerged in the depths of memory, Wade barely realized that they had walked through the rocks to the river’s edge. The Rio Grande ran there as it always had, but its flow was less than in years past. It ran in a stream inside its channel, almost chocolate brown, reeds and grasses hemming it in. Since the old days it had been set off, on this side of the border, by a tall wire fence with razored coils on top.

  What struck Wade was that the river was always there, but not the same water—each drop that passed by was gone forever, replaced immediately by another one.

  He took a deep breath, inhaling the musty aroma of riverside vegetation, letting it overcome the remembered stink of his father’s sudden decomposition. That had never left him, that smell, or any of the rest of it. You could tie concrete blocks to the ankles of something like that and throw it way out in the middle of memory’s river, but you couldn’t make it stay under. Sooner or later, usually when you least wanted or expected it, it floated back to the surface and horrified you all over again.

  “I always thought it would affect me, in some way,” Byrd said. He unconsciously touched the scar that bisected his brow like a pale worm. “Spent my whole life waitin’ for it. Now I think I know. I think it’s what caused my leukemia.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Molly asked.

  But Wade thought he knew. “The pool?” His own thoughts had been full of that night since they got here. Why not Byrd’s?

  “Yeah, the pool. That water, or whatever it was. The way it…it just ate your dad up. I didn’t get nearly as much on me, and thank God y’all just got a little bit, whatever you got off of me, I guess. I was sure it couldn’t do that to him without havin’ an effect on me, too. Now that I know what it is, it’s kind of a relief. I mean, I’m fuckin’ pissed, too. But at least I’m not waitin’ for it anymore.”

  “Do you really think that, Byrd?” Molly asked. “That after all these years, it just hit you now?”

  “We don’t know how long it’s been simmerin’ inside me,” Byrd said. “Maybe years. Decades. It only became noticeable recently, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t lurkin’ somewhere. Then it progressed way faster than any of the doctors had ever seen, right? Like something unnatural.”

  “We probably should have been checked out at the time,” Wade suggested.

  “We were dumb kids. We were immortal. What the fuck did we know? Anyway, that would have meant tellin’ someone what had happened.”

  They had made a solemn vow, there on the spot, never to do that. As far as Wade knew, they had all kept this promise. That night, after Wade’s father was nothing more than a puddle seeping into the ground, they threw their bikes into the back of the truck, and after dropping Molly and Byrd at their place, Wade drove it out into the brushy west Texas back country and abandoned it.

  When his dad didn’t come home, his mother called the sheriff. The truck was found a few days later. When his father never turned up, everybody assumed he had run out on his family. Almost everyone in town, as it happened, had figured out about his abusive nature, and most people thought Gloria and Wade Scheiner were far better off without him around.

  Wade pretended to be concerned, then sorrowful, but in truth, he had to agree with popular opinion. He thought he should have felt the ache of genuine sorrow, even grief. The fact that he didn’t disturbed him, and he waited a long time for it to set in. One morning he woke up from a sound sleep and realized he never would mourn for his father. His mother remarried eight years later—after his father was declared legally dead—and moved to Beaumont. Wade was in Philadelphia at the time, working for a network affiliate. Her second husband died a few years ago, and Hurricane Rita demolished her house. She lived alone in a FEMA trailer park now, having turned down all of Wade’s insincere invitations to move in with him. He spoke to her twice a year, on her birthday and Christmas, and even that was a hardship for him.

  The murders stopped. Angela and Alan Mills never found out how close they had come to becoming victims.

  Wade and his friends drifted away from the river with Wade paying more attention this time. It didn’t take a lot of concentration to figure out their next destination, agreed upon without a single word being spoken—and soon they stood outside their cave, at almost the same spot where Brent Scheiner had spent his last moments on Earth oozing into the dirt.

  Byrd angled his head toward the leaning slab of rock—still tipped at the angle to which Wade’s father had shifted it with his final burst of superhuman strength. “Anyone want to go in?”

  Wade hadn’t been inside since that night, more than two decades earlier. He doubted if the others had. For all he knew, the ammo boxes still waited inside, the candy bars in them way beyond stale. “Hell, no,” Wade said. “I doubt I could even fit anymore.”

  “At least you’re a boy and can say ‘doubt’,” Molly said, patting her behind. “With this ass? No chance.”

  “I really can’t recommend my diet,” Byrd said with a grin. “The pounds just melt away, but the side effects blow big-time.”

  “True, but you’re the only one of us who we know could fit through the opening.”

  “You think I’m goin’ in there, pal, you’re sadly mistaken. I have zero interest in confrontin’ that particular bit of ancient history any closer up than this.”

  “Sounds like it’s unanimous,” Molly said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  No one argued.

  * * *

  By the time they returned to the parking area, it was late afternoon, edging toward dusk. The day had been warm, for November, but an autumn chill bit at the tip of Wade’s nose and chapped his cheeks. Byrd’s Xterra sat where they had left it, and the Kia Sportage hadn’t moved either, but now there was a woman, tall and frizzy-haired, standing in front of it with the hood open and a sour look on her face.

  Wade struck out ahead of the others, aware as he did that once upon a time, that would have been Byrd’s role. “Hey there!” he called. The woman glanced up, relief washing over her face. “You need a hand?”

  She shrugged. “I’m guessing it’s a dead battery,” she said. “I got here pretty early, and probably left the lights on all day.”

  “I bet we can help with that,” Wade said. When he drew close enough, he
put out his hand. She took it, her grip firm and steady. “I’m Wade Scheiner,” he said. Indicating the others, he added, “That’s Molly McCall, and her brother Byrd.”

  “Ginny Tupper,” the woman said. Her face was long, partially obscured by big glasses, red curls, and smudges of dirt, but open and friendly. She wore a blue windbreaker, jeans, and hiking boots. “Thanks for being here. There’s never mobile phone service around here, of course. And I haven’t seen anyone else all day.”

  “That’s what we always liked about it.”

  “Liked?”

  “We’re local kids. Up in El Paso now, just checking out the old stomping grounds.” He turned back to his friends. “You got jumper cables in that truck, Byrd?”

  “Should have.”

  “I think they’re in the back,” Molly said. She, not Byrd, had been driving it lately.

  “Local kids?” Ginny repeated. “Cool. I’m an anthropologist. My dad used to be fascinated by this site, and now I guess it runs in the family. You ever hear of him? Hollis Tupper?”

  Wade dunked a net into the memory river but came up empty. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  Molly joined them at the Kia, cables looped like red and black snakes over her hands. Wade took them from her. “I’ll hook them up, if you can bring the truck closer.”

  “Byrd hates it when people call his baby a truck,” she whispered. “It’s a car, to him. Or an SUV. Or maybe a girlfriend.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” He went to Ginny’s hood, removed the cover from her battery’s positive terminal, and started getting the clips in place.

  “Thank you for this,” Ginny said. “Really, I thought I was pretty far up the creek. If there hadn’t been that one truck—car, I mean—in the lot, I’d already be making the long trek back to Palo Duro.”

  “That’s where you’re staying?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The beautiful downtown Palo Duro Motel? Freeway noise no extra charge?”

  “Sounds like you know the place.”

  “It’s kind of a landmark.”

  Molly drove up in the Xterra. Byrd had already taken his seat in back, looking worn out. Molly killed the engine and popped the trunk, and Wade opened it up and hooked the cables to her battery.

  “Hop in,” he told Ginny. “And when she starts up Byrd’s girlfriend, you start yours.”

  “Got it.” Ginny climbed in behind the wheel, leaving her door open.

  He gave Molly a high sign and she cranked the Xterra’s engine again. As soon as it started up, Ginny started hers. The Kia’s motor roared, and she kept one foot on the gas.

  “Okay, Wade said. “Drive it around for twenty minutes or so before you shut it off again.” He pulled a business card out of his pocket and wrote his cell phone number on the back. “We’ll follow you as far as the highway, but we have to get Byrd back to El Paso. If it does die, though, and you have service, call me and we’ll come back.”

  Ginny took the card, glanced at it. “Thanks, Wade. Oh, wait, CNN?”

  Wade hated this part of meeting anyone. “Yeah. You’ve seen me on TV, maybe?”

  “Hardly ever watch it,” she said. “But I thought your name sounded familiar. You were kidnapped, in Iraq? It was in the New York Times.”

  “I was, but I’m all better now.”

  “Glad to hear it,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You, too, Ginny. Good luck.”

  She waved and backed out of her parking space, made a semicircle, and headed down the road that would link to River Road in about a mile.

  Wade climbed up into the Xterra’s passenger seat. “She’s never seen me on CNN.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “It seems like it sometimes. Especially when women come onto me—not that she was, I just got a little of that vibe.”

  “She doesn’t look like your type, Wade.”

  He buckled his seat belt, glanced at Byrd. He had fallen asleep in the back. “I have a type?”

  “I don’t know. The stripper type.”

  “I don’t date strippers.”

  “You did that one! I would think that double H cups or whatever she had would be hard to forget.”

  “Okay, okay. One stripper, three dates. There are lots of strippers in Atlanta, as it happens. You’d be surprised.”

  “What was her name? Bambi?”

  “Her stage name was Misty. Her real name was Helen. She was only a double E, and she’d been to community college. Still, we didn’t have a lot in common.”

  “Okay, I take it back. Maybe this one is your type, after all.”

  “She’s smart. She’s an anthropologist. Said her dad used to study Smuggler’s Canyon, way back when. And I think it’s sexy that she’s never seen me on TV.”

  “I see you haven’t lost those reporter’s instincts. Always investigating.”

  “Some habits are hard to break,” he said. He took another look in the back. “Byrd’s out cold.”

  “I hope this wasn’t a bad idea,” Molly said. “I know he wanted to do this, but it really took a lot out of him.”

  Wade nodded. “He may not have a lot of field trips left, though. It was a strange day, but I’m glad we did it.”

  “Yeah, I think I am, too.” Molly steered the vehicle onto River Road. The quickest way to the interstate was back through Palo Duro, right past the Palo Duro Motel. It was as if they had traveled backward through time, and had to reverse their route to reach the present again. “But you’re right, Wade. It’s been a strange day.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Mr. Truly.”

  Truly regarded his boss for a moment. “Mr. Loesser?”

  “You’re sitting in my office, Mr. Truly. Do you know what that means?”

  “It’s a sign of the apocalypse?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Good, Ron, because I don’t think I can take any more omens and portents this week.”

  Loesser’s office was twice the size of Truly’s, with a decent view of the Langley campus through a large window behind his desk. A grinning George W. Bush looked down from the wall beside the window; other presidents, reaching back to Reagan, were lined up on another wall, with certificates of various sorts. “Well, that’s part of the problem. Portents and omens and all that crap you deal with on a regular basis, James. It’s driving you a little nuts, maybe, and it’s raising eyebrows around here that I’d prefer not to see raised.”

  “Can you be more specific, Ron? What’s the problem?”

  “The problem—and this is why you’re sitting in my office—is that Moon Flash is a giant crock of steaming shit, and you, my friend, have it all over your suit.”

  Truly had seen Loesser in some foul moods, but rarely in one this ugly. “You’re going to have to narrow it down for me.”

  “Well, Jimmy, you’re going to have to help me there. All I really know is that the people upstairs have been kicking your name around, and it’s filtering down to me. And you know how I feel about that.”

  “You’re so bad at disguising your feelings, it’s a wonder you ever became a spy.”

  “You’ll notice I sit behind a desk. I was a field operative for about eleven days, and the fact that I didn’t get killed was pure dumb luck.” He picked up a pencil from his desk, tapped the eraser end on the sleek, polished wood. “Anyway, you’ve been stirring up a shit hurricane, and it’s got people agitated. I want to know what it is, and I want to know when you’ll stop. By which I mean what time today you’ll stop.”

  Truly tried to ignore the soft tap tap tap of the pencil. “It has to do with Lawrence Ingersoll, I think. And Millicent Wong.”

  “The Chinese woman who was murdered while under your so-called protection in Colorado.”

  “That’s right. And Ingersoll was the American psychic who was killed—also in Colorado.”

  “Sounds like a job for the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.
”

  “Right. Only they don’t know anything about the victims. Not really, not like we do. Plus, I have to believe that Millicent was killed because she was helping me. Which makes her death my problem.”

  “You’re not a cop, James. But go on…I still haven’t heard anything that should rattle the cages we’re talking about.”

  Truly considered briefly, wondering just how much he should reveal. Finally he decided there was no percentage in holding back anymore. “I obtained some security video from the night Millicent was killed. I think I know who did it, and he was caught on camera entering the hotel. I also saw him sitting with Millicent, and I snagged the glass he was drinking out of and got a partial print off it.”

  “You’ve been reading detective novels?”

  Truly ignored the jab. “With the print and the video footage, I was able to identify the man. He’s Captain Vance Brewer, U.S. Army, stationed at the White Sands Missile Range.”

  “White Sands.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s in New Mexico.”

  Truly didn’t understand the drift of the conversation. “Yes.”

  “Which—correct me if I’m wrong, geography was never my strong suit—shares a border with Colorado.”

  “It does indeed.”

  “So a military officer visited a neighboring state to attend a dance, and you think this is a problem?”

  “Only if he killed Millicent while he was there.”

  “And what makes you think he did? Someone saw him?”

  “He spent a lot of time with her. Someone saw them go out onto a balcony together. When I followed, she was dead and he was gone.”

  Loesser stopped tapping and began turning the pencil around and around in his hands, like rolling a tiny log. “Sounds iffy,” he said. “I hope you have more than that.”

  “Here’s the weird thing,” Truly said. “I figured out easily enough who Brewer is, but I can’t get any further. His records are practically blank. They show his last posting as White Sands, but I can’t determine whether he’s still there. I couldn’t find any commendations or promotions, not even his date of enlistment. I can’t tell whether he’s alive or dead.”