Ten miles of silence.
I stared outside as the shadows grew long and the afternoon waned. Piper drove.
The hills had become larger, the terrain rockier, the open pastures smaller. The size of the properties had increased as well, farms turned into ranches. Endless stretches of barbed-wire and high game fences, dotted only occasionally with buildings. Stone houses and wooden barns. Rusted windmills. Very little traffic.
“About that, back at the service station,” Eva said. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to cause a problem.”
Neither Piper nor I spoke.
“My sister used to work with a charity in Mexico.” She paused. “In the barrios, these orphans, they’re everywhere.”
Piper tensed at the word “orphan” but kept driving. She slowed at a crossroads, a boarded-up stucco building on one corner identified only by a faded Esso sign.
“Let’s just forget about it,” I said.
“Would you uncuff me at least?”
Piper shrugged so I leaned in the back and unlocked her restraints. The key jammed, and for a couple of seconds we were head to head, her wrists in my hands.
She put her cheek against mine, lips to my ear. She whispered, “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”
Her flesh smelled slightly of sweat and shampoo and something else I couldn’t place, an evergreen aroma like freshly chopped rosemary.
I jiggled the key so it worked and removed the cuffs. Then I sat back in the front seat.
“The narcotraffickers, sometimes to make an example, they kill their enemies by overdosing them with meth.” Eva rubbed her wrists. “Makes the heart practically explode. A very unpleasant way to die.”
“You sound like you don’t approve,” Piper said. “The cartels, you don’t like what they do?”
Eva didn’t say anything. Her silence became pronounced, a weary resignation rolling off of her. We continued driving for a while, nothing but the whine of rubber on asphalt.
“Piper, that’s your name, yes?” Eva leaned forward.
Piper nodded.
“Do you like the wind?”
Piper didn’t respond. Her fingers tensed on the wheel and then relaxed.
“What about you, Jon?” Eva cocked her head. “Do you like the wind? Or perhaps the rain?”
“I don’t follow,” I said. “What do you mean?”
“The wind blows and the rain falls. But do you like or dislike either?”
Neither of us replied.
“What about when the wind turns into a tornado and kills an entire village?” Eva said. “Or the rain floods? Do you hate the wind and the rain then?”
“A force of nature.” I nodded. “Not something to like or dislike.”
“Yes, you understand.” Eva nodded.
“That doesn’t answer my question though,” Piper said.
“The wind is everywhere.” Eva sighed. “But you can never see it.”
Piper frowned and opened her mouth like she was going to say something. But she didn’t. No one spoke again. The minutes and miles droned on as the shadows lengthened. After a while, Eva lay down in the back and went to sleep.
We crossed another highway, larger, two lanes each direction, shoulders on either side.
“Brownwood is that way.” I pointed to the right. “We need fresh wheels.”
“How you gonna pay for a new ride?” Piper continued driving down a narrow farm-to-market road.
“You should have at least a grand left over from Sinclair’s money. Not gonna buy us a fancy car or anything, but we could still get something fresh.”
“Private investigators don’t work cheap,” she said. “Besides, everything’s closed by now anyway.”
“You spent it all?” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “What’d you get from the Cheyenne?”
“I have about two hundred left.” She paused. “And the picture.”
“That’s not enough for a car.” I swore.
“It was my money,” Piper said. “I spent it how I wanted.”
“Of course you did.” I tried and failed not to sound sarcastic. “Trying to find a dead woman.”
She didn’t reply.
A couple miles of chilly silence droned by.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”
“What way did you mean it?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“It’s not your mother, now is it?” Piper swerved around a flattened armadillo in the road. The tires screeched a little; the vehicle swayed.
“It’s just that the woman gave you up at birth,” I said. “She doesn’t want to be found.”
“Screw you, Jon.” Piper’s voice grew husky.
“What are you talking about?” Eva sat up, yawned. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Go back to sleep.”
“You two are fighting,” Eva said. “A lover’s quarrel?”
“Didn’t we cover this before?” I looked in the back. “Witnesses should be seen and not heard.”
Piper accelerated.
“Men are only interested in one thing.” Eva blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Piper, did you know Jon came on to me while you were in the apartment in Dallas?”
Neither Piper nor I replied.
“He winked at me. Stroked my thigh and said something about making the trip to Marfa a fun ride for both of us when we stopped for the night.”
Piper slowed and pulled over. She parked on the shoulder next to a six-foot game fence. The fence bordered a field covered with wind-stunted post oaks and bisected by a dry ravine. No other vehicles were visible, nor were any buildings.
She looked in the back. “When I went into the apartment in Dallas this morning, we hadn’t decided to go to Marfa yet.”
Eva didn’t speak. Her bottom lip twitched once and then was still.
Piper turned to me. “Where’s the duct tape?”
I opened the console.
“That won’t be necessary,” Eva said.
Piper took the roll and got out.
“Please don’t gag me.” Eva looked at each of us. “I won’t speak again.”
Piper opened the back door.
“Sorry.” I shook my head. “We shouldn’t have even let you go to the bathroom by yourself.”
“Stick your head over here.” Piper tore off a chunk of tape. “Don’t make me climb in the backseat.”
Eva’s eyes filled with tears.
“Let’s go. Chop-chop.” Piper waved the strip of duct tape like it was a handkerchief.
Eva swore, face flushed.
Piper put a foot on the floorboard, prepared to step in. She looked at me and arched an eyebrow.
“All right,” I said. “No gag for now.”
Eva nodded, wiped her eyes with her manacled hands as Piper returned to the front seat.
We drove in silence. After about ten minutes, Eva said, “You are looking for money? For a new vehicle?”
“That’s right.” I nodded.
“I have money.”
“Really?” I looked in the back.
She wore the same skintight sweatpants and tank top as she’d had on this morning. No place to put a wallet.
“You got an AmEx black card hidden somewhere?” I said.
“Uncuff me.” She held up her hands.
I hesitated, shot a glance at Piper, who nodded once. I dug the key from my pocket and unlocked her restraints. I kept my head away from hers, and the key didn’t jam this time.
“Thank you.” She rubbed her wrists. “I’m going to take off one of my shoes. Okay?”
I nodded.
She removed her right Nike, dug around under the insert for a few moments, then pulled out a tiny roll of pink-and-white papers.
“I have money, just not a lot.” She handed me a bill. “Will this enable you to buy a car?”
“You want to help us get to Marfa now?” I took the offered item.
“Are you going to let me go?” she
said.
I shook my head.
“Then my only chance for safety is there.”
I examined the bill, the currency of a unified European continent.
The euro had originally been pegged at a one-to-one ratio with the dollar. Trade imbalances had resulted in a devaluation of American money, meaning that each euro was worth about one and three-quarters US dollars. Also, the euro had been issued in higher denominations than greenbacks, the largest being the five-hundred-euro note.
Currency marked as five hundred euros was essentially the same thing as a thousand-dollar bill and had become the de facto cash instrument for the movement of large sums of traffickers’ money.
I rubbed my fingers over the pink bill, five hundred euros. It had been stamped with a crude insignia, a gold crucifix about the size of a thumbnail. The cartels often trademarked their product with similar symbols, though this design was unfamiliar, and I’d never seen currency marked.
“I have more,” Eva said.
I handed the bill to Piper.
Eva tossed a slim packet of currency onto the console. “What will that buy?”
- CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE -
Sinclair touched the bandage and slowed as he approached the service station.
The wound in his side from Phil DeGroot’s tiny backup pistol had stopped hurting hours ago. Now it was just a dull throb, not particularly pleasant but not painful either.
Sinclair remembered visiting the Alamo when he’d been five or six. He and Daddy and Mama and his little sister had left their little house in the Pleasant Grove section of Dallas and gone to San Antonio, taking the squirrely little neighbor kid and his mom along, the six of them crammed into his dad’s 1950 Dodge Coronet Woody Wagon. He and the neighbor kid had played Davy Crockett, acting like they were killing Mexicans and shit, generally having a fine old time.
The Alamo General Store was nothing like the real Alamo. The walls were plaster, not stone, chipped in places, covered in peeling white paint. The pumps and equipment looked like they were from some old-timey movie.
Sinclair stopped under the rusted canopy, got out, and began filling the Crown Vic with unleaded. While the fuel gurgled, he looked at Myrna DeGroot’s cell phone. The screen had a message across the top: OUT OF SERVICE AREA.
He wanted to call Imogene again. They’d talked a couple of hours ago, and she’d told him which road to take. He had done so, stopping at the only service station for miles.
This part of the state was nothing like North or East Texas, a relatively small, heavily populated region crisscrossed with highways. This section of the Hill Country, the western fringe, was vast like a whole other country, but it didn’t have very many roads or people. It took a long time to get anywhere, and there were only a few options for heading toward the Big Bend Country. He hoped he was on the right road and would not be forced to double back. He tried to remember the last time he’d been to this part of Texas. Near as he could recollect, it had been never.
The attendant came outside like he was going to help. The man wore heavy black glasses and a thick khaki work shirt.
He nodded hello and then appeared to notice the bloody spot on Sinclair’s shirt. He went back inside. Sinclair finished pumping and entered the building.
The inside of the Alamo General Store was empty except for the two of them. Several picnic benches sat by a darkened food counter on one side of the room. The other side had shelves filled with dust-covered sundry goods: toilet paper and motor oil, beef jerky and candy. Mounted deer heads covered the walls, a testament to one of the more popular local pastimes.
“How you doing?” Sinclair sauntered to the cash register.
“Fine.” The attendant pushed his glasses back up onto his nose, his face sheened with perspiration even though the air in the store was cool.
“You nervous or something?” Sinclair smiled.
“Are you all right, mister?” The man paused. “Looks like you’re bleeding.”
“My dog was injured.” Sinclair peeled off some bills. “Had to take her to the vet.”
“Sorry to hear that.” The attendant took the money. “Thought maybe you were in a shootout or something.” He chuckled nervously.
“Nah, not me. I don’t get out much.” Sinclair examined the store. No cameras. “I don’t even like guns.”
The attendant stared at him, a quizzical expression on his face.
“You get much traffic here?” Sinclair said. “At the Alamo General Store?”
The attendant handed Sinclair his change but didn’t say anything. After a moment he shook his head.
“How come you stay open?” Sinclair said.
“Huh?”
“Doesn’t look like you make enough money to keep this joint in business.” Sinclair touched the elderly cash register.
“I wouldn’t know,” the attendant said. “This is my cousin’s place. He does the books.”
“A white Tahoe, government license plates.” Sinclair pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit gum from a display on the counter. “You seen one like that here today?”
“They’re gone.” The attendant held up his hands. “I don’t want no trouble, okay.”
“What trouble? You and me, we’re just talking.” Sinclair stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. He tried to keep his voice neutral, hiding the excitement. The trail was fresh.
“My other cousin, he’s a deputy, he’s gonna be here any minute.”
“I’m a cop, too.” Sinclair flipped open his wallet.
The attendant’s face turned pale.
“How come you called the police?” Sinclair closed his credentials.
“I can read, you know.” The attendant blinked several times. “That there badge says you’re retired. From Dallas.” His voice was hoarse, ragged with fear.
Sinclair didn’t speak. He pulled the wad of gum from his mouth and rolled it in a ball.
“W-what do you want, mister?” The attendant gulped. “I don’t know nothing about them folks in the white Tahoe.”
“Is your mouth dry?” Sinclair leaned over the counter and pressed the chewed gum between the man’s lips.
The attendant began to shake. He worked his jaws once and then made a gagging noise.
“I’m looking for the people in the Tahoe.” Sinclair drummed his fingers on the counter. “How long ago were they here?”
The attendant flinched. Tears leaked down his chin.
Outside, a county squad car with a single occupant pulled into the station and stopped in front of the Ford, blocking its way. A man in a uniform and straw cowboy hat got out, a revolver on his hip.
Sinclair watched as the deputy walked all around the dust-covered Crown Victoria and then entered the store.
Time was, he’d respect another man with a badge. Time was, he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing what he was about to do. But that was before he got in deep with the cartels. Before the angry calls from Hawkins.
“Everything okay in here?” The deputy had a booming voice. “Had a call there was a problem.”
Sinclair turned to face the officer, his hand snaked under the tail of his shirt.
“You okay, sir?” The deputy approached the counter. “Looks like you’re bleed—”
Sinclair shot him with the nickel-plated revolver, the bullet entering just a little to the left of the man’s nose.
The noise was loud in the plaster-walled store. The deputy’s straw hat flew off in a slurry of red as he crumpled to the ground.
The attendant cowered, face white, hands over his ears.
Sinclair sat on the counter like it was a bleacher at the baseball game. He ignored the pain in his gut and put an arm around the other man’s neck like they were old friends.
The attendant’s teeth chattered.
“You were getting ready to tell me about the white Tahoe.” Sinclair hugged him close.
- CHAPTER FORTY -
I smoothed the currency on the console of the truck.
Eva’s Nikes cont
ained four thousand euros in crumpled bills, almost seven grand US. Enough to pay for my dad’s biopsy if Eva were to give it to me and I lived to get back to Dallas, two major uncertainties at the moment. Each bill had the same marking, a stamped silhouette of a crucifix.
The turnoff for Brownwood and a new vehicle had long since been passed.
Piper gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white, hands at ten and two just like they taught in drivers’ ed. The speedometer read eighty-five.
Another two-lane blacktop with even fewer signs of civilization than before. Nothing except the road itself, a lonely ribbon of highway. Cedar trees and mesquites grew along the fence line on either side of the road, intertwining with barbed wire until they appeared as one long curtain of metal and vegetation. We topped a rise, and a khaki-colored plateau unfolded below us, a measureless chunk of Texas rough country. The setting sun caused the clouds along the jagged skyline to look like strands of coral. Spectral, salmon-colored, they seemed to stretch from here to forever. Dusk was coming, and night would soon follow, quicker than expected in the mountainous terrain.
“You’re driving too fast,” Eva said. “It’s dangerous.”
“Shut up.” Piper accelerated.
“Slow it down, Piper.” I stuck the money in my pocket. “Dying young is way overrated.”
“The sooner we get there, the better.” She eased off. The speed dropped.
I looked in the back at Eva. “Where’d you get this many euros?”
“Girl’s gotta look out for herself.” She shrugged. “That will buy us a new car?”
“Maybe in France,” I said. “Not so much in Texas.”
She stared out the window.
“What happened to your accent?” I said. “You speak better English all of a sudden.”
“There’s a place outside of Brownsville.” She stretched a leg out on the backseat. “You can buy anything with euros. Anything.”
“I thought you were Mexican.” Piper glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“My mother’s American, from Houston. My father’s Mexican, from Cuernavaca.”
“Who are you exactly?” I said.
“They throw some great parties, the jefes do.” She stared out the window. “I like to go to parties. Have a good time.”
The Contractors Page 20