“So you did rob a bank?” We hit another pothole; I was thrown off the seat and cracked my head on the roof.
“No more questions.” He spoke with finality and allowed me no time for rebuttal. “To understand the people of Hailey, you have to understand the town and its history.”
“Enlighten me.”
“This town used to be a big deal. Just after the gold rush, a man named George Hailey built a prospector’s camp and general store here. Said the mountains were made of gold. Hundreds moved in, built homes out of whatever they could find. Spent their life savings on prospecting equipment and went off gold mining in the mornings. By the time they realized the hills had nothing but cement, George Hailey had skipped town. He’d made his fortune, but left everyone else in a lurch.”
“Nice.” He didn’t sound like a brochure anymore; more like an obscure history text book.
“So John Jacobs steps up. He decides that they don’t need gold to get rich. He starts pulling up cement and mixing it with sand and water. Boom. Concrete. Right place, right time. The west was on fire, growing and expanding and building. They needed concrete, and here John Jacobs had it. He built his factory and set to work hiring the locals.
“Hailey’s seen all sorts of businesses come and go, but none of them stick like cement. The plant, the factory, is the only thing that’s survived, other than Sue’s diner, but that’s only around because there’s nowhere closer to eat.”
I folded my arms, set my jaw against the cold. Weren’t deserts supposed to be hot?
“Anyway, the people here in Hailey, they were prospectors, not businessmen. Other than Jacobs, none of them made enough to get out of town. They were stuck then, and they’re stuck now.”
I suppressed a yawn. I needed a nap, and his story didn’t do much to stimulate my interest.
“In the fifties, California put Highway 29 together. It linked LA and Las Vegas, so Hailey ended up being a pretty popular stop. For a time we had art and culture and money. But twenty years later, they built I-21, and that ended that. You’ve already heard that story.
“So the people of Hailey have a chip on their shoulders. They’re trapped here, and they know it. It might be okay if we could get some help. A fire department, a sheriff substation, something, but we’re unincorporated. Newland County to the south and Eve’s Horn to the north started fighting over Hailey about twelve years ago.”
I nodded. “Counties argue over boundaries all the time.”
“It’s different with Hailey. They argue over who’s responsible for us. We’re like that awkward kid in gym class no one wants on their team. It’s the old ‘No, you take him’ kind of attitude. Neither wants to claim us, so neither really provides for us. Police rarely come out here for anything less than murder, which happens more often than you’d think. Even then, they take their time. Fire department never makes it to a burning home until it’s ashes.”
Ahead, two metal suspension bridges spanned the sandy wash of the Mojave River. One was for Highway 29, the other for the train tracks. Mason didn’t seem concerned, but the bridge didn’t strike me as stable. I never liked bridges.
“It’s like the river,” Mason said.
I’d hoped he finished his lesson, but the lecture apparently had a few hours left.
“Back in the day, it was full, pressing up to its banks. Strong and beautiful, but as the years wore on and the people became more and more hopeless, it receded, like it was trying desperately to get out of town, like the hope of the town itself was drying up. Now it only comes back in heavy rains, and then it comes back as a rushing river, an angry force of nature.”
“I thought you said you weren’t eloquent.”
Mason continued as if I hadn’t said a thing. He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the bridges we’d just crossed. “Flooded both of these bridges a few years back.”
“Shut up. Flooded? In the desert?”
“Something about the rain pulls the river back up. We get a few inches, and the river comes back like it never vanished.” He nodded toward his window. “Every six years or so we get hit with heavy rains and snow in the mountains. The dam up to the west releases water when the mountain lakes get too full. The mountain communities, they know we’re prone to flooding down here, but they don’t care. Why should they? We’re just desert rats anyway, right?”
“So when can I move in?”
“Cut the snark for a minute. This is important.”
I didn’t like his tone, but he had a point. He’d made himself vulnerable, confided in me. I heard the same powerlessness I felt in his voice. I swallowed, tasted the sour apology forming in my mouth. “Sorry.”
“I’m not excusing our behavior, but you have to understand, we’re victims of our circumstances. Most of us mean well, but people can only be abused for so long.”
I grinned, leaned against the door. The road smoothed, and I rested my head against the window. “Sounds a lot like my mom. She liked to hook up with mean drunks. Spent most of my life calling the cops and sitting with her in the ER. When I got old enough, I started squaring off with them. I was twelve the first time.”
I shook my head, had no idea what prompted the story. But I’d swallowed my insecurities and frustration. If Mason could confide in me, then I could confide in him. Nadine trusted him. That was enough for me.
“This guy was big and ugly with arms like telephone poles. Had to be in his forties. He smacks my mom, pulls back to punch her, right? I come from across the room, grab his wrist and pull him back. He gets up real fast, but not before I get a shot in his mouth. This guy grabs my neck and lifts me straight off the ground. I can’t breathe and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die, but I don’t care. I kick him in the balls. Hard.”
Mason laughs.
“He drops me, and my mom comes flashing out of the kitchen. She’s got the butcher knife. In all her years of getting beat up, she’d never raised a hand against one of these thugs, but God help anyone who touched me, right?”
Mason cracked his knuckles and cracked his window. “She stab him?”
I shook my head. “Slashed him across his back. Dude shrieked like a cat when you step on its tail. He takes off. Never seen a man that big move that fast. She’s screaming after him the whole time. ‘Touch him again and I’ll cut your throat!’”
Mason laughed. “Quite the story.”
I chuckled. “Like you say, you can only be pushed so far.”
The truck turned right onto the only other paved road in Hailey. It wound around, snaking through the sand like a serpent, and narrowed toward the horizon, flanked by acres and acres of dirt, Joshua trees, and wild junipers.
“The Pen is straight ahead, about forty miles.”
“Why so far?”
“Think Alcatraz in the desert. Instead of drowning in an escape attempt, inmates would die of exposure before they got anywhere near the general public. A man could walk for miles and miles with only the scorpions and Mojave Greens for company.”
I nodded. “So, aside from resisting arrest, what’d your brother do?”
“Hailey special.”
“Which is?”
“What else? Murder.”
* * *
I’d never been this close to a prison before. I imagined I should be nervous, but couldn’t muster the appropriate fear. In Darfur, I stared down the Janjaweed—the very worst humanity had to offer. I could handle a few rats in a cage.
Razor wire and barbed wire topped the twelve-foot high fences running the perimeter. Tall towers rose from the grounds like a medieval castle. The sentries did not hold bows and arrows or crossbows, but state-of-the-art high-powered rifles. Under tenebrous clouds, massive men in blue and orange jumpsuits filled the prison yard. They moved toward the fence, jeering at Mason and me. I grimaced, cut my eyes t
o the pavement.
“Keep your head high, eyes forward. They can’t hurt you. If they tried, they’d be shot. Those guards are well paid and don’t mess around. They check their conscience at the door.”
I quickened my pace to keep step with him. “You’ve been here before.”
“When I turned eighteen, after Shannon died, I used to come down here all the time.”
“Why’d you stop?”
His answer was quick, a conditioned response. “Hard to have hope among the hopeless.”
We walked through the glass doors to a lobby-like opening. There was a long desk in front of us with bullet-proof glass to the ceiling. A man in a well pressed uniform with a shining bronze shield pinned to his chest stood at the desk behind the glass. He looked at Mason and smiled.
“Here’s a face I ain’t seen in a while. What brings you down, Mason? Life going too good at home?”
“How’s work, Frank?”
“It’s murder.” He guffawed.
Mason and I weren’t in a laughing mood.
Frank straightened in his chair. “Looking for Greg, I take it.” Then, with his eyes on me, he said, “Bring a friend today? What’s he, a lawyer?”
“Does he look like a lawyer?” A question to answer a question. How very politician of him.
Frank grinned. “Fair enough. Sign in boys. You know the routine.”
Mason and I put our names on paper, signatures and fingerprint, the time of arrival. We left the time of departure blank.
Frank pushed a button. The gray door to our left buzzed and clicked open. “One at a time, please.”
“I’ll go first.” Mason walked through the door and shut it behind him. Through the square window in the door I saw a guard sweeping Mason with a hand-held metal detector, then patting him down. The guard took Mason’s hat, coat, and belt. Lastly, Mason took off each shoe and handed them to the guard. Soon, the guard returned them to Mason, tipped his hat, and opened a door on the opposite side.
There was another buzz, another click, and I walked through. Luckily, I’d not worn a belt with my slacks. Still, I had to take off each shoe and wait until the guard had searched me to his satisfaction.
“Visitor Center’s to the right. Follow the long hallway. Hang a right at the T. Second door on your left.” He pressed a button and the far door swung open. He smiled at us. “Enjoy your visit.”
“Looking forward to it.” I met up with Mason on the opposite side. “Anything I should know before I meet your brother?”
“Try not to puke when you hear his story.”
“Doesn’t sound promising.”
He led me through the halls quickly, as if he lived here. We entered a small room with a type of wall-to-wall desk, sectioned off into five individual faux cubicles. Like the lobby, polycarbonate glass ran from desk to the ceiling, from wall to wall. Other than a guard posted on either side of the desk, we were the only ones in the room.
The door on the opposite side swung open. A guard escorted a man in a white jumpsuit; I assumed it was Mason’s brother. He was taller and older than Mason, but both men had black hair and high cheekbones. His dark eyes and flat ears had the look of family as well. Based on Mason’s description, I expected something more sinister, especially for a murderer. My mind raced with visions of bloody axes and smoking guns, or maybe someone who looked like a stunt double for The Hulk. Instead, the man had arms like noodles. The pasty fabric of his jumpsuit swallowed up his bony frame.
With cuffed feet and hands, he shuffled over to the chair across from Mason and sat awkwardly. The guard escorting him handed him the phone, which he cradled between his shoulder and ear. Mason picked up the phone on our side. “Hey, Greg. How they treating you?”
I could not hear his brother’s reply, but read his lips where I could. He said something about the food. Mason laughed, and his brother asked a question.
“Busy. I know, it’s a lame excuse.”
Something about little brother, what are you, scared?
“I’ll come more often. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
His brother’s lips moved quicker. The corners of his mouth pulled into frequent smiles, and I caught the word Aida.
“Fine. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
Another question, something about best man.
Mason laughed. “You’ve got a twisted sense of humor, man.”
Mason fell quiet for a minute.
His brother nodded toward me and asked, who’s he?
“Connor Reedly. He’s a reporter.”
No interviews.
I cleared my throat.
Mason said, “It’s kind of a favor for Bernard. Won’t take long, just tell him what happened. He’ll do the rest. I promise, no one is going to see this.”
He nodded. Mason handed the phone to me and gestured toward the olive-green seat. I sat down and held the phone to my ear.
“Greg?”
“Yeah.”
“I have a few questions.”
“Hit me.”
I tried to organize the files in my brain, accessing the vague questions I’d formulated on the drive over. Interviews could be tricky. I liked to start with a few general questions, then follow up with more specific questions based on the responses. “Let’s start easy. Tell me about your family.”
Chapter 8
UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT
Greg Becker held his sister while she shuddered and cringed, shook in his arms. She didn’t want to tell him, but he’d pushed her and pushed her until she finally confessed. She finally explained why her grades had plummeted down an academic abyss, why she’d quit the cross country team halfway through the season and why she’d skipped school for the last four days. And when she finished confessing, she’d clutched the back of his shirt and begged him not to tell.
Tell? He had a hard enough time comprehending the news. “How?” He understood the absurdity of the question and rephrased. “Who?”
She spoke between sobs. “Nathan. Don’t tell him either. Don’t tell anyone.”
He’d never heard her so afraid, never seen her tremble like this. It shook his nerves, as if her panic were contagious. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Don’t,” she said. “I’ll get through this.”
He held her tighter, tried to convey his strength to her in his embrace. His voice came out steady. It had to. He wouldn’t scare her further. But embers of wrath glowed hot in his gut. “What are you going to do?”
Sarah pulled her hair behind her ear and wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her blue sweater. She cleared her throat. “I have to keep it.” Somehow, her voice steadied when she spoke of the child, took on a strength that shamed him.
“We have to tell. I mean, you’re only fifteen. How can you raise a kid and go to school? Mom and Dad will help.”
“Let me tell them. Not now, though. When I’m ready.”
“When?”
“Soon. I just have to figure out how.”
* * *
Greg didn’t care that Nathan’s father was the mayor of Newland. He’d hurt Sarah, and he’d pay. He didn’t know how, but he’d find a way to make Nathan pay. He drove home after school. No way he could handle baseball practice with Nathan, knowing what he’d done to Sarah, what he’d likely done to other girls. How could he convince Sarah to let him go to the police? It seemed the best choice. They needed to know what Nathan was, the damage he could do. However, Sarah had sworn him to secrecy. His stomach soured thinking about it.
He cut the engine and stepped out of the car. The early spring afternoon was eerily quiet. Usually the Becker family dog Lucky barked at the sound of any car approaching, unless he was with someone. Greg moved quickly to the backyard, every muscle rigid, his hea
rt compressing to the point of pain. Someone must have broken in and killed Lucky. He grabbed his baseball bat and stepped into the backyard with it raised over his head.
“Lucky!”
The hound barked, a bleak sound carried on a warm wind. Greg followed the mournful murmur of the family dog to the back acreage of their desert land. Here, the golden cottonwoods and creosote bushes grew in abundance. They’d been on the property long before Greg’s family purchased the land and required little to no cultivation, the way his family liked it. Independence, his father insisted, was the most valuable asset in the plant world.
Still, there was a single dead beech tree in the center. Apparently the previous owners tried hard to keep the thing alive, but it never took to the desert climate. When the Beckers first moved in, Greg’s father tried unsuccessfully to revive it. Eventually, he’d made plans to have it torn out, but it would have cost quite a bit to rent the equipment to take it down. Instead, they let it stay on the property like an ever-looming deciduous reminder of the disease of this desert.
Lucky lay by the dead beech, curled up into a lump of fur and ears, beneath Sarah’s swinging feet.
Greg bent his neck back slowly, a new fear grabbing his heart.
Sarah hung from a branch ten feet above the ground. She’d wrapped a lime green 100-foot extension cord around her neck in a slipknot and now swayed in the early spring breeze. Pastel blues and pinks diffused her skin, and her eyes were half-closed, as if she was simply tired of life.
He stood motionless for some time, staring up at her, feeling for a moment as if the slipknot was firmly fastened around his neck. He felt the rough strangulation, the tightening, the burn of the constriction, the inability to breathe. Panic pulled him up into the tree next to the choking, sputtering innocence of his sweet sister.
As suddenly as the panic seized him, all feeling passed, replaced instead by a tide of numbness and disbelief. How would his family react? How might his mother expunge the memory of her precious daughter swinging, swinging? How might his father swallow his inevitable guilt? How would little Mason understand that something, anything, could be this bad?
The Bargain - One man stands between a destitute town and total destruction. Page 6