Roadrunner

by Michael Lilly

  The houses here are often stucco, and occasionally brick. The stucco homes are invariably washed over with waves and waves of dirty rainwater or irrigation water. Every home has a metal outer door, and almost as many have gated yards, though most of these are not locked. I spot a handful of dogs—a Chihuahua, a pit bull, a terrier—and expect to be barked at, but they’re all too preoccupied with the heat to work themselves into a rage that would only add to it.

  Many yards are empty, maybe allowing for a hoe or a child’s toy truck, some of them acting as a resting place for bits of bikes, handlebars rusted over and chains missing. Most streets have one or two basketball hoops, the kind with the water-filled base, and I amuse myself with thoughts of neighborhood kids bringing the standing hoops to opposite sides of the street to form a court, maybe lining the sides with dumpsters or old sports equipment to mark the side boundaries. A summer ritual of skill and rivalry and dominance.

  I find myself smiling.

  No, indeed, this neighborhood is not like Wometzia, but that doesn’t mean that it’s inherently without quirks and happy memories of its own, and certainly a basketball pick-up game on a warm summer evening straddles the line between those categories. And with as much certainty, I’m sure that, just because such a place acts as the unholy grounds for such evil as has been perpetrated here recently does not mean that it is void of good, of love, of light. In fact, for one (such as myself) with a compulsive need for balance, one might argue that there must be light, a source of it equally powerful to and just as prominent as the great darkness.

  Whether I’m to discover such light or I’m to bring it here, I don’t know. For now, all I can do is my job.

  I leave Albuquerque with a warmth within me to rival that without.

  Eight

  By the time I finish my self-guided tour of the Santa Maria neighborhood, it’s well past four. Before heading to Wometzia, I need to gas up, and I know just the place to do so.

  I pull into the gas station’s parking lot and park Todd’s car at the first pump. I walk inside and spot two employees. One is dressed in a uniform slightly different than the other, so I assume that one of them is a supervisor. I’m correct; Sheila Bennett, thirty-six, has been workin’ ’ere since she was sixteen, yes sir.

  “Yes, sir, I bin runnin’ this place ’slong ’syou been runnin’ at all!” She laughs with her whole body, which I appreciate; love, death, and laughter are the only true all-or-nothings I believe in, and people often give themselves a shortcut to death by neglecting the other two.

  “Sheila, do you have a schedule dating back to the fourth? I think maybe one of you could help me out with something.”

  “A schedule? Like when we get our d’liveries?”

  “No, like who was working which nights.”

  “Ah shoot, we don’ need a schedule. Dale works the days Monday to Friday, and Phyllis and I split nights and weekends.”

  “So who works Friday nights?”

  “That’s Phyllis. She should be in any minute now to relieve Dale.”

  “Perfect. In the meantime, do you have any surveillance equipment? Cameras with footage I could look over?”

  “Well, we got the one”—she jabs a thumb toward the monitor hanging from the ceiling behind the register, displaying me with my clipboard looking a tad more serious than I intend—“but that’s it. We got nothin’ fer outside, if that’s what yer after.”

  “I’ll work with what I can get,” I say. Sheila smiles a warm smile and disappears into the back, leaving me in the store’s main area with Dale.

  Moments later, we are spared the awkwardness by the entry of who I assume to be Phyllis.

  I must confess that her name had me picturing a middle-aged, frumpy chain smoker with a foul mouth and comparably foul breath. The woman before me couldn’t be less that. She’s maybe late twenties, curvy, and dressed in a confident, form-fitting way. She has endearing gray eyes, a gray that breaks free of the color’s dull stereotype. She has a dyed blond ponytail protruding from the back of her cap, the remainder of her hair in front either tucked behind her ear or trailing over her eyes, lending her a sense of mystery. She wears a more conservative hue of lipstick, applied to exaggerate what little lip she has, and it’s tastefully done. Were my tastes more conventional, I might find myself enamored. I steal a glance at Dale, whose fixed gaze (as far as I can tell, directly at her breasts) neither flinches nor breaks under my scrutiny.

  Phyllis has lived in South Albuquerque for four years and worked here at the gas station for three. She works here only part-time, her main occupation being in recreational therapy. She makes plenty of money there, but just enjoys the work here too much to leave.

  “So you worked last night?” I ask.

  “Sure did.”

  “And last Friday night, too?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Did you see anybody come through here driving a maroon van, a big one with local plates?”

  “Oh, not that I remember. But, you know, I might just not be remembering. Weekends are plenty busy.”

  I amuse myself with thoughts of a line waiting for an open pump. “Sure, sure. But you didn’t ever find yourself thinking, ‘Wow, that’s one hell of a big van!’?”

  Phyllis chuckles. “No, not that I can think of. I’ll keep an eye out, though. What should I do if I see him?”

  “Call the police and let them know where he’s going. Then call me.” I give her my card.

  “Will do, Detective.”

  I fill up Todd’s car and get in, heading for the interstate.

  Reflecting on my interview with Phyllis, something seems out of place. A couple of things, actually. First off, she never asked what it was about. When roped into an investigation, most witnesses (whether or not they’re actually useful) become slaves to their curiosity, ablaze with both a burning desire to know the details of the case and an intense sense of entitlement, as though their fuck-all testimony earns them a spot on the squad.

  Beyond that, Phyllis seemed … too bubbly for someone without the ulterior motive of being allowed a glimpse of the investigation. From time to time, witnesses will invent small details during an interview, just to keep their own relevance alive for long enough to squeeze from the detective a name or something they could ‘Definitely Not Tell Anyone.’ But Phyllis was a participant in no such mania. Perhaps she simply has an aversion to the macabre strong enough to quell that curiosity. Maybe.

  The interstate has picked up some traffic since I drove on it a few hours ago: mistresses on their commute to their affairs with lonely househusbands, hopeful prospective employees coming from lunch with interviews, soccer moms soccer momming.

  No maroon vans, though.

  While my mind attempts to process and organize the information of the day, a resident of my to-do list floats upward: the cameras at the school. I place a call to the maintenance and security manager, who, as it happens, will be at the school all day in preparation for the imminent school year, and I can drop in anytime for a visit. So convenient.

  By the time I pull in to Wometzia, early afternoon sunlight has thrust the temperature to the upper nineties, but the day’s ongoing breeze is not going down without a flight. Of course, the wind is warm, but still a relief from the stagnant heat of the day.

  I park Todd’s car at home, in case he needs to use it, but I’m sure that if I were to go inside, the attempt to self-motivate and depart from the cool darkness (and Todd) would be pitiful—embarrassing, even.

  Approaching the school on foot, I look again to the positioning of the light post-mounted cameras. They definitely have an angle to pick up Big Sky. The north ones also provide eyes to Roadrunner, so hopefully some consistent footage shows up.

  The school, complete with its cool, academic-smelling air, greets me. It strikes me that it has been hardly more than twenty-four hours since my last visit, but like the students who will soon swarm the halls, it seems to have been a summer ago.

  I walk through t
he semi-darkness, finding comfort in the small, articulate patterns of the shadows. The overwhelming hostility that drove me out yesterday is absent, having been replaced by a lazy contentment.

  Now equipped with the school’s layout in my mind, I head toward the security room I saw last time, keeping my eyes and ears open for the manager. I’d imagine that the front offices would also provide access to my target room, but something about that route seems unnecessarily intrusive. I knock on the door and only a moment’s shuffling precedes its opening.

  Kim Valentine is well into his sixties, and gives off the impression that he’s imbued with that rare, tireless work ethic that some may consider old-fashioned today. I picture his upbringing full of construction and handyman projects, igniting in him a passion for the work that fueled his journey to where he is today.

  He’s not a big man, in any sense. He stands at about five feet nine inches, give or take one to two. He is not skinny or malnourished, but is most likely around a buck sixty in weight. His hands are callused and tough, and though his work clothes don’t particularly fit in terms of size, they definitely fit in his charming, belonging way.

  “Hey, welcome, sorry it’s not all that roomy in here, but I went and grabbed an office chair from one of the receptionists’ desks, Kimberly, she’s a doll. Anyway”—he pauses for a breath—“here’s the computer. I went ahead and used my login information to getcha into the system and pulled up the video files. Haven’t opened any of ’em, but as you can see, they’re labeled by date and time”—breath—“as well as by camera. Cameras one and two are in the east parking lot, and three through five are in the north.”

  “And these others?”

  “They’re inside. Hallways, gym, cafeteria, and there’s one in the south, but there’s almost never any activity that way. Tumbleweed at the most.”

  “Anything to the west?”

  “Nah. We only have two doors out that way, and they’re always locked.”

  “I know my key opens most of the doors here. Who else might have access to such a key?”

  “Well, ’sfar’s I know, just school staff and police.”

  “Perfect.”

  The video files are cut into six-hour segments, four per day, beginning at midnight. I open the folder marked 8-4-17, and a mixture of horror and rage seizes me as I find only three files: 12A-6A, 6A-12P, and 12P-6P. I click out and onto a different day, and it is complete. The first through third are also complete, and so are the fifth through tenth. But for cameras one and two, August fourth is without its appropriate footage. Time to check last night’s footage.

  Cameras three through five, which cover the north parking lot, have files from each chunk of last night. I open the appropriate file and find that the camera’s angle does indeed capture Roadrunner.

  My heart starts beating more intensely as I wait for a burgundy van to zip by in either direction. I mouse over the time bar—but the video is only five and a half hours long. The rage from before, temporarily calmed by the fresh scent, breathes once more, this time exhaling fire. Though I know that it’s fruitless, I use the fast-forward function to take the footage into the evening, and where the video skips from six-thirty-seven to seven-oh-seven. In that transition, the sky turns the slightest bit darker, but other than that, there is no noticeable change. The other two cameras show the same thing, with the same missing period of time.

  “Kim, has anyone been in here in the past week? Someone with access to an account on the school’s network?”

  “I’m not really sure about all of that, but maybe talk to the IT guy, Jason.” Kim gives me Jason’s cell number and I give him a call.

  “Yo,” says the voice that answers. He becomes no less informal after I introduce myself.

  “So do you think you could find out who was on the computers this past week?”

  “Oh, for sure, man. I’ll head over in a little while.”

  “I appreciate it. I have some things to take care of, but call me back at this number when you get the chance.”

  “Hey, sure thing, I’ll hitcha up when I figure it out.”

  “Thanks.”

  It’s finally time to meet with Firenze’s mother.

  The Pacheco house is a condensed manifestation of the charm exuded by the rest of the town. It’s old-fashioned, wooden, with a deck to match. If ever it was painted or otherwise finished, no evidence of it remains. I’d imagine that splinters in abundance were probably an effective teacher to any kids whose innocence ever graced this home, its lesson being to play elsewhere. The home sits right up against the desert with no fence to indicate where the Pachecos’ property meets that of Mother Earth. It bestows upon the house a sense of whimsical ambiguity; Is this where the world ends, or where it begins?

  Perhaps the home is the meeting place of two interdependent worlds, existing outside of each other’s arbitrary boundaries but within each other’s hearts. Indeed, we humans unfailingly overlook our impact on the feral world, but take up arms when our so-called civilized world is intruded upon by our wild neighbors. Boundaries are enforced mostly when it’s convenient for us, signed with a fat middle finger to the inhabitants of forests we cut down in order to make notebooks with Emojis on them.

  This house stands with a Swiss neutrality toward the neighboring wilderness, however, and I am ever enamored by its seamless integration.

  The dwelling’s front door bears a tarnished brass knocker, and the welcome mat reads Welcome to the Family. There’s still a small gathering of footwear gracing the patio—sneakers, sandals, tennis shoes—which I assume belonged to Firenze. My heart beats an extra heavy thump in his memory.

  I knock three times using the instrument, and any would-be reverberations are instead consumed by the vast openness surrounding us, heard only by the sagebrush and perhaps a coyote.

  Mrs. Pacheco is squat, the kind of woman who has a no-bullshit, unconditional love for those around her, whether they like it or not. When she opens the door, she meets my eyes with hers, sagging with the weight of a recently stolen son and the more worn-in scars of a departed husband. She talks with the thick, purposeful enunciation I’ve come to recognize as a Native trait.

  “Come, come in,” she says. I can’t quite tell whether it’s more taxing for her to have company or to be alone. In either case, I suppose, the nature of my visit is bound to render it a taxing one regardless.

  Marlene Pacheco was one of the first to welcome Todd and me to the neighborhood, offering gifts of fry bread, Navajo tea, and honey butter, all homemade and comparable even to Todd’s cooking.

  Marlene sits me down on a well-used sofa and disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later, carrying a tray loaded with sweet rolls and homemade raspberry jam.

  “I’m sure you gave the cops all of the information you have the first time they came,” I say.

  “And the second, and the third.” She speaks not with bitterness, exasperation, or anger. Just exhaustion. Her eyes move little, as though in fear of what might assail them from a new angle. They have experienced loss on levels far deeper than most can imagine, with the accompanying knowledge that her son suffered a great deal before finally being allowed to rest.

  “I just have two questions for now,” I say.

  She nods, but her eyes aren’t focused; not on me, at least. Hers is a gaze held by dimensions unseen, perhaps one in which her son is still with her, being goofy and helpful.

  “My first question is whether you’ve had any strange occurrences since last week. Any kind of intrusions, bumps in the night, anonymous messages?”

  “Mr. Thorn,” she says, “if someone intrudes on my property or threatens me, you won’t need to ask. I will drop the bastard myself and call your people to clean up the mess and send me off to jail.” She nods toward a well-maintained shotgun on the wall, mounted low for quick access by a marksman her size.

  “I’ll be glad to know you’re safe,” I say. “My other question is whether or not you know anyone who drives a
big, maroon van.”

  Her eyes intensify for a moment, during which I imagine hunting the guy down at some run-down neighborhood in Albuquerque, delighting as he pleads for mercy, and offering him all of the mercy that he offered to Firenze and Anthony.

  The depth of the evil brought upon two children by some guy is an atrocity for which no earthly retribution will serve completely. His actions were vile, deliberate, unholy.

  Sacrifice.

  Puncturing my hope balloon (inflated by an overpowering sense of vengeful indignation), Marlene says, “No.”

  I nod. It was worth a shot.

  “Mrs. Pacheco … do you hate the person who did it?”

  She folds her arm, sighs, and places her hands instead in the pockets of her apron. “No. I wanted to. So badly, I wanted to. I thought I could draw on the rage, use the energy to get through the day. But anger does not give you energy. It only takes it away. The rush you feel when you’re angry, that’s only temporary. It’s an emotional steroid, and should not be trusted as a resource. Energy is something I have very little of now, Mr. Thorn. The one who did this is not worthy of it. It is better used grieving my son and loving those around me. So I bake. I cook. I clean. I cry. These are the tools I have for coping. And for whoever did it, I have only energy for sadness and pity. No person who would do such a thing is a stable, healthy person. May his capture be swift and direct, so that no one else gets hurt. But my peace will come from me. Not him and, with all due respect, not you or the result of your investigation.”