“Yes, Caleb Allard.” She held her breath. “Do you have any information?”
“Oh … yes, ma’am,” the man drawled. “See, they took him into custody. And I wanted to call you and let you know.”
Irene’s heart threatened to break from her chest. “He’s safe?” She was yelling. She didn’t mean to yell. She opened the car door and dropped into the driver’s seat.
“Well … yes. He’s on his way here, Miss Allard, yes. Should be here in an hour. Um, so … how soon would you be able to come down here? Because, see, he ain’t talkin’ to us, and we’re hoping you can help figure all this out.”
Chapter 24
Wes
Wes’s eyes ached as he squinted against the brilliance of the officer’s LED flashlight. As the light moved off his face, the world swam in his vision. Panic welled up his throat. The scene was tense, but familiar. Wes had been here; he knew what to do. Play nice, smile, but not too much. He and Pop needed to get through this checkpoint. They had done nothing wrong. If the cops thought that too, they’d be back on the road. God willing.
Wes looked sideways at his dad, his face now the target of the cop’s light. Dad lifted his braced arm to shield his eyes from the portable sun.
“Sir, can you please lower your arm?” the officer asked. His thick voice carried a level of kindness absent before. “Please look at me, sir.”
The canine officer by Pop’s window choked up the leash. The shepherd reared up on its hind legs, sniffing the air. As the dog glared at Wes, its gleaming nose twitched. Wes huffed a sigh of relief. This wasn’t a people search, he realized. This was a drug search.
The dog’s snout left a line of snot on the window, and his calm vanished. Wes had hit a bowl earlier. It was before Pop called—how long ago was that? Wes had changed his shirt, but the dog could still pick up the scent.
Dad lowered his arm, raising his face into the light like he was sunning himself. The dog disappeared beneath the window. They were fucked if the dog signaled. The cops would hold them and learn who they were, and that would be the end of Pop.
“You all right, sir?” the officer questioned.
Before he could stop himself, Wes replied, “He’s fine, Officer, we’re just …”
A hard stare from the patrolman sucked the breath from Wes.
“Sure, I’m okay, Officer.” Pop’s thin voice carried the officer’s attention off Wes.
The patrolman leaned forward, moving the light over Pop’s fragile frame, pausing for a moment on his brace. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.
Pop nodded, swallowing.
The officer continued, “Because you look ill. Are you ill? Do you need a hospital?”
A smile broke across Pop’s face. Wes worked to stuff his dread back into his belly. Please, Pop, just be cool.
The officer’s voice chilled as he asked, “Did I say something funny?” Wes wiped his hands down his jeans.
Dad raised his face, meeting the officer’s gaze, and shook his head around his wide smile. “No, it’s just … I mean yes, I’m fine. Except, you know, for the terminal cancer. But we’re managing it, as best we can, Officer.”
Wes heard the officer swallow. He turned to see the cop nodding as he pulled away from the window. The patrolman waved. Wes followed his gaze to the officer controlling the detection dog. He could see the dog’s face again through the window, staring at him with accusation and purpose. The dog’s controller nodded as another grim figure emerged from the light carrying a long stick.
Not a stick, a shotgun.
The dog had signaled.
Wes could throw the car into drive, stomp the gas, push the El Camino as hard as he could until it collapsed. What were their odds on getting to Utopia that way? He didn’t know. He had to try. Get past this, to the next thing, and go from there.
“Y’all comin’ from New Mexico?” The officer’s voice broke Wes’s frantic thoughts, his plan collapsing to dust in his mind. Did the officer know who they were?
Dad replied from across the car, “Yes, sir.”
Christ, Pop had no idea what he was doing. Sweat beaded over Wes’s lip.
The officer straightened, looking over the hood of the car. He addressed the others with two curt waves of his hand. “It’s medical,” Wes heard the man say to the other officers. “They’re from New Mexico.” Through the windshield, Wes watched the shadows step away from the car. What the hell was happening?
The officer leaned in, closer this time. His voice lost its rough edge as he cautioned, “Y’all are gonna want to keep his marijuana use a secret while you’re in Texas.” Wes blinked, the officer holding his gaze for a long moment. “The medical stuff might be legal in New Mexico, but here in Texas it’s still felony possession. Don’t use it in public, don’t flaunt that you’re holding. Can you do that, please?”
Wes slowly nodded. He waited for the cop to yank him from the car, tell him to pull aside, tear his El Camino apart, beat the shit out of him, something.
“Have a safe trip, gentlemen. And Godspeed.” The patrolman rose up from the window. He waved them on and turned his attention to the impatient semi on their bumper.
Chapter 25
Irene
Irene lifted her foot off the gas. She maneuvered the BMW around the plodding Oldsmobuick. The car responded, gripping the road as she whipped around the land yacht. She slammed the pedal to the floor. The engine rejoiced with a growl as it chewed up the miles.
As the mile markers zipped past her, Irene shoved off any notion of relief. She wouldn’t have peace until she was with Dad, until she was talking to him, hearing his voice, touching his hands. A pair of assholes took up both lanes ahead. Irene took the car onto the shoulder, passing the cars at a rapid clip. A stalled semi forced a last-second swerve back into the lane. The close call incited the other driver to slam on his brakes. That earned her a few honks and a rude gesture. She deserved it. After a few minutes, the adrenaline rush from the near accident faded. Her leg shook against the gas pedal and her stomach turned. She was doing her best to drive calm, but the desire to get to Dad was forcing terrible choices out of her.
The headlights reflected off a large green sign: Las Cruces was only twenty miles away. She was almost there. Almost to her father.
Ahead, brake lights slogged in the left lane, and she was approaching them fast. She was in the passing lane, so they should move over. But as she closed the distance, the lights remained in her lane.
She flashed her brights and slammed the horn. “Fucking move over,” she hissed. The car squatted in the left lane. She repeated her high beams, and in response the sedan’s brake lights pulsed. “Goddammit!” Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. Her body full of anger and impatience, she shot into the open lane. Speeding past the car, Irene growled along with the engine as it perked up at the acceleration.
The blur of red and blue lights danced across her dashboard and reflected off her mirrors. She blew out a frustrated sigh. The air filled with the voice of the officer behind her: “Pull over, now.”
She slapped the leather steering wheel. The car slowed as she eased onto the shoulder. She didn’t need this delay. Dad was only a few miles away. Once she rolled to a stop, Irene killed the engine.
She opened her door and stepped out of the car, looking back at the cruiser behind her. Amid the emergency strobes, she spied the form of the officer exiting his car. The shadowy blob stopped, and a light blazed into Irene’s eyes.
“Ma’am, I need you to get back in your car!” As she adjusted to the lights, she could see his hand tensed on the butt of the revolver at his hip.
Her hands floated up. “Okay, okay,” she placated. She considered spooling up tears. Getting emotional with the cops might speed things along. Then she realized she didn’t need to; she was already crying. “I’m trying to get to the sheriff’s office in Las Cruces. They have my dad.” The desperation in her voice frustrated her. “I need to get
to him, okay?”
The officer responded, “Ma’am, you were flying like a bat out of hell back there. You got no business driving in the state you’re in right now.” His light pointed at the ground by her feet. The pelts of rain had created hundreds of small craters that cast long shadows across the earth. His features congealed out of the dark. Irene expected a scolding face, but found concern.
“Can you get me to the Las Cruces Sheriff’s Office? Please?” Her voice cracked. “I’ll take any ticket you want to write with a fucking smile and pay it on the spot. But right now I need to get to my dad and make sure he’s okay!”
The officer moved to the front of his vehicle, motioning for Irene to lean against the trunk of Dad’s car. A woman’s voice asked from the dark, “Your father is at the Las Cruces sheriff’s station?”
Irene nodded, searching the flashing lights for the female officer. “They asked me to come get him.” It was a lie of omission; she’d been told to come get some answers out of him.
The male officer pulled out his radio, spouting out a series of call signs and numbers and commands. He glanced up at her. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Irene Allard.”
He repeated her name into the radio, listening to the squawks that came back as if they had meaning. He nodded, satisfied with whatever he heard. He asked her for her license, glanced at it, and handed it back.
“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen. You’ll ride with Officer McHay in the cruiser, and I’m gonna drive your car to the sheriff’s station. Once we’re there, we’ll give your keys to the sheriff. He can decide when you’re in a state to drive again.” The male officer opened his hand, waiting for her to deposit her keys.
Not seeing an alternative, Irene nodded and relinquished the fob. The officers moved. Irene followed McHay. She opened the rear door of the cruiser, and Irene folded into the backseat. Metal bars covering the windows and the thick Plexiglas shield separating her from the front of the car consumed Irene’s personal space.
As McHay slid behind the wheel, Irene noted the discolored smears across the barrier. A shoe print stamped on the shield between her and the officer. Irene felt a sinking shame. She’d never ridden in a cruiser before, much less in the back where they keep the criminals. The space was strange, foreign enough that she would never learn the customs.
The BMW merged onto the highway, and McHay followed. As they sped up, Irene leaned back. If she wasn’t driving, she may as well try to rest during the quick sprint to Las Cruces. A sharp prong dug into her lumbar, and Irene reached behind her to examine the protrusion. Her fingers found a solid metal bar, secured to the frame of the seat. At first she figured it was a LATCH point, designed to secure baby seats. Irene had only ever used them to tie down storage containers when she moved. But this bar was too thick, and it stuck out farther.
Her other hand found her first, and both ran a tactile analysis of the thing. It was her posture that snapped the solution together. With both hands behind her back, the purpose of the bar was clear. The officers would use this bar to secure someone’s wrists to the frame of the seat.
Her fingers closed around the metal. She swayed side to side, the pressure of her limited movement tightening her shoulders and neck. The tension of incarceration, of isolation. Losing choices. How many times had Wes experienced this discomfort? Hell, had Wes been in this cruiser? Maybe attached to this specific lump of pointy metal she was holding? Was she breathing in atoms of his skin, right now?
Her jaw joint ached. It was psychological. A reminder of Wes exploding when Dad had him committed years ago. Her brother put up a struggle when they confronted him. Irene stepped in to help, but Wes knocked her down and stomped on the side of her face. She had to hold her jaw in manual traction for forty minutes until an ambulance arrived for her. By that point, Wes was sitting in this backseat, or one like it. On his way to a cushy room at rehab, where he drank sodas and complained about his shitty family.
Wes meant to hurt her that day. He made a choice to do so. Dad never thought that was true, calling it an “unfortunate accident.” He never would see Wes for the broken person he was.
Irene brought her hands to her lap as the cruiser pulled into a parking slot next to the Beamer. She looked out the window at the large municipal building. It dwarfed any structure in Truth or Consequences, both in girth and quality. The landscaping was well-maintained grass and shrubs, a small oasis in the desert, likely requiring a conspicuous use of water.
McHay opened the cruiser door, gesturing toward the other officer, waiting outside the lobby doors. Irene followed them into the building. They entered a wide area of cubicles where several other officers milled about in the quiet.
They stopped at a desk supporting the elbows of a round man, his bulk stressing the buttons of his olive uniform. Vapid eyes searched the air ahead of him, and his white hair clung to the sweat on his brow. Irene glanced at the melamine nameplate on the desk. This was Sheriff Smelly, the man who had called her earlier.
The male officer stepped ahead of McHay. “Hey, Sheriff, this here is Irene Allard. She’s here to help with her father.”
The sheriff’s vacuous gaze stayed on her face for a long moment. “You’re the daughter?”
Irene’s patience frayed. Christ, what part of that was so hard to understand? She forced a calm to her voice. “Yes, I am Irene Allard. May I see my father, please?”
The sheriff stretched a sigh. The drawl from the phone call became more prominent as he replied, “Um … yes, but first I think we should—”
Her impatience asserted itself. Irene commanded the sheriff, “Show me my goddamned father!”
McHay and her colleague both jumped at the change in her tone. Irene regretted losing her cool as Sheriff Smelly’s hands shot into the air, as if she were mugging him. Before anyone could speak, Irene recovered. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day, and it would bring me great peace of mind to see that my father is here. Is he here?”
The sheriff kept one hand up as the other shoved his body out of his chair. He wobbled around the desk, waving at her to follow. They passed through the cube farm, Irene feeling the side-eyes from many of the young officers. They entered a short hallway with two doors on either side. Smelly raised a finger. He poked his head into a door on the left, then called Irene over with a wiggle of his stubby finger.
Irene stood in the doorway, staring at the middle-aged Latino cuffed to the massive metal table in the tight space. His scared, wide eyes bounced to each of them, his voice stressed and shaking in fright. “No hice nada, no … no hice nada malo. …”
Irene took in the room, glancing at the corners. She turned to the sheriff and shrugged. “Who’s this? Where’s my dad?”
Sheriff Smelly licked his thin lips, turning from Irene to this mystery man. He sighed, resting a hand on his ample gut. “This … um, isn’t your father, then?”
Irene waved him off. “No, my dad, where is he?”
“¡No hice nada!” the man shouted.
The sheriff raised a thick finger at the man attached to the table. “See … so, this man was … um, trying to use your father’s credit card … at a, um, gas station. Officers happened to be at the scene already, and that’s how, um … we got him into custody.”
Irene looked at the Latino, his chestnut skin and black hair in sharp contrast to the “Allard pallor” of her family. “But that’s not him!”
The sheriff sighed again, opening and closing his mouth to untie his tongue. “Well, see … there was a younger man too that, um … ran off, so we thought …” The sheriff pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and rubbed his damp forehead. “And see … he ain’t, um, talking to us, ain’t said nothing except ‘No heece nahdah,’ over and over. We hoped that, um … getting you here would help … you know, get him talking.”
Irene heard the sheriff’s words, but their meaning wasn’t snapping together. “Wait, you assumed that’s my father?” she asked,
stabbing a finger at the agitated man in the chair. “Given the description I gave the police?”
The sheriff nodded, regret forming a frown that looked to drip off his thick chin. “We had hoped, I guess, um … yes.”
Irene turned back to the cuffed man. His features blurred together as her tears returned.
Chapter 26
Wes
Wes groaned, exasperated. “All I’m saying is that it felt like we had some guardian-angel shit happening back there.”
His heart danced in his chest, but not from panic. Wes’s mood had improved a lot. Back at the checkpoint, he was sure they were done, that he’d failed Dad one last time. Instead, the angst had turned into elation. And here they were, disappearing into the ink of night in West Texas.
“I mean, don’t you think someone was looking out for us?” he asked.
Pop sighed, stammering, “I dunno about that, son. I think we got lucky.”
Wes snorted with derision. “Fuck your luck, Pop.”
“I don’t get it,” he replied. “We got an understanding highway patrolman who reasoned about what he perceived. A terminal cancer patient, marijuana odors. He assumed that I was using medical marijuana as part of my treatment.”
“Okay, for starters,” Wes said, “there are no sensible or reasonable cops. And second,” he added, turning to his father, “just call it ‘weed,’ okay?”
Pop shrugged with his unbraced hand, his shoulders tense. The conversation must have made him uncomfortable. Wes turned back to the road and continued, “So let me reverse the question back to you. Why couldn’t it have been divine intervention?”
“I don’t see what that matters,” Dad replied. “And besides, how would we know if it was or wasn’t God’s hand back there? How would we even test that?”
Wes lifted his gaze to the car’s roof and groaned. Beneath the playful noise, his irritation grew. “Ugh, Pop, you sound like Irene! Admit that something amazing happened there! Okay? Just do that and I’ll drop it!”
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