Season of Waiting

by Jim Christopher

  “Las Cruces called us,” Dietrick continued. “They told us to expect you. That was less than six hours ago.” One corner of the sheriff’s mouth ticked up in an amused smirk as she leaned back into her chair. “You must have been hauling serious ass to get here that fast.”

  Irene’s eyes widened with mild surprise. “They called you?” she asked. “Why?”

  “To let me know you were comin’,” the sheriff replied, her tone showing that it should have been obvious. Dietrick regarded Irene for a quiet moment, crossing her arms. “And why are you here, Miss Allard?”

  Dietrick’s pale eyes were hard to read. Irene wasn’t sure where to start. “I want to find my father. He’s very sick, and I think my brother is manipulating him.”

  “Manipulating him? What do you mean?” Dietrick asked.

  “My dad has cancer. He takes a strong opiate to cope with the pain.” Irene heard her own words. The details of Dad’s terminal illness had somehow become a secondary concern. She shook her head. This had gotten so fucked up.

  Dietrick raised her chin. “I’m sorry to hear that—about your dad. How does your brother fit in?”

  Irene swallowed her shame. “Wes’s a lifelong addict. Not a recovering addict, just an addict. And my dad—Caleb is his name—he’s carrying some of the most potent drugs in the history of the universe. He’s got enough on him to keep Wes stoned for weeks.”

  The sheriff’s gaze broke from Irene and moved to the floor between them. After a contemplative moment, Dietrick sighed and shifted her weight in her chair. “Miss Allard, is there any chance this is some kind of … last rodeo?”

  Irene knitted her brow, confused. She replied, “I’m not following.”

  Dietrick met her gaze again. The sheriff’s eyes were narrow with concern, her lips pursed in an unasked question. “You said your dad was sick.”

  “Yes,” Irene replied. “Pancreatic cancer.”

  Dietrick nodded, uncrossing and recrossing her ankles. Her voice softened as she said, “Your father’s dying. Maybe your brother is taking him on one last trip? An adventure? Some ‘guy time’ together to untie old knots before … ?” She trailed off, leaving the unpleasantness unsaid.

  Irene shook her head. “No way. Thinking about someone else would be a first for Wes. Whatever he’s doing, it’s to benefit himself, I guarantee it. This entire thing is about Wes getting high, or Wes getting money.” Her voice had expanded, her body tensed in the metal chair. Irene’s fingernails dug into her palm as she clenched a fist in her lap.

  “Okay, okay,” the sheriff placated. She regarded Irene with a dour frown. Regret spilled through Irene at the look of disappointment on the woman’s face. “Does your brother—Wes?—does he have a history of violent behavior?”

  Irene fingertips went to her jaw. A reflex. She covered the motion by rubbing her cheek. She could feel the plate in her jaw under her palm. The hard knobs of the screws tightened into her bones.

  “No.” Conflict roiled through Irene as she said the word. It made her sick—why in hell would she cover for her asshole brother like that? Was she acting like Dad now? Giving Wes a pass by justifying shitty choices and behavior? And yet, labeling Wes as a violent person felt wrong.

  “No,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Violent” wasn’t the right word for Wes, she realized. “Wes’s just an idiot, Sheriff. He won’t intentionally hurt our father.” Irene thought for a moment while Dietrick eyed her. “It’s more like Dad would end up abandoned, or find himself in danger because of a choice Wes makes.”

  Dietrick looked over at her desk. “Got it,” she confirmed. A tightening of the woman’s lips told Irene she was holding something back.

  Irene leaned forward. “Sheriff?”

  Dietrick looked up, but past her. Irene followed the woman’s gaze, finding Leo taking copious notes. She turned, meeting the sheriff’s eyes for a breath. Dietrick stated, “As you know, we found your brother’s car at a motel off the interstate. We haven’t located your brother or father yet. We finished processing the crime scene an hour ago, and—”

  Irene cut in, shocked. “I’m sorry, a crime scene?”

  The sheriff leaned back into her chair, nodding. Irene could almost see the dark cloud hanging over the woman’s thoughts. “Sheriff!” she pressed.

  Dietrick sighed. “While the police were checking out your brother’s car, another one was stolen from the station next door. Witnesses describe two men, possibly father and son.”

  Silence hung while the sheriff ran a hand through her short auburn hair. Irene exhaled in a shudder. What the hell had Wes done?

  Dietrick continued, “There’s an all-points out. In every adjacent county. Extending as far as San Antonio, Austin, and Fort Stockton.” The sheriff leaned forward, closing the gap between them. Her face softened, a kindness rounding her eyes. “Irene, when we find your brother and father, they’ll be arrested for grand theft.”

  Wetness filled Irene’s eyes. Sad tears. Angry tears. Because the thing she had feared most since yesterday morning had happened. Wes pulled Dad into some of his bullshit, and now everyone’s life—and Dad’s death—had become more complicated.

  Dietrick’s face remained mild and stoic. She opened a metal drawer with a clank, fetching a box of tissues and placing it on her desk. Irene plucked out a tissue and wiped her eyes, offering, “Thank you.”

  Dietrick nodded as she spoke. “Irene, there’s something I don’t understand about all this. If your brother just wanted to get high, or sell drugs, he could have holed up nearly anywhere. But he didn’t. He’s keeping on the move to something. They’re going somewhere specific. Whatever’s happening here? Wherever it is those two are going?” Dietrick leaned back in her chair, her face knotted in thought. “They seem awful hell-bent on gettin’ there, don’t they?”

  Chapter 44

  Wes

  Wes drove south, heading out of Utopia and into the hill country. Earlier, after leaving Pop at the diner, he spent the afternoon searching out a place to set up camp. Wandering out onto the ranch roads, he eventually found a tiny shack on an apiary. It was away from the major roads, surrounded by clusters of tall cedars and mesquites. The bees were active, but whoever owned the apiary was neglecting it. Most of the hives needed repair, and the weathered hut had been dusty and ignored until Wes cleaned it up. Every sign told Wes they could use the area overnight without being discovered. It was dumb luck or providence. Wes didn’t care at this point. Either way, he would take it.

  He parked the car beside the shanty. He looked over to where his dad sat puddled in the passenger seat of their car. He was defeated. Resigned. He had been from the moment Blair asked for money.

  They’d negotiated. Wes explained their predicament. How they couldn’t get the funds before Dad needed to be healed. All thanks to Irene and her need to be right. Blair didn’t care. Wes recognized the situation for what it was. It was a business transaction, like any of the hundreds of exchanges he had taken part in. Cash, if you didn’t have it, you could fuck right off.

  Wes circled the compact car, opening Pop’s door and helping him to his feet. He led them up the two rickety steps to the screen door and inside. Wes had stocked the shack with essentials. He’d replenished their water supply, picked up a few cans of soup and some crackers. And toilet paper for the inevitable.

  The ramshackle structure had little to it. A short wooden chair tucked under a small table. A field coat, moldy and ragged, hung from a peg next to the door. One wall was open, covered with a dilapidated screen that wouldn’t keep the bugs out. A dusty hammock attached to a support post, intended to stretch to the opposite corner where another hook sat waiting. An empty rifle rack on the back wall completed the space.

  Wes expected Pop to balk at the accommodations, but he didn’t. Instead, he found the chair, pulled it out from the table, and collapsed into it. Wes shoved the carton of water bottles aside with his foot, giving himself space to sit on the floor.r />
  For a long minute neither spoke. Neither looked at the other. Wes reached around his back, taking a water bottle and cracking the seal before offering it to his father. Pop took the bottle with reluctance. Wes hated to see him like this. To be so close to death and life at the same time. Wes had no frame of reference for what Dad was going through.

  “We’ll figure this out, Pop. We can still do this,” he offered.

  Dad drank, swallowing thick gobs of water and then exhaling a wet sigh. “Where the hell are we going to come up with five thousand dollars, Wes?” Dad’s voice broke, and he sucked in a breath. It rattled, his chest heaving in spurts to take it in. Wes couldn’t tell if it was from emotion or physical pain. “Irene froze my accounts. Even if we could convince her I’m safe and she thaws the money, the police would know. Christ, after what we’ve done to get here …” Dad’s voice failed him as his eyes brimmed with tears. Wes held his gaze, tried to shine confidence back into his father.

  Wes nodded. “I know, Pop, and that’s on me. All of it. I’ll figure this out, okay?”

  Dad sobbed, and his eyes lowered to the floor. Wes put a hand on his knee, but Pop wouldn’t look up. Wes’s gut dropped. His dad didn’t believe he could do it.

  Wes closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel crushed for a moment. Like the rehabilitation therapist had instructed him. No running from the negative emotions anymore. Acknowledge the genuine parts. Change the things you can. Start from where you are, with what you have. Wes opened his eyes.

  “Okay, so, what cash do we have left?”

  Dad sighed as he put the water on the table. He rummaged into his fanny pack, pulling out several bills and counting them. “I’ve got about seventeen dollars. And whatever you have on you.”

  Wes emptied his pockets onto the floor of the cabin, taking Pop’s money and adding it to the pile. He counted it up, twice. “We have thirty-eight dollars and change.”

  “Okay, so only four thousand nine hundred sixty-two dollars to go,” Dad snorted. There was a grim edge of gallows humor in his voice.

  Wes looked at the screen door, to the little blue car. “How much do you think the car is worth?”

  Dad shook his head. “Son, it’s stolen. How can we—”

  “Just guess.”

  Dad blew out a breath, his head moving side to side with calculation. “Hundreds? Maybe? Not thousands.”

  Wes nodded, looking for the positives. “Okay, that’s something. We can pawn our phones. …”

  Dad lowered his face into his hands. His shoulders slumped forward. “Son, I think it’s time we call Irene.” He was giving up.

  “No!” Wes’s voice was loud, surprising even him. A rush of pride filled his lungs. “We can do this ourselves! Look how far we’ve gotten. We just have this one little wrinkle, okay?” He looked around the cabin again, determined that the answer lay close by. He saw the food, the water, junk from the car. …

  “The gun,” Wes thought aloud. “The cop’s gun. How much? Maybe five hundred dollars, right?”

  “I don’t know, son.” His tone was dismissive. Wes could see him disengaging, his eyes loose and unfocused. He was slipping into a negative space, and would soon stop making choices altogether.

  Pop continued, “Sure, let’s use it to force them to heal me at gunpoint. Seems like that would fit our modus operandi.”

  Wes hated to hear him like this. He knew the headspace Pop was in. The cynical humor. Fatalistic thinking. That mind-set where you no longer see the possibilities. And they were so close now. They got to Utopia. They found the boy. Wes just needed to figure this out for him. Prove to Dad and Irene that he wasn’t a total disaster.

  He considered the gun. Robbery crossed his mind. He kept the thought silent and in his head. It would tempt fate yet again, but if it came to that, Wes was ready.

  Fate! Wes snapped his fingers. Of course! “Ask the voice!” he exclaimed. He slapped his leg, punishment for not thinking of it sooner. “The voice brought us here—it must have a plan! It could see this coming!”

  Pop shook his head, waved a dismissive hand.

  “Can you try? What could it hurt?”

  Dad sighed. His tired eyes wandered up, searching for something he couldn’t see. After a long moment, his lips pursed. “Nothing, son. I haven’t heard it since this morning at the motel.”

  Wes’s back twitched. He shifted his legs to relieve some stress. As he jostled, his foot knocked into the small pile of money. Panic struck him as a few coins disappeared through the gaps in the floorboards. Wes made a mad grab at the cash, collecting the prize from the floor of the cabin. His heart sank at the knowledge they were further away from making this happen.

  Shoving the cash into a wad in his pocket, Wes stared up at his dad. Tears streamed from Pop’s eyes. He made no sound, his face eerily neutral.

  Dad opened his mouth. His lips quivered. A spark of hope lit in Wes’s chest. The voice. Was it here? Would it help them?

  “I’m tired, Wes. I need to sleep. When I wake up, I’ll call Irene.”

  The spark extinguished. There was no convincing Pop, not when he was in this mental space. Wes stood from the floor. He let out a slow sigh, mumbling, “All right, Pop. Let me get you settled.”

  Wes pulled the musty hammock across the shack. He helped his dad up and eased him into the woven cocoon. Dad grunted, squirming until Wes realized the fanny pack was under him. Wes removed the pack, hanging it over the back of the chair.

  Pop panted, easing his body still and prone. He motioned a finger toward the chair where Wes hung the pack. “I’m having breakthrough pain, can you, please?”

  Wes unzipped the pack, pulling out the prescription. He cracked it open and doled out a pill into his palm. He stared at the pill, his brow furrowing. There was no itch. No draw. It was only a thing now. Wes shrugged off the feeling, put the tablet onto Pop’s tongue, and lifted the bottle of water to his lips. Yellows saturated Dad’s skin. Wes wondered if the fading light of the setting sun was making it look worse than it was.

  “Thanks,” Dad said. His eyes fluttered closed. The hammock creaked as his body relaxed into it. “Thanks for trying, son. I’m sorry this got so sideways.”

  Wes set the bottle on the small table. The air was becoming heavy with damp, warning of a chilly night. Looking for something to cover his father, he took the field coat off the peg and rested it over him. Dad’s breathing was deep and regular, a slight rasp marking the change from inhale to exhale. Wes contorted around the hammock, careful not to rock his father, and sat in the small chair.

  He took a breath, determination stiffening his jaw. He still wanted to win. To figure this out for Pop. He lined up what he had on the table—two cell phones, the gun, the tiny wad of cash. He emptied his dad’s pack. The note Wes wrote at the hotel this morning. Dad’s makeshift napkin ledger. The toy El Camino. Wes looked up from the table, through the gaps in the siding to the actual car. He wasn’t a math guy, but even he was able to run these numbers. His gaze sank back to the table as he blinked away tears.

  A spike of anger thrust through him. He wanted to make this happen. This was to be his atonement. His big win, making up for all the little failures. Instead, it was ending in another defeat. Irene’s voice popped into Wes’s head. Judging. Arguing. Wes’s responses flashed quick across the screen in his mind. How could he have known this would happen? The voice wasn’t helping them when they needed it the most!

  Wes’s fist slammed into his thigh, releasing a sharp pain. The discomfort faded, leaving a wake of pleasure behind it. He did it again. And again, relishing the endorphins racing through his body to hide the effects of the injury.

  Fuck it. Fuck all of it. Wes eyed the script bottle. A thick orange cylinder, about the size of his palm. Inside were enough pills to kill an elephant. Maybe a herd of them. He opened the bottle, shaking out one pill into his hand. His heart skipped a beat. Anticipation of a release. A respite from the shame of his failure.


  He wanted it after all.

  He looked to his dad and then into the bottle, counting in his head. There were plenty for Pop and for Wes, for what they both wanted to do. Wes shook out another pair of pills. That made three. These were potent as shit. Three should do it. After some thought, he nudged the bottle, bouncing out one more. Four of them would definitely get it done.

  Dad breathed steady as Wes closed the bottle with one hand. Wes laid the four pills out on top of the napkin on the table, folding it over to protect them. The last four pills Dad would have. He rose from the chair, pushing everything into his father’s pack. He pocketed their phones and secured the pistol in his waistband.

  Wes stepped out of the hut, easing the door closed behind him. He walked to the car, throwing the fanny pack into the passenger’s seat before looking back at the shack. It glowed in the oncoming blue of night.

  Sliding behind the wheel, his jaw clenched from determination. Or was this regret? He started the car. Before driving away, Wes whispered, “I’m sorry too, Pop.”

  Chapter 45

  Caleb

  A crisp chill slapped Caleb conscious. It was dark, a musty odor lay on the air, and he could hear a rustle nearby. Trees swaying. Insects creaking. He turned his head, seeing stars through the screen wall. His side hitched, the wobbly hammock making it difficult to move.

  Caleb counted in his head, moving through the pain. As careful as he could, he put his feet on the ground. He changed to a sitting position, the hammock stretching at the shifting weight. His pain wasn’t local anymore. It radiated through him, from each joint and muscle and bone. Had he missed a dose? He could remember Wes feeding him a pill. Caleb shoved off the worry that this might be the new normal.

  A long canvas coat slid off his lap and pooled onto the floor. It gave Caleb something on which to focus. A way to isolate his consciousness from the breakthrough pain. He inhaled, trying to control his mind. “Pain is temporary;” the mantra passed through his thoughts. Caleb exhaled, maintaining a steady breath. He spit shaking bursts of air as his muscles spasmed. Minutes passed as he repeated the exercise. Tears formed. Caleb continued to focus on the field coat.