His agony tapered from constant to moments. The sound of his pulse faded in his ears as the pain moved away.
Caleb nudged the coat with his foot. Wes must have covered him with it after he fell asleep.
“Wes.” Speaking hurt too, Caleb’s mouth dry and cracked despite the cool wet air. He cleared his throat, the flavor of pennies hitting his tongue. He sucked in another batch of air, the chill settling him. He repeated the call to his son, “Wes?”
No answer came over the rapid staccato of chirping crickets and grinding frogs. Caleb moved to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the cabin wall. His legs took his weight, and he looked about the cabin. Wes wasn’t there. He must be asleep in the car.
His eyes eased into the surrounding night. The pale light of a low moon filtered through the trees. Caleb looked to the table, finding a half-full bottle of water. He drank it in small sips, giving his stomach time to wake up.
His pain had ebbed, but he needed to stay ahead of it. Where was his pack? He checked the table again, not finding it. It wasn’t hanging off the chair either. Caleb searched the floor with his feet, locating only the hard shell of canned food and cardboard. Maybe Wes took it to the car with him.
He sipped at the water and leaned into the wall. Leaving the bottle on the table, he pushed open the flimsy door. The rusty tension spring squeaked as Caleb found the two steps to the ground. He regretted the clack of the door slapping shut, silencing the insects nearby and potentially waking his son. With the wave of pain receding, Caleb realized he needed to urinate. He wandered around the side of the cabin, finding a suitable target in a young cedar tree.
Relieving himself took longer than he thought it would. Standing still and pushing his abdominal muscles left Caleb dizzy. He took a moment, leaning against the outside of the cabin, while his vision cleared.
The stars in his eyes dissipated, and Caleb looked to the sky. The actual stars in the deep dark watched him from across a wide and clear dome. Trees stood still and tall around him, stretching up as if they were pointing back to the stars.
A jagged thought came to Caleb: this was the last night sky he would see. It wasn’t the voice’s admonition yesterday. Caleb could feel it now. Death was looking at him. Waiting. These moments were among his last.
As if he needed reminding, a stab hit his gut, and he doubled over to his knees. He breathed through it. He willed it to pass. It subsided after a moment, and he eased off the ground. He stumbled through the gray night to the front of the cabin. He hated to wake up Wes, but Caleb had to have the meds in his fanny pack.
The long rows of beehives captured what little light was available and threw it back out. Caleb heaved himself toward the road, one foot, then the next. The four lines of hives rocked past him.
The scrunch of his sneakers on the loose rock told him he reached the gravel. He looked up the drive. It went straight for a stretch, then bent around some mature cedar trees and disappeared from view.
Caleb’s brow knotted in confusion. Wes must have moved the car. He turned around, finding the other side of the cabin. His eyes had adjusted enough to see that the car wasn’t there either.
Anxious, his heart quickening, Caleb returned to the cabin. He moved the chair, searching for his pack. Nothing. His meds. Missing. Their phones. The revolver, the officer’s belt, all of it, gone. Caleb’s anxiety balled up and expanded, his nerves rising in his throat.
He rummaged through his own pockets, and then through the pockets of the field coat. They were all empty. The nausea solidified, sinking in him like a stone.
As he looked around the cabin, Caleb’s gaze fell to the table, and to the wadded paper there. He picked it up and opened the crinkled mass. A few small objects fell from the paper and into his palm. Pain meds. Four of them.
He shook open the wad with one hand. It was the note Wes had left him in the motel yesterday morning. “I’ll be back. Trust me.” Someone’s blood stained the corner of the napkin, a memento of yesterday’s violence.
Caleb fell to the small chair, clutching the meds and the note in his fists. He couldn’t believe it. Wes did it. That petty asshole did it. Wes chose the wrong way again. And like he’d promised he would, his son took his shitty choices and disappeared from Caleb’s life.
The sinking stone in him landed. Wes had left him here. To die. Alone.
Chapter 46
Irene
The duck stared at Irene. Irene squinted back from the bed. The duck had not blinked in the half hour she had locked eyes with it. One wing lifted from its body. Tense, as if the bird were about to snap open in a frenzy of wobbling flight. But the animal didn’t move. The floodlight passing through the window blinds left a stipple of light across the black orb of its eye. The waterfowl remained still, on the top shelf of the bookcase, a moment of living captured like a breath in a bottle.
It wasn’t the only harrowing object in the room. Taxidermied animals covered every wall. Irene would never have stayed here, but the motel in Junction was a nonstarter. It was the only motel in town, and Sheriff Dietrick had insisted that Irene keep away from it. In exchange, the sheriff promised to call if she received any news.
Irene sure as hell wasn’t traveling away from the only lead she had on her dad. So she took a chance on the simple solution. Airbnb listed a single room near Junction. A semiprivate cabin on a large ranch estate just fifteen minutes north of town. Decorated by a man, probably. A man who enjoyed killing things, then making them look alive again. Ducks lined the shelves at the foot of the bed. An owl lit on a tree branch attached to one corner of the room. Perched opposite, a kestrel gazed in endless majesty at the hideous toile wallpaper. The one outlier in the avian flock was the beaver laid out on the wall shelf next to the bed. It stood right outside Irene’s periphery, but she could not unsee it. Game birds, birds of prey, and mammals surrounded her in an apneic chorus, and their heavy silence kept her awake.
Out of any animal in the room, this goddamned duck was the only one in the perfect position to watch her sleep.
Irene slapped back the covers. She hoped the air of the room was cooler, that it could temper her growing anger and impatience. Instead it was tepid, her skin sticky. The bed became stifling. She rotated on her side, pushing herself upright with her arms to avoid tweaking her back, and found the floor with her bare feet. She plucked her hair tie from the nightstand and pulled her hair up off her sweating neck. She padded over to the shelf, looking at the three ducks arranged in a parade. Standing on her toes, she reached up to the last follower in the line. Being careful with the delicate animal, she spun the waterfowl a few degrees to her right. In her head, she mapped out the duck’s view like a laser coming out of its eyes. Her slight rotation should be enough to shift the bird’s empty focus from the bed to the owl in the corner. Those two could spend all night staring into each other’s eyes.
The red digits glowing on the clock by the bed read four a.m. Even after trying for six hours, Irene hadn’t slept. Instead, her brain did that thing it liked to do—think. Then spin. Then move on to spiraling. Her body and mind had fidgeted for hours. She knew sleep wouldn’t come. Not without help. She looked at her backpack on the chair under the fucking owl. She kept a few emergency Xanax in the inside pocket. They might calm her nerves, put her out for a while. She considered the idea for a moment, then shook her head. The last thing she wanted was the mental haze that came with the drowsiness. Fuck it. Her brain said she was awake, so she was awake. That’s all there was to it.
Irene moved to the en suite bathroom, fetching a paper cup from the dispenser and filling it with lukewarm tap water. The flood lamp outside created enough light for her to see the puffs under her eyes. She rubbed them with her free hand, trying to wring out the sleepiness from her face. She craved rest. She had gotten no real shut-eye since that nap she took at Dad’s place, and she had been running near empty before that.
The buzz of her phone snapped her head back to the bedroom. I
rene downed the water in one gulp, leaving the cup in the sink. She scampered across the bed to the nightstand. The clock knocked against the wall as she grabbed the phone.
She checked the caller ID. It was Sheriff Dietrick. Irene answered the call as she sat back on her haunches.
“Sheriff?” Irene spoke in a near shout, unable to hold back her anticipation.
“Ms. Allard, sorry to wake you.” The sheriff’s voice was even and clipped as ever. “I promised to let you know as soon as something new came in.”
“Not a problem, I’m not sleeping.” Irene swallowed, girding herself for the worst. “So, what’s happened?”
The clacking of a keyboard came through the phone. “Looks like Wes used his cell phone. Once, but we narrowed down where he is.”
Irene stood from the bed, the suspense making her body itch. She paced around the bed. “And where is that?” she asked. She started cramming her dirty clothes into her backpack, getting ready for the next phase of this shit show.
Clickety-clack. “San Antonio. The cell tower he hit was on the west side of the city.” The sheriff was silent for a breath.
Irene stopped packing, waiting for the news. “And?” she begged.
Dietrick sighed. “Police also found the stolen car abandoned at a gas station in the area where the call was placed.”
Irene zipped up her pack. “And my father?” she asked. “I guess you would have led with that if you’d found him?”
“No, I’m sorry, Ms. Allard, no sign of either your father or brother. Your brother’s phone was still in the car, though.”
Frustration brewed through her cranky body. She sighed a little too hard.
“Irene”—the sheriff’s voice rose with curiosity—“does your brother know anyone in law enforcement?”
Irene shifted the phone to her other ear to allow her arm to slip into her blouse. She snorted. “I’m sure Wes is familiar with the whole damned New Mexico law enforcement family, Sheriff. Why do you ask?”
Dietrick sighed, then deflected, “Something they found in the car.” Before Irene could ask what the hell that meant, the sheriff continued. “Ms. Allard. Irene.” Her tone betrayed an ambivalence to continue.
With her jeans halfway up her legs, Irene had to stop, her body jittering through a flush of panic. She braced herself with a hand on the nightstand. She was as fragile and frozen as the decorations in the room. “What the hell is it, Sheriff?”
“Irene, the police found your father’s prescription bottle inside the car. It’s empty.”
The words spun through Irene’s head. She heard them, yet her brain wouldn’t put them together. The implications were too dark. She eased her jeans to her waist, fastening them as she sat back on the bed. Around a thick swallow, she asked, “Sheriff, what does that mean?”
Dietrick clicked her tongue on the other end of the call. “I imagine you know already. I’d appreciate you meeting me back at the office as soon as you can.”
Chapter 47
Caleb
The sky lightened, but dawn did little to stem the cold and damp. Neither did it calm Caleb’s worn nerves. He slumped on the steps of the shanty, wrapped in the field coat to conserve his body heat. But the chill had reached his bones, and the metallic odor of mold from the duster stabbed his nose.
Three meds left. At the rate he was taking the pills, Caleb calculated these would last ten hours. Twelve if his pain was mild. He had taken one a few hours ago, after finding Wes gone. He kept the pill down through the rubber-banding of his emotions. The wringing anxiety of figuring out what to do. The gut-twisting worries over Wes. The crushing depression as Caleb thought over the impact of the previous two days.
Ten hours. Would he even live that long? Was this place, this lonely pocket of nature, where he would die? Caleb shook off the fear. He had to try. Find someone to help him. He had no car, so he would walk. But where? Tall trees blocked his view of the surrounding hill country. Caleb looked east, to the rising sun. That oriented him at least. Utopia was to the north. But how far was it? The farm roads they’d taken here split and twisted through the hills. Caleb hadn’t paid attention when Wes drove them here. Had they passed any houses? He didn’t remember.
If he found a phone, he could call Irene. She would figure it out, find him, get him safe, and then do the same for Wes. She would be angry. There was no reasonable explanation to give her around why they’d embarked on this fool’s errand. And that’s exactly what this was, with Caleb as the fool. It didn’t matter. He had no phone. Wes must have taken it when he left.
Caleb had no money. Not that the apiary offered much in the way of services—bees operated on a different economy. He looked over to the hives, hearing the swarm humming awake as the morning warmed their homes.
And then there was the missing voice. Caleb had called out to it. Screamed into the dark for it to answer. Blazed with shame as he begged it for help. He waited for a response. Any response. A word. A sound. Pressure in his head. Nothing came. The universe told Caleb to go fuck himself, and that was harder to accept than Wes’s abandonment.
His son skipping out on him had precedent, at least. Wes had a destructive reaction to stress. He got defensive. Closed himself. The ignored problem exacerbated. Wes’s reactions deteriorated until his only option was to pass the problem on to everyone else. To Caleb. To Irene. Christ, if Caleb was being honest with himself, he had expected this from Wes. Just as he expected the violence with the highway patrolman.
Wes always met his own needs before thinking of anyone else. He was more of an acquaintance than family. But to Caleb, the voice was a part of himself. It was inside of him. The experience was the same as thinking, or moving his body. Wherever Caleb was, the voice was too. And yet, after a night of tearful pleading, his ear remained silent. When this all started, back in Truth or Consequences, the sound of it was debilitating. But now it was the silence that devastated Caleb. Like he had lost part of himself. A limb. Or maybe his mind.
Caleb sat quiet now on the steps, trying to find calm in the bees tending their hives as the sun rose. The low, murmuring hum of the hives increased in volume with the brightening sky. Caleb tried watching the entire brood, finding it overwhelming. They were uncoordinated, the swarm undulating, dripping, with no discernible purpose. As the day eased closer to the horizon, he tracked the individual bees farther into the air.
Caleb watched a bee fly toward him in an unsteady lilt. The buzzing of its wings grew louder until it passed over his head to his deaf side, leaving a wake of silence behind it. At least the insect knew where it needed to go.
Another hum drew Caleb’s attention toward the hives. The sound deepened, filling the air in the apiary. He stiffened, a worry budding in his chest. This wasn’t an insect. The sound grew throaty, mechanical. The buzz turned to a rumble, and it moved into Caleb’s chest. The pops and thunks of a vehicle on gravel joined the reverberation in the air.
Panic sucked the air from him. Someone was driving up the road to the apiary.
He stood. The engine on the other side of the trees heaved. Caleb’s mind scampered. He could hide. Hide in the cabin. That wouldn’t work: whoever was coming would look in there. He could move into the trees behind the cabin. They weren’t as likely to notice him there. Or he could run. If he started now, they wouldn’t see him at all.
Caleb closed his eyes, realizing his arrogance. He was reacting, not thinking. The car was being driven by someone. Someone who would help Caleb contact Irene and the police.
He stepped to the ground in front of the cabin, shaking off the field coat. Looking at himself, he found his clothing stained and dusty. He swiped off what he could, running a hand through his hair, trying to make himself appear less disheveled. A black pickup truck fought its way around the tight bend in the driveway at the end of the apiary.
The truck finished the turn, grumbling toward him. Caleb felt a strange calmness relax his shoulders. Like the bee that buzzed his hea
d, Caleb now knew where he needed to go, too.
Chapter 48
Wes
“Who the fuck still drives a stick?” Wes cursed. He was fine when the truck was moving, but the behemoth transformed into a temperamental princess in low gear. The engine throbbed, then revved as Wes tapped on the gas. He released the clutch. The truck bucked forward, the chassis rocking under his feet.
The cluster of cedar trees marked the turn into the apiary. Gravel crunched under the thick tires. The first line of beehives came into view. Small dark spots flitted in and out of the white boxes and through the mist rising from the ground.
The corner was tight, and this truck was a freaking land yacht. Wes eased through the turn, riding the delicate clutch. The truck jerked through the turn as if it wanted to impress its new driver with its raw power. More hives appeared, the turn straightening out to the gravel path.
Pop stood outside the hut. Wes smiled, his shoulders relaxed, relieved that his dad was alive and okay. His smile waned as Pop raised his hands over his head. What the hell was he doing?
Wes let the truck carry him past the hives at an idle. Pop’s hands rose higher as the truck got close. He faced the ground in front of him, and his palms splayed open. For a moment, Wes worried a cop had followed him into the apiary.
Twenty feet from the hut, Wes pulled the truck at an angle off the drive. The engine died with a throaty huff. Wes opened his door and climbed from the truck, grabbing the fanny pack from the dashboard.
“Hello?” Pop’s voice was trembling. “Please … I’m sorry,” he said. “I need your help.”
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