Mallon lay in the middle of the floor, where he had been felled like a tree. Charles kept staring at the thin smile on Mallon’s face. He knew each second he looked at that horrible grin—horrible because it was so happy—would etch it even deeper into his consciousness, but he could not look away.
Charles looked up and down the street in front of the station. There were no taxis this late, and his phone had been smashed back in the office. The cops had let him leave a message for Addie on the airport courtesy phone, but Charles doubted she would get it.
Charles walked back towards the plaza.
It had taken thirty more minutes for his own examination by paramedics and then a ride to a little police station a few minutes away. Then, four hours of delivering statements, being questioned and writing up what he had seen. The ordeal ended with a warning not to leave the state. Charles was going to do exactly that. As he left, he saw Lou in one of the interview rooms. It would be a longer night for him.
Charles found an ATM in the Plaza. His card was still useless. The only other people on the street were some garbage men and a few pre-dawn joggers, happy to speed by the guy with a bloody shirt and black eyes.
Charles found another ATM and then another. Nothing.
Charles wanted to go home. He wanted to get on a plane and fly to his mother’s house and let her yell at him and say I told you so. He wanted to sit down with Addie and a divorce lawyer. He wanted to file for bankruptcy. He would walk humiliated down Pennsylvania Avenue, seeing Olivia in each passing stranger. He was ready to leave.
Charles found himself back in the park at the center of the plaza. He took a seat and moaned, his entire body aching. He looked around the maze of streets and the ancient adobe. He wanted to go home. He had no idea how to get there.
Author’s Note
I moved from Washington, DC to Santa Fe in 2007 to be close to my family and take a job on a political campaign. Santa Fe’s ghosts and complexities are confusing, yet beautiful. Driving through that old town and those ancient mountains, I knew I wanted to tell a story that combined New Mexico’s complexities and my conflicted feelings about politics. If I succeeded at all, it’s due to the overwhelming amount of support I’ve received over the years.
First, thanks to Nicolás Kanellos for plucking this un-agented manuscript from the slush pile. The whole crew at Arte Público Press has been supportive and endlessly patient with my near-constant emailing about every single thing. Thank you, Marina Tristán, Gabriela Baeza Ventura and everyone at that amazing publisher. Joining your roster of writers is the honor of my career.
This book would have shriveled up ages ago without the good folk at Texas State University. Thank you to my thesis advisors for reading an early (and pretty awful) version of this book. Having Nelly Rosario, Doug Dorst, Robert Tally and Elissa Schappell on my thesis committee was a dream. Tom Grimes, Director of the MFA program while I was there, was a constant source of honesty and inspiration. Portions of this novel were also read by the late Robert Stone. My copy of Dog Soldiers is never far away. At Texas State, I became friends with Tim O’Brien. We put on magic shows, drank a good bit of scotch and went to Las Vegas for a magician’s convention. His notes on a novel draft were the most helpful feedback I’ve ever received on any piece of writing. I owe you so much, Tim.
Thank you to all my colleagues at Texas State. Ross Feeler gave me amazingly detailed edits, and I couldn’t imagine a better community of writers to fall in with.
Writing is a solitary endeavor, which makes me appreciate my writing family even more. Carrie Thornton and Stuart Bernstein are the wisest, and nicest, people in publishing. Becka Oliver, Michael Noll and The Writer’s League of Texas have been so helpful. Clay Smith has done more for me than perhaps anyone else I know. I wish I could list everyone in Austin who gave me advice on this project and many more, but the list would be longer than the book itself. I’m so happy to play a small role in Austin’s vibrant literary scene.
I’ve had the privilege of teaching high school English for seven years. My students keep me hopeful about the future, and I hope I keep them hopeful about themselves.
And what’s an author’s note without a cheesy “I love you” to my mom and sister. Deborah Zamora and Victoria Santos are forces of nature and the rest of us are caught in their wake.
Paige is my love who I marvel at every day. We are so lucky. Turner and Parker are our wild boys, but all of this, everything, is for Zamora.
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