This Side of Night

by J. Todd Scott

“No, it’s fine, Bethel. It really is. I’m not here about politics anyway. I’m here for Mr. Moody, for business. While being the sheriff is still my job.”

  Royal looked up from his coffee. “We’ll catch up later, Bethel. I guess the sheriff and I have some stuff to attend to.” Bethel stood awkwardly for a few more seconds, then turned his hat in his hands a few times and headed for the door.

  Royal pointed his mug at the seat Bethel had vacated. “I assume you want to sit down? You know you could have called, made an appointment.”

  “I tried. You weren’t answering. This won’t take long, Royal, I promise.” Chris slid into the booth opposite from the district attorney.

  “You want some coffee?” Royal asked. “I’m buying.”

  * * *

  —

  CHRIS OPENED A COPY of The Murfee Daily he’d brought with him and handed it over to Royal, who took it without comment. He pulled bifocals out of his breast pocket and scanned the articles. He took his time, as if he hadn’t already read the paper that morning. Chris knew he had copies shipped to both of his offices and probably his home, too.

  “I take it you don’t like the editorial?” he said, putting the paper aside. “If that’s what you’re here asking about, I had nothing to do with that.” He took a slow sip of coffee before adding, “Although I can’t say I honestly disagree with much of it.”

  “No, Royal, not the goddamn editorial. I don’t care about that. It’s the story across from it, about Eddy Rabbit and the bodies down on the river. The one continued from the front page, above the fold. I’d asked the paper to hold that story for another day or so.”

  “I don’t work at the paper, Sheriff.”

  “Yes, but the facts they printed are very specific. Some of them sound like they came right out of Deputy Ford’s complaint. They also mention the DPS forensics team, which was definitely not part of that complaint.”

  “Come now, Chris, no matter how large the Big Bend is, Murfee is still one-hundred-percent small town. Danny’s complaint was sealed. The rest of that stuff probably came from your own deputies. Trust me, they all talk. How long did you think you were going to keep those five deaths a secret? And really, to what end?”

  “Because I’ve got two of my people talking to Eddy Rabbit this morning. It’s an active investigation, Royal.”

  Royal finished off his coffee and waved the waitress over for more, and as they waited for her to refill his mug, they sat in silence. One side of the Whistle Stop was floor-to-ceiling windows, looking east to the Amtrak line that ran down from El Paso and cut through the heart of the town. Morning sunlight washed through those windows, a heavy glow turning the inside of the café warm. Too warm for the old ceiling fans barely turning above them. After Royal watched the young Hispanic waitress walk away, he started again. “Pardon me if I don’t put much stake in one of your investigations. Last time, we ended up with Murfee on fire and two dead deputies, not to mention that bloodbath down in Killing. As a bonus, I got to have some serious conversations with one very pissed-off FBI agent about some warrants I gave you.”

  He was talking about the Earls again . . . and to a lesser extent, Ross, too. It all came back to that—always—and the fact that Chris was not, and never would be, Stanford Ross. Ross and Royal Moody had been good friends for a long time, but Chris often wondered just how much Moody knew about his friend. How much did anyone in Murfee ever truly know, or really want to know, about their former sheriff and all his secrets?

  “Completely different, Royal, and you know that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Nothing’s going to come of this. You’re never going to pin those murders on Rabbit.”

  “I’m not trying to ‘pin’ them on him. I only want to know what he knows.” Danny had called Chris first thing this morning to tell him he and Amé were on their way to meet with Eddy and his attorney, Paez. Danny had said something about some new information they’d come across, but didn’t spell it out. It’d probably prove to be nothing, but Danny had wanted to press Eddy about it anyway. “What I hear you saying is you’re not going to charge Eddy no matter what we learn. You don’t give a damn about those five dead men. Bethel was right. This is politics. It’s better if this case stays open. Another messy unsolved investigation, another obvious example of my incompetence.”

  “That’s a serious accusation, Sheriff. One I don’t appreciate. And those dead unfortunates represent just as much a political asset as a liability, if you can find their murderer . . . fast. Eddy’s as good as anyone, right? Maybe you’re the one who’s been doing the leaking? Didn’t this morning’s editorial refer to your ‘haphazard notions of law enforcement and public accountability’?”

  “You didn’t have a hand in writing that?”

  Royal blew over his hot coffee, but didn’t answer.

  “Here’s the thing, Royal. We’ve worked together in the past, and you’ve always done what was needed for my office. I thought you believed in the law, above all else. Now it’s all backward. I get that you never liked me much personally, but when did that become so professional?”

  Royal set his mug down carefully. “Because I’m not sure you’re good at your job, Sheriff. Maybe the job is too big for you, and you know what? That’s okay. A man should be able to admit that, it’s no failing. Since Ross died, there’s been nothing but chaos in the Big Bend, and that’s all been on you. Not every man can be Sheriff Ross.”

  Chris laughed and shook his head. “Thank God for that. What do you think it cost to buy all that peace and quiet?” Having Sheriff Ross’s “peace” thrown in his face made Chris flash back to his talk with Garrison about Sheriff Machado over in Terrell County. What was the price of Chuy and Johnnie Machado’s success? And were they being paid with the same bloody money?

  Royal tapped his fingers on the table, making sure Chris got his point: one, two, three. “I knew the man. I know what he did for Murfee and the Big Bend. Everything he sacrificed.”

  “Sacrificed? You know only what he showed you. Don’t think because two thousand people stood there at his funeral that he was a decent man, that he was loved and respected. Some of those people were there to make sure he was actually going in the ground.”

  “Like your deputy, Ms. Reynosa? Or that new boy, Marco Lucero?”

  “Right. ‘It’s OUR Big Bend.’ Isn’t that the slogan? There are more Hispanics in this county than folks like you and me, Royal. You can’t ignore them, and I believe most people don’t want to. They’re part of this community. That’s not changing.”

  “Well, you better hope they vote. Each and every one of them. You should probably save all those arguments for the debate next week.”

  Chris took a long, slow breath. His fingers were white where he was gripping the chipped wood of the table. Garrison aside, he’d never discussed with anyone other than America and Mel all he knew about Ross, and that was only because they’d lived through it with him; Amé more than anyone else. Ben had carried his own suspicions about Chris’s tortured relationship with his former boss, and understood how that experience continually shaped Chris’s approach to the job, to his understanding of his duty and responsibilities that came with the badge he wore. But Chris had never breathed a bad word about Sheriff Ross to anyone else. There had never been a worthwhile reason to, no profit in it. His silence was less for his benefit than for Caleb’s—the sheriff’s son—or for all those who’d worked with the sheriff but had never been tainted by him. Now, sitting with Royal in this too-hot booth, Chris couldn’t hold his tongue.

  “You may think he was good for Murfee, for the Big Bend, but he wasn’t fit to wear this goddamn badge.”

  Royal looked Chris straight in the eye, unblinking behind his bifocals. Gold rims burned with sunlight. “And neither are you. That’s the heart of it, Sheriff Cherry. That’s all this is about.”

  Chris was angry with himself and done sparri
ng with Royal. “Okay, D.A. Moody, as long as we understand each other. As long as we’re absolutely clear. But until the voters of this county turn me out, I have work to do. My job. I expect you to do yours.” Chris stood, got ready to leave. “Besides, we both know it’s too late to save my job anyway, right? One success isn’t going to change that.”

  Royal looked him up and down, measuring him, running a hand through his thinning hair. He’d been a pretty good baseball player once, or so Chris had been told. It was hard to see that now. “Are you even trying that hard? To win this thing?

  “What do you think?”

  Royal watched him for a few seconds more, then looked down at the Daily on the table in front of him, still open to the story about the bodies in Delcia Canyon. He stared at that longer, reading it again. “If you can make a credible case that Eddy Rabbit was involved with those deaths, I’ll charge him.”

  “I appreciate that, Royal, I do. I’ll do what I can. Hell, I’ll do my best,” Chris said, fishing for a twenty out of his pocket. He folded it and laid it across the open paper, across his own name in the editorial. “You can keep that. I’m done reading it. And breakfast is on me. For both you and Bethel.”

  FIFTEEN

  Eddy Rabbit hadn’t taken all day at all.

  Once he’d started talking, he’d hardly taken any time at all. And since Sheriff Cherry wasn’t back from Nathan yet to be briefed, that gave America the chance to head out to Chapel Mesa, where she and Ben used to spend hours together practicing her shooting. The scooped-out hollow they used for their makeshift range was already warm, holding on to the late-morning sun, and what little breeze there was barely moved the paper targets she’d set up in front of the berm. Fall was just around the corner, but you wouldn’t know it by the way the quartz shined bright and hot along the mesa’s flanks. Summer wasn’t ready to let go.

  It had been cooler a couple of mornings ago down in the shadows of Delcia Canyon, at least until they had found the bodies by the water.

  America sighted down the Colt, wanting to keep her pattern tight, the way Ben had taught her. Ben had put new Wilson Combat grips on the weapon and had adjusted the trigger pull. He’d retooled the barrel and replaced the original sights with Trijicon Bright & Tough Night Sights. He’d made the weapon perfect for her, but in doing so, he’d made it his as well. She couldn’t look at it, couldn’t hold it, without thinking about him. She missed him more than she wanted to admit, more than she wanted anyone to know.

  She lowered her gun, distracted for a moment by the spent brass sparkling on the ground. She and Ben had always policed up their brass after an afternoon of shooting, but always missed some. Even the kids who came out here at night to pick them up for scrap failed to find them all, and she always came across a few later—just like this—shining in the dirt. How many of those rounds had been Ben’s? How many had he held and loaded?

  ¿Para ella?

  She resighted on the target, the dark middle circle, roughly where the heart would be. Breathing slow, relaxing, feeling sweat bead across her forehead. Feeling the gun go heavy in her hand and somehow willing it to be light again. Making it a part of her, not gripping it too tight. Don’t hold it so goddamn tight: that’s what Ben had always told her.

  The gun moved, alive, but she held it steady.

  At this distance she could barely see the shot grouping, but had a sense there was a ragged hole in the target’s heart.

  The real reason she was out here didn’t have much to do with target practice or with Ben Harper. It had to do with not going home yet, not restarting the argument with Danny they’d had all last night and then again this morning before they met with Santino Paez and Eddy Rabbit.

  It had to do with the unanswered calls she’d made to her mama in Camargo.

  It had to do with the old man and the young girl still there waiting for her, waiting to see what she’d do next.

  She couldn’t help wondering what the hell Ben would say to her about that now.

  * * *

  —

  SHE WAS PICKING UP THE LAST of her brass when Danny walked up. He stood about ten feet away, watching her, with his Bullhide hat pulled low. He’d started wearing the vaquero hat like the other deputies, like Sheriff Ross, but still didn’t seem comfortable in it. He was always taking it on and off, leaving it in his truck or on his desk. She’d find it all over her apartment, tossed aside. He held it as much as he wore it, but she appreciated as well as anyone that desire to fit in, to disappear in some ways and not call attention to yourself. That had been her once, a long time ago, but that girl had left Murfee and never returned. Danny’s hat reminded her of the dark one her brother had sometimes worn when he was crossing over the river for a night at the bars in Ojinaga. He’d worn it low over his eyes to make him look older, tougher. Danny’s shaded his face the same way now, so she couldn’t see the angry expression that she knew was there.

  “I figured you’d come out here, the way you blasted out after our talk with Eddy. I think you hurt Santino’s feelings. He doesn’t like dealing with me.”

  “He’ll survive. Is Sheriff Cherry back yet from Nathan?”

  “No, but he’s on his way. He radioed in and wants to meet with us. He wants to follow up from that call I had with him this morning.” Danny pulled off the hat for a moment, turned it around once and looked at it, before putting it back on his head. “You drove out here for nothing, Amé. Now you gotta turn around and go right back.”

  “And so do you,” she said, walking over to put the brass bucket in the back of her truck. He trailed three steps behind her. “And it wasn’t for nothing. I didn’t ask you to follow me here. There was a reason for that.”

  If that stung him, he didn’t show it. “Hell, if I waited for you to ask me to do much of anything, I’d still be sitting in that hospital alone.” He walked up next to her and took the bucket out of her hand and set it on the ground between them. “I know you don’t want to talk about this, but we’re going to. We’re going to talk about that man still sitting in your kitchen right now, not to mention that little girl.”

  “We already talked about it,” she said. They both knew it was that man’s sudden appearance that had kept them up all night, and prompted them to push on Eddy Rabbit so hard so early this morning. Neither of them had slept anyway.

  “No, I talked, and you didn’t say much of anything.” Danny looked like he was going to put a hand on her arm, but stopped short. “Do you believe him? Those things he said last night?”

  She took a step back. “You asked me that last night, again and again and again. My answer is no different. I do, and I don’t know what choice I have.”

  “All because he talked about a gun?”

  “No, because he talked about the gun, la pistola. The only one like it. No one else knows about it.”

  “Not even the sheriff?”

  “No. No él.”

  “And your brother used to own this fancy silver gun?” Danny was shaking his head, still confused.

  “No, not exactly the same. It’s different.” She couldn’t explain how she’d last seen her brother’s gun in a hotel room outside Houston. It had been silver and pearl, etched with images of the Virgen de Guadalupe and Pancho Villa and Jesús Malverde; stamped also with several grinning calaveras. She’d left it with Máximo, when she foolishly thought it would be easy to walk away from her life in the Big Bend.

  When she thought she would never see one like it again.

  “This one is mine. It was sent to me. By him.”

  Danny searched her eyes, and she didn’t look away. She wanted him to see whatever was there. “All this time you’ve never mentioned it, never showed it to me? Not once?”

  He wasn’t hurt by her words a moment ago, but he was by this. He wanted to be hurt, but she wouldn’t apologize. Sí, they’d spent the past year together, but the history tied to that pist
ola went beyond them. It went back much further than that, into a darkness that Danny couldn’t see and that she didn’t know how to show him. It was a hole as dark as the one her brother had been buried in.

  Her gun wasn’t the same as Rodolfo’s; some of the same calaveras, but no Jésus Malverde or Virgen de Guadalupe. Instead, there was only one figure, clearly a woman, but skeletal and horrible. She was wrapped in a massive cloak, with her own tiny smiling skull, her hands holding a scythe and a globe.

  Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte.

  It was a skinless skull with no face, but America always believed it had been carved to look just like her.

  “So what does it mean?” he asked. “This damn gun. Is it a message, a threat?”

  “It means we know who we are, and the things we’ve done. All the things we’re willing to do.”

  Danny stepped toward her again. “That’s bullshit. This son of a bitch needs to know what I’m willing to do if he’s here to hurt you.”

  “Usted no entiende. He’s not here to hurt me, not now. I don’t know what he wants, but you must trust me. You have no idea who he is, the things he’s done.”

  “And you do?” Danny’s breath was on her face, feathering her hair. They were close enough she could imagine his heart beating against hers, then remembered the bullet holes she’d put into that paper target’s heart only moments before. He asked again: “What do you really know?”

  But what could he really know about her? What could anyone truly know about someone else?

  She let him stand close for few heartbeats longer anyway, wanting that, before backing away again. He let her go, bending down and picking up her heavy brass bucket and putting it in the back of her truck, as she opened her door to drive back to Murfee.

  “Sé que somos una familia,” she told him, answering his question. “That man and I are family.”

  SIXTEEN