The Far Empty

by J. Todd Scott

  “Hey,” he said, sitting on the same stool Duane Dupree had occupied a week before.

  “Hey, yourself. What brings you in here?”

  “Was out by the school . . . a false alarm. Thought I would drop in and see how it’s going.”

  “Paradise, absolute paradise.” It came out harder, had an edge she didn’t really mean. She didn’t want to fight with him, not here. “You want something?”

  “Coffee if it’s made up. It’s damn cold, and not even Thanksgiving.”

  She searched for a mug—always a pot brewing behind the bar to help the regulars sober up. Some came in just for the coffee and talk. She put the mug in front of him. He got lost in it, staring into the rising steam. She left him there and checked on the real drinkers.

  He sat for a while, talking to her whenever she had a free moment. Small stuff, nothing important. She had a mug of her own tucked beneath the counter, but with him right there, she let it be. If he had something particular on his mind, he didn’t share it; just sipped his cup of coffee, and then another. He told stories about his parents, his time in high school and other things; thoughts, disconnected, all random. He asked her about her work before drifting sideways into silence. His handheld radio rested on the scarred wood next to his cellphone, in case Miss Maisie called him out, but it stayed quiet. He never once looked at the cell or checked it. If his eyes weren’t in his coffee, they were on her. She had no idea what he was seeing.

  If he’d ever just opened the door a bit, said, “Hey, it’s funny but I think I stopped those two agents,” she would have said, “I know,” finally admitting to searching his things and willing to suffer whatever anger or disappointment came with it; how she’d watched the video and told Dupree about it. But he never did. He finally got up to leave, fumbling in his pockets for a few bills, even though Earlys always gave out coffee for free. She could tell he was going to wave goodbye, slip out the door, but she came over, pushed the money back across to him.

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble,” he said.

  She laughed. “It’s a bar, Chris, there’s nothing but trouble in here.”

  He smiled, joining her for a moment. “I’ll be home when you get there. Call me, let me know when you’re closed up.”

  “Okay, I will,” she said. He’d never asked her to do that before. It was strange.

  He shuffled from one foot to another. “There’s another thing. I talked to the sheriff tonight. He wants me to head out with him day after tomorrow, take me elk hunting on the land he owns up toward Sierra Escalera. I’ll be gone a day or two.”

  She turned his empty mug in her hands. It was still warm from where he’d held it tight. “Chris, you’ve never been hunting.” It was half a question.

  “Once or twice when I was kid. Mule deer, that sort of thing.”

  She wondered if he’d ever told her that. “Do you want to go?’

  “He’s my boss, Mel, the sheriff. The almighty Judge. Can’t say no.”

  “Elk are like big deer, aren’t they?”

  Chris cracked a smile. “Yeah, very, very big deer. Big enough that I might even hit one if I see it. Guess we’re having elk for Thanksgiving, babe. That’s what the sheriff wants, to bag one for Thanksgiving.”

  She didn’t like his look, the whole tone. She surprised herself, maybe him too—reached out, put a hand on his arm, holding him back. It was the first time she could remember touching him in weeks. It had been good having him here tonight.

  “Hey, you okay?” she asked as he turned for the door. What she almost said, what she wanted to say so badly and what was on the tip of her tongue: Are we okay? Are we ever going to be okay again?

  Chris smiled right at her, right into her. “Right as rain, babe.”

  “It doesn’t rain much here, Chris. It’s a fucking desert.”

  He smiled again. “Yeah, I know.”

  16

  ANNE

  Her phone rang late. She was afraid it was Sheriff Ross, but was relieved when she saw the number, more than relieved. Happy.

  Chris Cherry said, “Hi, hope it’s not too late,” and she told him it wasn’t. He asked if she liked the book, and she said she did, might even try and slip it into the curriculum before the end of year. Kids nowadays might think it was quaint, but she was enjoying it. He hemmed around. She could tell he was in his car, window partly down—caught the sound of night air, moving. She guessed he was closing down the shift for the night, heading home. He mentioned going hunting with the sheriff and that got her attention.

  I may head up to a piece of land I have and see about grabbing an elk. Have you ever had it? Then Chris was asking about the sheriff’s son, Caleb—how he was doing in class, that sort of thing. She couldn’t figure out where this call was going.

  “He’s fine, a bright kid. It’s been a tough year.”

  “What about a girl, Amé Reynosa? She’s a friend of Caleb’s, right?”

  “America? Sure, I’ve seen them together . . . I guess that means they’re friends.”

  Chris was silent on the other end. Then, “Amé lost her brother, too. Supposedly ran off, like Evelyn Ross. He worked for the Border Patrol and got into trouble.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “It is. I guess it makes sense for the two of them to hang out together . . . kind of going through the same thing.”

  That’s what Phil Tanner had suggested about her and the sheriff. “Yes, I can see that,” she agreed, waiting for him to say more. When he didn’t, she took a risk, pushed a little bit. “I get the feeling this is an official call, not so much a social one.”

  Chris laughed. “Am I that transparent? I’m sorry, Anne. I did call to talk to you, really. I just had a couple of questions about Caleb, too. Nothing official, he’s not in any trouble.” He paused for far too long. “Actually, it’s the damnedest thing. He’s been trying to talk with you, meet with you. As crazy as it sounds, he wanted to get the three of us together. It’s no big deal, and I don’t want you to be alarmed. I’ve spoken to him about it, so I’d appreciate if you didn’t say anything to anyone, most of all Sheriff Ross.”

  She almost asked Why would you think I’d say anything to the sheriff? Understood then that Chris must know about the dinner in Artesia by now. Hell, all of Murfee probably knew about it. The whole town holding its collective breath, watching and waiting to see what might happen next.

  “Caleb wanted to meet with me, us?” She waited, but Chris didn’t fill in the blank for her. Talking to him was like reading a book; she had to turn the page herself to find out what happened next. “Well, okay, of course, I won’t say anything, but if this is about the dinner I had with Sheriff Ross, well . . .” She stumbled. “I’ll be honest, I was avoiding Caleb, but it’s a lot more complicated than—”

  “Anne, please, you don’t have to explain yourself to me, or anyone. I know what Murfee is like.”

  “But I want to. I want you to understand.”

  Heartbeats passed. Saying it out loud . . . I want you . . . even if that hadn’t exactly been what she’d meant, still felt like walking them both out on a very high ledge.

  Finally, he said, “Okay, we can catch up after I get back from this trip. As long as you know you don’t owe me anything. I’m just a guy you met at the carnival, a lightning-rod salesman, like the book. But if you have free time, we could get together.”

  “Sure, I’d like that, very much.”

  She thought, hoped, he might say, Me too, I’d like that as well. He didn’t.

  • • •

  It was part memory, part dream, part something else altogether. First, it was her sitting in her car with Lucas Neill, the car too goddamn hot and Lucas going on and on and his hands shaking and then those hands grabbing hers, too warm to the touch, her pulling away realizing this has gone too far. That was the memory.

 
Then it was Marc in her arms . . . and both of them covered in blood but this time he doesn’t die right away, most of his heart blown out against the wall and all over her, even in her mouth so that she has to wash it out before the police come and never mention to anyone, but he has the time to look at her and whisper, although no sound comes out, I love you—not oh my god oh my god oh my god, which were his real last words—still reaching for the gun not at his belt but left behind on the nightstand, before he was shot again, and again. That was the dream.

  Then looking up and realizing it’s not Lucas with the gun in his hand, but Caleb Ross . . . in his hooded sweatshirt, not smiling or laughing or making any face or sound at all. Caleb Ross, who for the first time looks exactly like his father. He’s a wanderer in her nightmare, an intruder—a bunch of folded shadows in the shape of a boy, standing where Lucas Neill should be. Where Lucas Neill really had stood over a year ago, so that when she finally woke up—gasping, crying, heart hammering through her chest and hands balled in the sheets—that was the part that was something else altogether.

  17

  AMERICA

  He drove her out to the Comanche. Everything smelled like vaca, although the big building and the pens were empty. You couldn’t live in Murfee and not go out to the Comanche at least once. Inside there was a ring with a stage surrounded by raised bleachers, almost like sitting in a circus or a movie theater. The ring had fake grass, too bright, too green, where they walked the bulls and the calves; men bidding on the flesh, while other men sat behind a desk talking into big silver microphones, writing notes down on colored paper and typing on laptops. There was a method to it, but she never understood it any more than las vacas themselves, starring dumbly through the slats of the ring, pissing or shitting on the fake green grass. Tonight the Comanche was locked up tight, the main building silent, gravel lot stretching on endlessly. The cold mud of the pens, still scarred deep by the hooves of las vacas long since gone, was ugly gray—cigarette ashes—in the big overhead lights.

  He parked between the lights, settled them down in his own private patch of darkness, and unzipped his pants. Leaned back, waiting for her to begin. And there was a moment when she thought he’d actually fallen asleep with his eyes open, he was so still. He looked bad, malo, his face a calavera. The Comanche smelled like shit, but he smelled worse, much worse. Smelled like he was dying.

  You could roll sand off his eyes, they wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t move in his skull, but he wasn’t sleeping or dead. He tried to get himself hard using his hand, but it wouldn’t work. Nothing was working. He kept muttering goddamn under his breath, frustrated. He said other words, names. She heard El Juez. His eyes glowed in the big mercury security lights.

  “Do it . . . do it anyway.”

  She leaned back against the door, waited, daring him. If she waited long enough, he might die right in front of her.

  • • •

  Minutes later: “Goddammit, girl, I ain’t playin’, do what I said.” He struggled, got his gun out and pointed it at her across the truck. It trembled in his hand.

  She wondered then if he might really shoot her, right here in his truck, and how he’d explain it; or worse, if he would ever have to explain it at all. As she stared at the gun, her phone buzzed deep in her purse. They both heard it, breaking the moment, and although her purse was on the floorboard, he could grab it if he wanted to. She got to it first.

  He barked at her, “Fuck, who’s that? Who izzat?”

  She knew who it was, didn’t need to look down at the phone, but didn’t want Dupree in her purse, where other secrets hid. Caleb. He’d texted a couple of times already, wanted to talk to her. He’d met with Cherry.

  “No es nadie,” she said, but the phone was better than him finding the other thing.

  “Fuck that, let me see.” He said it all in one word, slurring, fuckthatlemmesee, and the gun still hung between them. She flipped the screen around, the phone still vibrating, caller ID visible. It flashed only two letters, CR, but he either guessed right or recognized the number.

  “Darlin’, darlin’ . . . playin’ around with the young Ross is playin’ with fire. You give him a taste too, the way you’re gonna give me?”

  She wasn’t going to give Dupree anything, ever. He’d have to take it. Take it all, everything, or kill her trying.

  “You think the Judge’s ever gonna let the two of you be?” Dupree’s eyes were shot through with blood, lightning. “It don’t matter. ’Bout the only thing he likes less than a Mex like you is that son of his. You know that? He lets you two alone ’cause it amuses him, gives that pissant boy something to do . . . something the Judge can take away from him when it suits him.” Dupree drifted, the gun drifting with him, away from her face, toward the floorboard.

  Her phone stopped, went still, but still she held the purse tight. It was heavy, hiding Rodolfo’s gun—silver plate and pearl. What sound would it make going off in the truck? Would it blind her? Deafen her? She’d started carrying it for just this moment—alone with Dupree. But now there were all of Caleb’s texts from earlier, saved in her phone. Excited, relieved: going 2 b ok now . . . promise . . . over and over again. Chris Cherry had promised to help them . . . help her, just like Caleb had said he would. Luv u . . . won’t let anything happen 2 u . . .

  Caleb believed he’d risked everything for both of them; needed to believe he could save her, even when she wasn’t sure he could save himself. Dupree reminding her that the only thing he likes less than a Mex like you is his own son . . . something the Judge can take away from him when it suits him.

  She had her hand on Rodolfo’s gun when Dupree came back around, focused on her again. “I can’t get it hard, darlin’, not tonight. Guess you’re gonna be okay for ’nother day.” He shoved the gun in his unzipped pants, not bothering with the holster. “So goddamn tired. You ever get like that, darlin’?” Almost a real question. “Can’t even remember when I last slept, closed my eyes. Maybe I only dreamed about sleeping.”

  Dupree reached toward her, but stopped short of touching her face. “You were there in my dreams.” He coughed, spit blood into his open hand. “Is this a dream now, darlin’? Did I never wake up?” Then he forgot about her, fumbled around with the keys to start the truck, talked with someone who wasn’t there—someone only he could see or hear in the backseat.

  Going 2 b ok now . . . promise . . . She put her purse back down in the floorboard and let Dupree drive.

  18

  DUANE

  So he didn’t get hard, she never did get him off. But he had gotten angry. Smacked her once or twice if he remembered right, left her three miles from Mancha’s in the dark so she could walk her sorry ass home. Unless he had that all wrong; instead threw her out in the mud all the way back at the Comanche. Left her there facedown. But before that, had she talked to him about his dreams . . . her dreams of him? He just couldn’t goddamn remember. His head was so full of ashes and embers.

  He wasn’t sure how he was getting his foco anymore, either, since there was almost none to begin with. He’d already picked through the threadbare carpet of this floor, nearly pulling over the stove to look behind it. Used a steak knife, too, on his own mattress, which he didn’t need for sleeping, searching for any that might have slipped inside. It had been so long since he’d met the beaners at the Far Six that their little packages were long gone; memories, if he still had those.

  It was possible he was changing into street clothes, taking his daddy’s old truck and driving to Fort Stockton, buying it there. Or breaking his own rules and getting it from Eddie Corazon. But he was finding some from somewhere—never enough, never ever enough—always a little pinch to smoke up fast in one of his old lightbulbs. He’d taken all the bulbs from his kitchen, where he didn’t eat anymore anyway.

  It should bother him more that he couldn’t pin down when and where he was getting it, but maybe it was just t
he ghosts, after all—because there were more now, always waiting for him, hanging out with his daddy on the porch. So many he couldn’t name them all, even if he could remember them. A goddamn reunion.

  The Judge told him he was taking Chris Cherry up to his hunting property, El Dorado. There was a lot of nothing out there. Just badlands, bad things: a place where Cherry could very easily fall into trouble, like falling down a well. But that had never been the Judge’s style, not really. That’s what he’d always had Duane Dupree for.

  Still, the Judge swore he was going to handle Cherry. Handle it all. He’d been talking to some new friends and promised Duane there might be a little work coming their way again. It wasn’t a sure thing, not yet, but he just needed Dupree to sit tight, hold it together, and for fuck’s sake, not fall apart.

  The Judge had no idea how hard that could be, when you couldn’t even find all your pieces anymore.

  19

  CHRIS

  In the car on the long drive, started just after dawn, they talked elk. All about bulls and solos and harems, about how big they could get—well over seven hundred pounds—and how late September and early October was the real rutting time, although a late-season hunt could be just as successful. Chris also messed around with the cow call; checked out the rifle that the sheriff had lent him (along with all the other hunting gear)—a Weatherby Vanguard Back Country. It was a beautiful weapon, and even with the heavy scope, barely weighed in at seven pounds. Still, it didn’t hold a candle to the sheriff’s Sauer 303, built to take boar in Europe. Both rifles were more than Chris felt comfortable with. Both were made for a better hunter than he. The sheriff told him not to worry, Chris wouldn’t be taking the shot anyway.