• • •
They borrowed Pilar’s car and America drove, as she showed him her town and the places he’d asked to see. On the road near Mancha’s they sped by three Mexican boys and a Mexican girl, running in the tall dead grass. The niña was smallest of all, with a dirty baseball hat shoved down on her head, but she was running so fast, faster than her hermanos, laughing at them and leaving them behind. He laughed too; pointed her out to America, who watched and smiled. After they passed her, the niña was still running beneath the biggest sky he’d ever seen, trying to race their car.
On their way out to the place where her own hermano was found, they went past the ayudante’s little house, but America didn’t say his name. She didn’t have to. She just pointed it out, tucked past a pecan grove, and kept going. Later, when she finally parked, they leaned against the car, against the wind. He put an arm around her, careful, because she was shivering.
She didn’t know exactly where Rodolfo had been found, couldn’t point it out, but looked out over the fence line as if she could still see him there; then past that, to the scrub and caliche and the mountains in the distance—everything purple and gold and red. A couple of big black birds sat on the wire fence itself, bouncing in the breeze, staring at them with small eyes. Máximo waved his arms at them, made cawing noises to drive them away, but this was their place.
She asked him if he’d ever met Rodolfo, and he wanted to lie and say sí, claro, but told her the truth instead. He hadn’t known him, may have met him once in passing, but couldn’t be sure. Either way, it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know him.
They stood and counted the birds together for a while, letting the sun go down around them. She could have gotten back in the car, where it was warmer, but seemed content enough to let him keep his arm around her, as if for the moment, there was just enough warmth and safety there.
12
CALEB
My mom disappeared without her truck, her phone, or her wallet. Anything that might have been used to find her, trace her, was left behind. Every connection to her life in Murfee was discarded, including me. Some people asked—not many, not enough—how a woman could leave a note and simply vanish from a place as small and rural as Murfee. Did she hitchhike? Did an old friend come get her? Did she make her way to the bus station in Midland and buy a ticket with cash, heading nowhere, to lose herself from all of us?
It’s unthinkable that my mom chose to abandon my father and me. I’ve heard her called a coward or worse. But if that’s what she did—run away—there’s another way to look at it. That it took unbelievable strength and courage—the sort of courage that makes the unthinkable bearable. The only choice.
Dear Mom,
I have started this a hundred times, and I never finish it. There is so much I want to say, but you’ll never hear these words, never read them.
They’re like messages in a thousand bottles that will float forever lost, like you.
There was a time where every single night I dreamed of finally finding you, of catching a glimpse of your face in a huge window, or seeing someone on a street corner I know without a doubt is you. In those dreams, we look right at each other, and for a moment—an eye blink—I think I see you smile, but when I run to catch you, calling your name over and over again, you are already gone—just another faded reflection in glass, another stranger’s face in the crowd.
After a few months my dreams changed.
Then when I see that hazy reflection or the face in the crowd, I don’t quite recognize it. I think it is someone I once knew, but I’m not so sure anymore. I don’t run to catch you. I stand in place, trying to recall who you might have been and why it once mattered so much that I remember you.
Now I don’t dream about you at all.
Please know I haven’t given up.
I just don’t know where to look anymore.
13
ANNE
Sheriff Ross picked her up from the house an hour or so after she’d left school, just like she’d asked. She’d stayed late that last day before Christmas break, getting her final work done, so it was dark by the time he pulled up. Most of the students had long ago headed over to the Hamilton for burgers and were going to a bonfire after that. She told him she thought Caleb was one of them. She had him for the last period of the day, and overheard him talking with Carl Tippen and Dale Holt about it.
The sheriff knew all about the bonfire. It was a high school tradition. The kids had been doing it for years on the last day of school before winter break. A lot of the kids drank there and it was never a problem, but he always kept a deputy nearby, just in case. This year it would have been Chris Cherry, but now it was Miller or Dupree. They’d planned it for Tippen’s place, but he asked them to keep it a little closer to home this time around. He wasn’t sure where, but Duane would tell him.
It was still early, though, and as they drove north out of Murfee, they both saw Caleb’s little Ford Ranger parked with all the other cars in the lot at the Hamilton.
They didn’t go to the same place in Artesia, but another place, much farther away, that she’d picked outside Terlingua. She told him that Lori McKutcheon had told her all about it, and she wanted to try it herself. But it was Caleb who’d given it to her. He’d calculated the mileage, worked out the timing. The sheriff said it really was a good Mexican place, authentic, although the menu wasn’t that extensive, and it was a helluva drive.
Over cold margaritas he told her about all of his media interviews, his time in El Paso, and his visits with Chris. He said Chris had been shot in the left shoulder, the right hand, and most serious, a bullet to the chest, but eventually he’d be all right. He said Chris was as strong as a horse. It would take more than a little lead to bring him down.
“I’m surprised you called, Anne, pleasantly surprised.”
“I am too, I guess. There’s so much going on right now, I know, and it’ll only get busier. But I wanted to apologize for Thanksgiving. I owed you this second invitation.”
“Well, given how it turned out, it was probably for the best. You really must not think much of our little town right now.”
“Do you mean Chris and Duane? That can happen anywhere. As horrible as it is, it seems to happen everywhere.”
The sheriff turned his glass up to the light, content to watch the last of the ice slide to nothing. “True, but it has been rare here. This has been a safe place for a long time because a lot of blood was spilled in Murfee’s early history to make it that way. There was a time when all of this was bandits and Indians and Mexican rustlers. Wearing a badge in these territories was deadly work. Many men sacrificed. Their families did. I don’t want to see it like that again.”
“I’m sure they’ll catch whoever who did this.”
Sheriff Ross ordered her the fresh margarita she’d asked for. “I’m sure we will.”
He was distracted throughout dinner; still charming, witty. And she did her best as well. Talking, laughing, making sure to order more drinks for the both of them. She checked her watch twice when she went to the bathroom, but otherwise ignored it and her phone. That was the hard part, not looking at her phone. But all in all, she thought she did a pretty damn good job. Thespian troupe good.
She even pretended not to notice how when they walked across the parking lot toward his truck, he kept one step behind her, one hand at her elbow, his eyes searching the shadows. Once on the road he glanced at his mirrors and drove back a slightly different way from how they’d come.
He’d had a lot to drink, refusing to turn down the ones she’d ordered, and she could see each one in the red cast to his eyes, the slight sway in his step when they’d walked out to the truck. Driving, he was still observant, careful. Sitting near him in the cab was like holding a hand over a naked blade. He told her how he hoped she might decide to stay in Murfee, said it a second time about halfway back to
town. He made a point of letting her know he would really enjoy seeing her again.
Later they sat in his truck in front of her house while she thanked him, not for the dinners but for everything else he’d done for her—getting her to Murfee, making her feel welcome. She wasn’t a hundred percent sure she could or should stay, but was warming up to the idea. She leaned forward, forced herself to hug him, smelling alcohol, and let him kiss her on the cheek good night. He lingered there, a bloodless gesture, without warmth.
She guessed his eyes were open, staring into the dark, the whole time.
He got out and opened the door for her, his hands brushing her shoulder, her breasts, and it took all she had not to recoil. He waited as she walked toward her door, watching both her and the night. She braced then for him to call out, not believing he wouldn’t. He’d been so careful all night, always on guard. After all, there was no way he could miss it, but she finally shut the door on him still standing silent by his truck. She turned on a light, too afraid to stay in the dark, and stood by the front door, listening for his truck to leave.
He lingered out there forever, waiting for her to come back out and invite him in, before his truck roared to life. He drove away, leaving her shaking and holding herself up against the hallway wall. She wanted to throw up dinner, get in the shower and scrub him and this entire night off. Then she wanted to get in her car and drive as far away as possible and never look back. But she couldn’t do that, not now, and she was thankful that he’d missed it, too. That he never got around to asking her why her little driveway was empty. Where on earth might her car be?
14
CHRIS
Chris was surprised when Caleb came in.
He looked as tired as Chris felt, grayish circles under his eyes, carrying a plastic bag in his hand. Caleb took it all in, the stark white of the room, the humming chrome machines, and the TV turned down low, fixed to a corner between the ceiling and the wall. It was showing an old black-and-white movie, one Chris didn’t recognize and couldn’t imagine that Caleb did, either. They watched it together for a while anyway, before Caleb asked if it was okay if he sat down.
Chris told him of course, no problem, and then asked what had been on his mind the moment Caleb entered the room. Did the sheriff know that he was in El Paso, visiting Chris?
Caleb smiled, his eyes far older than they had any right to be, shook his head, and sat down.
• • •
“I guess it’s late for visitors, they didn’t want me to disturb you. I had to use my father’s name, tell them who I was, and then it was no problem. They may call and check, who knows? Can you believe that? Even now his name is like a goddamn key.” Caleb looked at him, studying him. “You’re going to be okay, right?”
“It’s your name too, Caleb.” But Chris knew Caleb didn’t want to hear that, so he held up his hand. “Probably not throwing any footballs for a while—actually, like forever—but I’ll be fine.”
Caleb eyed him more. “You don’t look fine.”
“That makes two of us.” Chris punched the remote off, sat himself up a little straighter in bed and tried not to wince. “You shouldn’t be here, Caleb, shouldn’t have come. I appreciate it, but there was no need.”
“I know. It’s not just about you, though. I wanted to thank you for believing me, and Amé, too.”
“Well, nothing’s come of it yet. But it will when I get out of here.”
Caleb shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it? Not really. We can be right, all of us, and it won’t mean a damn thing.” The words didn’t sound like him; they sounded borrowed and probably were—Amé Reynosa outside Mancha’s, abandoning her cigarette, letting it fall to the ground. Do you think it matters, really?
Chris hardened. “Rodolfo Reynosa was murdered at Indian Bluffs, just like you said. I can prove that. I can prove who did it, and I have people who will help. People who believe me . . . believe us. Don’t tell me what happened to me won’t matter.”
Caleb shuffled his bag from one hand to the other. “We’ll all be gone by then.”
Chris thought it was a weird thing to say. “Look, there are others who know about this now. What you did took courage, and you should be proud of that. This is far from over.”
Caleb laughed, brittle. “No, that wasn’t courage, it was fear. I’ve been afraid forever. And this was over the minute I got you involved. It was over the minute my mom disappeared and I didn’t do a damn thing about it.”
“Jesus, Caleb, what else do you think you could have done? What are you trying to say?”
“I’ve already said it all.” Caleb raised the bag. “Here.” He put it at the end of the bed, like Garrison before, and stood to leave.
“Did you drive here by yourself? Is America with you?” Chris asked.
“No, I came alone.”
“The sheriff will find out you’re here.” It wasn’t so much a question. “He’ll be looking for you.”
“I don’t think so. I had a little help. Right now, I’m at Tippen’s bonfire. Goodbye, Deputy Cherry. Get better and get the hell out of Murfee.”
“Wait.” Chris struggled, trying to sit up, stand. “What sort of help?”
Caleb stood at the door for a second. “Someone was nice enough to let me borrow her car.”
• • •
Chris sat for a while, staring at the space where Caleb had been and also at the pile of books on his bedside table that Mel had left him. Trying to avoid the bag Caleb had left behind. She’d dug through the boxes he’d put away, and brought ten or fifteen of his old books, a random collection, anything she could grab, figuring he would want them while trapped in the hospital. Even Something Wicked This Way Comes. She said she didn’t know if these were ones he liked, didn’t know anything about them, but brought them for him anyway. He told her he loved them all.
He struggled to reach down and pick up the bag Caleb had left. He could have called the nurse to do it, but didn’t. Whatever was in the bag was for him alone. It felt like a book, too. And it was—a small, thick notebook, like a real diary, loosely wrapped in even more plastic, smeared with what appeared to be dirt, as if it had been buried. Chris’s hands were dusty by the time he got it exposed. He turned it over, looking for something to identify it, a name or title, but there was nothing.
When he opened it, his fingers passing over the stiff pages, money fell out.
Dozens of hundred-dollar bills, trapped between the pages, now free, fluttering over the white sheets around him. He went to the first page, nervous. A very real part of him wanted to wrap the book up again and have Mel take it, burn it, rebury it. Part of him wanted to do anything but read it.
His heart hurt at the neat writing, the words.
“My father has killed three men . . .”
15
MELISSA
She woke to the sound of a phone ringing, couldn’t figure out if it was the hotel phone or her cell, fumbling for both. The shades were drawn but it was still dark outside, twice as dark, and she had no idea exactly what hour it was. By the time she got her cell in hand the ringing had stopped—missed call—but she recognized it. It was the hospital. She sat in bed and held on to the phone, used it to keep her hand from shaking. She didn’t want to call back, didn’t want to have to face what that call might mean. Chris had been pale, weak, but he had been okay. He’d been cold, then hot. He had told her he was going to be okay. Fuck him all to hell if he’d lied. God help Murfee if he was dead.
She was halfway to tears when her phone rang again, and she counted to five before she answered. She held it as far away as she could; she’d still hear the voice, barely, but it wouldn’t be so close. Still not far enough away that the words, however bad they might be, wouldn’t touch her. It was Chris, calling out her name, so she had to bite her free hand to keep from crying, relieved.
She listened
, trying to sort out what he was saying. He wanted out of the hospital. The doctors would fight him, even he knew he wasn’t well enough to be up and around, but he didn’t think they could actually stop him if he demanded it. Plus she would be there with him, supporting him, helping him. He added something strange too, almost as much for himself as for her—that they needed to be gone and on the road before anyone in Murfee figured out he’d left.
She wanted to know what the hell he thought he was doing, what was going on. Where did he need to be other than a hospital? Which, as near as she could figure, was the only place on earth a man who’d been shot three times should be. He said he knew, understood. But she needed to hear him out. Really hear him and trust him. He’d explain it in the car. It was about Caleb Ross, who wasn’t returning his calls now, and the sheriff.
The morning was too late, and none of it would matter anyway if they didn’t get on the road. They were going home.
16
DUANE
He was at the bonfire, the flames rising and falling. Faces leered out of them; a few he recognized, but most he didn’t. One even looked like his own, staring back, mute, without a goddamn thing to say.
• • •
She texted him, wanted to meet out at the Comanche. Said she had what he needed . . . what he’d been wanting all along. Then she sent him a picture. Naked skin, the curve of a shoulder, hair a beautiful mess, dark eyes beckoning—staring right through him. She’d never answered his messages before, never even acknowledged him at all, and here she was, sending him a picture that made his hands shake—not that they didn’t do that on their own now.
She had what he needed. What he wanted. She couldn’t even imagine what that was anymore.
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