Grant sensed a change in the atmosphere—a shift away from the distant past towards more recent history. There were sounds of a commotion outside. Cruz ignored the distraction and stood. He crossed the room and put the stethoscope case on his desk.
“Nobody is beyond Macready either.” He looked out of the front window. “And sooner or later we all get to ride in the hearse.”
He turned his gaze on Grant. “That’s why Macready is afraid of you.”
The commotion was getting louder. Grant stared back at Doc Cruz. “I’m here to see you. I’m no threat to Macready.”
Heavy footsteps came along the covered walkway. Cruz couldn’t help but glance towards the door. When he looked back at Grant, his shoulders slumped. An air of resignation descended over him.
“That’s not what he thinks.”
The door burst open, and a big man filled the gap. Dirty jeans and a sleeveless shirt. The cowboy hat was stained with sweat around the brim. He took one step into the room and slammed the door behind him. One hand balled into a sledgehammer fist. His voice was hard as nails.
“Me and you gonna have words.”
This wasn’t something Grant wanted to do. He’d come to Absolution with every intention of keeping out of trouble. He’d accepted Macready’s taunts without response. He’d taken a chill pill and not let any of the needling from Macready’s men annoy him. This was a mission of mercy in memory of a fallen colleague and lover. It didn’t look as if Macready was going to let that rest.
Grant prepared to get up from his chair.
The big man ignored him and crossed the room towards Doc Cruz. “What you doin’ touchin’ my wife?”
Grant looked through the window. The injured woman was sitting on the steps hugging her son. The boy was crying. So was the woman. Doc Cruz didn’t retreat from the advancing husband.
“Treating, not touching. For the burns that you inflicted.”
The man stood tall, puffing his chest out. “Ain’t inflicted nothin’.”
Doc Cruz counted the negatives but kept a smile in his voice. “That’s a double negative, amigo. Means you just said you did cause something.”
The big man looked confused. Grant prepared to get up if needed, but Cruz seemed to have this under control. The cowboy hat was pulled low over the man’s eyes, and he leaned into his words. “Woman burned herself. She’s clumsy is all.”
Cruz held his hands out and shrugged his shoulders. “And she grabbed her own arms, causing bruising with her fingers.”
Cruz looked at Grant but spoke to the big man. “Bruising I am familiar with.”
The big man hunched his shoulders. He’d had enough of the word games. “Familiar with my wife.”
Both fists squeezed tight. Grant stood up but didn’t advance. He took in the man’s sleeveless shirt and dark skin, his Mexican heritage. It appeared that not all wife beaters were Texan. This fella was just a dirtier version of Scott Macready, laying hands on his woman simply because he could. Grant kept his voice friendly. Arms relaxed, flexed and ready for action.
“I always thought Mexicans were short fellas.”
The big man turned towards Grant. “What?”
Grant gauged angles and distance. “Or maybe they always looked small next to John Wayne.”
He moved in front of the window so the sun turned him into a silhouette. “Small, greasy ratfucks. Mexicans. In The Alamo.”
The husband took one step forward and squinted into the sun. Grant stepped sideways, letting the full glare blast into the Mexican’s eyes. “But you’re a big ratfuck Mexican, aren’t you?”
The words stung the big man into action before he had time to think. Thinking wasn’t his strong suit. He lunged forward and swung a roundhouse blow towards the silhouette in front of him. Grant stepped under the swing and flashed a jab upwards into the man’s throat. One blow. Full force. And it was all over.
The man doubled forward, clutching his throat. His face went from red to purple as he struggled for breath. Panic filled his eyes. He became a drowning man in the desert. His eyes watered. His mouth opened and shut like a goldfish. Grant guided him towards the chair and sat him down. He made an it’s-all-yours gesture towards Doc Cruz. If a man was going to get injured, then a medical center was the best place to be.
The doctor began treating his new patient. Soft hands. Soothing words. It was no wonder his daughter had been such a good army medic. Grant thought about that while Doc Cruz got the Mexican’s airway working again. He waited until the urgency diminished before leaning forward.
“Now. What did you mean about Macready?”
seventeen
Even with both windows open and the speed approaching sixty, the hearse was still as hot as an oven on baking day. Wind swirled around the interior without cooling it one iota, but it helped freshen Grant’s mind. Decisions had to be made. Whether to stay or go now that he’d done what he’d set out to do. Whether to go see Sarah Hellstrom one last time before leaving now that he’d put the ghost of Pilar Cruz to rest. And what to do about Tripp Macready, given what Eduardo Cruz had just told him.
Grant replayed the conversation in his head as he steered the hearse through Study Butte towards Absolution.
“Macready is poison.”
Doc Cruz rinsed his hands in the washbasin at the rear of his office. He’d waited for the wife beater to leave before answering Grant’s question. “He bought everything in town and then killed it.”
“Why?”
“It is what he does. He chokes the life out of everything he touches.”
“There are still businesses in Absolution.”
“Only the ones he subsidizes to keep the town on life support.”
Grant relaxed in the chair by the window. “For appearances sake.”
“Exactly.”
“He doesn’t own the diner.”
“The exception that proves the rule.”
Grant smiled. “I never understood what that meant.”
“Me neither. But in truth, the diner is only open because of Scott Macready.”
“Him liking Sarah.”
“Exactly.”
“And the rest of the town just dried up, huh?”
“The last straw was him buying the school. When he knocked that down, it took the last bit of fight out of Absolution. Anyone with kids left—they send them to Marathon or Alpine. Anyone who really cares moved long ago.”
“Doesn’t say much for those who’re left.”
“No fight in ’em. Like I said.”
“They all with Macready?”
“Not with him, just not strong enough to be against him. Not many are. You either stay and swallow the poison or you move out.”
Grant watched the doctor dry his hands. “And you moved out.”
“Not exactly.”
Grant changed the question. “Why is Macready looking for you?”
“He told you that?”
“He didn’t want me talking to you.”
Cruz folded the towel and hung it over the rail. “What makes you think that?”
“Kept discouraging me from going to Adobe Flats.”
“I’m not at Adobe Flats.”
“That’s what everybody said. But I got the impression it was more about me not finding you.”
Cruz leaned against the desk and shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick there, my friend.”
Grant took his time while he got that straight in his head. “This isn’t about you?”
“No.”
“It’s about Adobe Flats.”
Cruz nodded his approval. “If you could check the land registry, what do you think you would find?”
Grant joined the dots. “Macready bought your place at Adobe Flats?”
Cruz shook his head. “No. He bought eve
rything leading to Adobe Flats. I wouldn’t sell.”
Grant didn’t ask why not. He reckoned Cruz was going to tell him.
“My wife would not have wanted me to. It was the happiest time of her life. And she died there giving birth to our daughter.”
Despite the heat a chill went down Grant’s spine. Pilar had never mentioned that. Their time together had always been focused on the here and now. They hadn’t discussed her childhood, and Grant had never mentioned his mother dying giving birth to him or his subsequent isolation—his father sending him to boarding school as soon as he could. Grant hadn’t realized just how close he and Pilar Cruz actually were. It made what had happened to her all the worse. He kept quiet and let Doc Cruz continue.
“I could not sell that heritage. I would not.”
Grant let out a sigh. “So he burned you out.”
“There was a fire. Yes. The sheriff said it started accidentally.”
“The sheriff that Macready pays.”
“I still own the land. But it was move or die.”
“And you chose life.”
“It was an easy choice.”
Grant considered something Cruz had said earlier. “How does that make Macready afraid of me?”
“You’re a stranger.”
“Yeah, like in Rango. I got that.”
“Rango?”
“The Johnny Depp lizard Western.”
“We don’t get much TV down here.”
“It was a movie.”
“No movie theater either.”
Grant shrugged. Some jokes were best left unexplained. “So. I’m a stranger.”
Cruz nodded and continued. “I don’t know what business Macready is in. But it isn’t local, I know that.”
“Not legal either, I bet.”
“And he is not in it alone. He has partners from out of town. Word is there was some friction there. Macready is wary of strangers.”
“Like me.”
“A big man. Ex-military.”
A light went on behind Grant’s eyes.
“He thinks I’m a hit man?”
The hearse followed a gentle curve out through Study Butte and began the long, slow descent to the desert floor. That last revelation explained why Grant had been treated with kid gloves. Why Macready had been so annoyed when his son got him arrested coming back from Adobe Flats. It was the rest of the discussion that would shape Grant’s decision about how to deal with Macready, though.
His recollection of that was put on hold as he approached Kathy’s Kosmic Kowgirl Kafe. The Barbie-doll diner was coming up fast. Then the ugly pink bus pulled out of the parking lot and slammed to a halt across the tarmac, blocking the road. It looked like Macready had decided the kid gloves were off.
eighteen
Three things happened in quick succession. The bus blocked the road. The hearse closed the distance. And a man with a gun stepped into the road and waved for Grant to pull onto the forecourt. Men with guns always demanded your attention. Grant hated guns. He acted on instinct.
Instead of slowing down, he floored the gas. The hearse sped forward. Grant checked his options in an instant. The road was impassable. A ditch ran along the left-hand side; no room for maneuver there. A dirty pickup was parked next to an ice cream van outside the diner. The Kosmic Kowgirl offered bar-b-que in big letters. The ice cream van offered sno-cones. The pickup offered more men with guns. Two men in cowboy hats, as big and dirty as the first.
The first man realized the hearse wasn’t going to stop and whipped his handgun into a hasty firing position. He fired two shots that didn’t even hit Texas. Too fast. Too panicky. High and wide. The gunman dived to his right, through the open door of the bus. The other two stepped away from their pickup and turned their guns towards the onrushing hearse. Steadier hands.
Grant swerved onto the dusty forecourt towards the cowboys. More people die on the roads each year than are killed by gunshot wounds. Best way to keep death off the roads was to drive on the sidewalk. Grant pointed the hearse at the gunmen. Steady hands became dithery aim. The three shots they managed to get off were as wild as their compadre’s. General direction. Wide of the target. Then they were diving for cover, too, behind the flimsy ice cream van.
The hearse was big and heavy. It was built to carry dead weight in comfort and solidity. At sixty-plus miles an hour it was a hurtling missile. The wheels sideslipped on the hardpan, then steadied, throwing up a cloud of dust. Grant aimed for the ice cream van, and the cowboys dove for cover again, away from the van. The ice cream van disintegrated. Ice cream and chocolate sprinkles shot into the air. The roof of the van, with its giant fake swirl of ice cream, landed on the pickup’s cab. The rear axle bounced across the forecourt.
The impact sent the hearse into a skid. It slewed sideways, the rear wheels losing traction, and ended up pointing back the way it had come. Grant feathered the brakes and clutch and got the heavy vehicle moving again, back towards Study Butte and the ghost town he’d just left. The man on the bus recovered first. He stuck his head up above the windows and pushed the cowboy hat back from where it had fallen over his eyes.
Grant saw him and realized his mistake. This wasn’t a Macready ambush. It was the wife beater from Terlingua. The big greasy ratfuck of a Mexican trying to prove he was as tough as John Wayne with men as well as women. He smashed the bus window with his gun and fired three shots as the hearse struggled to pick up speed on the dusty forecourt. The wife beater’s friends took heart from the reversal of fortune and started blasting away at the hearse.
Two shots thumped into the bodywork.
One shattered the long side window.
Another punched a starred hole in the windshield.
The rear wheels bit and the hearse steadied on its course. In the wrong direction. Grant steered towards the bus, then swerved left, targeting the pickup. If he managed to get out of this, he didn’t want them all piling into their truck and giving chase. The pickup wasn’t an ice cream van though. Not flimsy bodywork on a split frame chassis. It was a solid-built working vehicle. None of that mattered. Even a pickup couldn’t drive without its engine.
Grant handbrake turned, skidding the rear wheels across the dirt. The hearse clipped the front of the pickup with its rear end and demolished the radiator and engine housing. Steam hissed from the twisted hood. Water poured lifeblood onto the ground. The skid threw up more dust. The cloud was almost impenetrable. More gunshots sounded behind him.
One more hit the bodywork.
Another starred hole appeared in the windshield.
The other shots missed the hearse but weren’t entirely wasted. There was a ping of metal as a bullet ricocheted off something solid. A spark and a whoosh showed what it had hit: the propane tank supplying the Bar-B-Que. The tank exploded in a ball of flame that took out the front of Kathy’s Kosmic Kowgirl Kafe and melted two fluorescent-green aliens sitting at a table outside.
The hearse steadied and drove past the diner. Grant turned away from the main road and swung around the back of the flaming building. A large overspill parking lot for when custom got brisk. Just as dry and dusty as the forecourt. The cloud grew and spread behind him. A second propane tank exploded, ripping the back out of the storage shed. One of the aliens drifted in the wind, its big-brained, bug-eyed head burning at the edges.
There were no more gunshots. The Mexicans were trying to beat off the attentions of a big waitress in a pink smock and a cowboy hat. She looked angry and not to be messed with. The wife beater was no match for her brute strength and extra weight. Unless he planned on shooting her, he’d have to retreat.
The hearse circled the diner and came out the other side. The wheels skidded one more time, then found solid ground on the two-lane blacktop. The pickup reversed out of the forecourt and went in the opposite direction. Steam and smoke chugged from the engine.
> Grant threw them one last glance in his rear-view mirror, then focused on what lay ahead. Doc Cruz’s parting shot pointed the way.
“Macready ain’t sure if you’re a hit man or not. That’s why he wants to keep you close—until he can figure that out.”
“By offering me a job?”
“Can you think of a better way?”
“Wouldn’t that get me too close to whatever he’s doing?”
Cruz raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“Asked and answered. Maybe you should have accepted.”
nineteen
Grant didn’t think he could simply walk up to Macready and tell him he’d reconsidered. He reckoned he’d have to take a different route. Luckily for him the different route presented itself almost as soon as he got back to Absolution.
The town hadn’t changed while he’d been away. There was no reason that it should. But something was different. He tried to put his finger on it as the hearse bounced over the railroad crossing and approached the intersection with First Street. He stopped at the junction. Avenue D straight ahead. Left towards the Absolution Motel or right towards Gilda’s Grill at Sixto’s. Nothing strange about that. No obvious signs that the world had moved on or that Absolution had changed its pattern of heat and misery.
Grant surveyed the skyline. The houses were the same as when he’d left. There was no gaping hole where burned-out buildings used to stand. There was no smoke cloud or wreckage or any other sign of violence on the outside. But violence had come to town, and it had come in the shape of Jim Grant. Let off the leash by a wife- beating Mexican and his friends.
The restraint Grant had shown since coming to Absolution was gone.
The engine ticked over in neutral. The needle showed that the gas tank was barely a quarter full. Grant was working up to telling Hunter Athey about the damaged rear fender, but there was no need to give the hearse back running on empty. If he turned left, he could pack his bag and leave Absolution behind. He didn’t. Grant turned right towards Sixto’s, and the future was set.
“You need to drive more careful once you’re off the main roads.”
Adobe Flats Page 10
