The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Jordan figured the report was to scare him—which it did. But not enough to stay away from Ginny. Nothing could cause that. He'd loved her for so long, and they were finally together as more than friends—he'd do anything to be near her. He just wished Ginny felt the same way he did. She was embarrassed to be seen in public with him because he was so much younger than she was. Every time he was around Ginny, he thought he was going to burst.

  “Thank God,” Charlie said, exhaling loudly. “Good thing he didn't see Romeo in the backseat or he would've stopped us for sure. I got to give it to you, though, Jordan, for taking down Holister.”

  Jordan looked through the back window and saw Holister turn into the Sunoco station. “Shut the fuck up, Charlie.”

  “That was close,” Spider said, laughing.

  “Ginny Coggins,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “You think you were the first, Jordan? Think again. Ginny is easy street, man. I wouldn't touch her if she offered it to me on a silver platter.”

  “Bullshit,” Spider said.

  “Shut up, Charlie, you're making me mad,” Jordan said.

  “What are you going to do, kick my ass? I seen you fight with Sam Peterson.” Charlie laughed and turned the music back up as they passed by the SunRipe plant, passed by the city limits sign. He punched the accelerator and air whooshed inside the car, bringing a chill inside the Electra as they headed out into the country.

  Jordan dug into his pocket, lit a cigarette, and rolled up his window to just a crack. He told himself Spider and Charlie were just jealous . . . but he knew Charlie was partly telling the truth. Ginny had been with other guys—she'd told him as much, but wouldn't say who. Jordan, though, had lost himself to Ginny. She was his first, his only one, as far as he was concerned. He'd run away with her tomorrow if she would—then they'd both be free of the suffocating, boring small town they lived in. They could see the world together if Ginny would love him as much as he loved her.

  The music moaned with Honeyboy's throaty black voice, and Jordan felt the intensity of the lyrics, slowly remembering a day, a long time ago, when he visited the camps, and had been warned by a little Mexican girl that the devil was coming to take them all away. He shivered at the memory.

  The fields rolled by in a haze. The three beers, mixed with the pot smoke, had left Jordan numb. He didn't gain any clarity until Charlie passed Lem Jacobson's house and turned down another familiar road and rounded a curve.

  Charlie slowed down as they passed by Tito Cordova's abandoned house, and threw an empty beer bottle in the front yard.

  Jordan sat up in the backseat.

  “What's the matter?” Spider asked.

  “Nothing,” Jordan said. “That house gives me the creeps.”

  “That house gives everybody the creeps,” Spider said.

  Charlie drove for another mile, turned farther into the country, away from town, and finally pulled the Electra to a stop in front of the Kirschs' house.

  The house didn't look like it had been painted in years. White flecks of paint dotted the clapboard siding and half of the windows had water-stained plywood nailed to them. The screen door was ajar, and the front door was open. Loud heavy metal music rose and fell rapidly, twice the speed of Honeyboy Edwards. A black mutt lay on the porch, its ears up, a low growl growing in its throat. The dog had splotches of bare skin on its legs, and a few fresh wounds like it had been in a fight recently. Probably with a coyote.

  Charlie turned off the engine and jumped out. Spider clicked the tape off and swiveled around. “You stay here. Ed gets nervous with too many people around.”

  “No problem,” Jordan said.

  Charlie opened the trunk and wheeled the chair to the passenger door. He grabbed Spider's wrist and popped him into the chair in one fluid motion.

  Jordan watched Charlie pull Spider backward onto the porch effortlessly, as if they had been performing circus tricks together since they were kids. He realized that Charlie and Spider had their own language, too. He'd never noticed it before.

  Charlie spoke to the dog, said its name, which Jordan couldn't decipher over the music, and knocked on the door. A shadow appeared behind the screen, nodded, and Charlie pushed Spider inside.

  Jordan tossed the cigarette out onto the barren yard. Four vehicles were parked haphazardly in front of the house. A one-car garage stood next to the house, tilted, as if it were ready to fall over. Two rusted fifty-five-gallon drums sat in front of the garage filled with unburned trash. Old tires were stacked on the far side of the garage. After about ten minutes, Charlie wheeled Spider back outside. Ed Kirsch followed, along with Ginny, tagging close behind.

  Jordan slumped down in the seat, but eyed Ginny closely. When she leaned up and kissed Ed, he started beating the back of the driver's seat as hard he could with his fists.

  Spider and Charlie laughed all the way back to the car.

  September 21, 1991, 11:15 P.M., Patzcuaro, Mexico

  The large dormitory room had been dark for over an hour. Tito slowly moved his hand under his bed and pulled out a small bundle of clothes wrapped in a sheet he had stolen from the laundry a week before. The boy in the next bed stirred.

  “What are you doing, Tito?” Cirilo Cruz whispered. Cirilo had only been at El Refugio for a year, but he and Tito had become fast friends even though Cirilo was three years younger. Tito remembered how scared he was when he arrived in the creaky old building, and could not ignore the boy's pain in the bed next to him. Cirilo's parents had crossed the border and never returned—they had suffocated in the back of a semi-truck that had broken down in the desert. When Cirilo's grandmother died, he was sent to live with the nuns. Cirilo cried for the first month, and then slowly began to accept Tito's offer of friendship.

  Tito pointed his finger to his lip. “Me estoy yendo,” he said. I'm leaving.

  “But where will you go?” Cirilo asked in Spanish. “You are only a boy. You're only fourteen, not near old enough to be a man on your own.”

  “I cannot wait any longer,” Tito said, a forlorn look crossing his face. “The nuns would have me be a priest or a peasant, and I am neither. I do not belong here. I am going home.”

  “To America? To this place you call Dukaine?”

  Tito nodded. “Sí.”

  “But you can't go by yourself. It is too dangerous. I will come with you,” Cirilo said.

  “You are too young. I am going alone.” Tito dropped the tone of his voice and stared at Cirilo. Even with only a small amount of moonlight filtering through the windows, Tito could see tears welling up in his friend's eyes. “Someday, maybe, I will be able to come back and get you—take you back to America with me.”

  “To paradise? You would come back for me?”

  “This is paradise,” Tito said. “Look at the birds in the sky, the mountains behind the town—and the nuns love us all very much. I have never been afraid here, not once I got used to it. But it will never be my home. My memories are too strong. My original language fades. I can barely see my mother's face in my dreams anymore. If I wait any longer, all of my memories will be gone. I must see her face again, breath the same air I once did.”

  “I will be afraid without you,” Cirilo said. He stood up and hugged Tito.

  Tito withdrew quickly. “You will wake the others. Tell the nuns nothing of this. I want to get as far away as I can tonight before they come looking for me. Will you do that, Cirilo, my amigo? There are men on the other side that hurt me, that brought me to this place. I cannot explain the feelings in my stomach to you, but I must understand what happened. I cannot forgive, as the nuns instruct me to—I cannot quiet the monster who speaks to me at night and begs me to pick up a sword and slay all that have brought harm to me and the one I love.”

  “But your mother is dead.”

  “I have never believed that.” Tito leaned over and kissed his friend on top of the head. “We will meet again, Cirilo, I promise. Adiós.”

  Before Cirilo could object anymore, Tito edged aw
ay from the bed, tossed the makeshift linen sack over his shoulder, and let the shadows of the large room swallow him up. He turned back as he ducked out the door to catch one last glimpse of his friend, standing fearful in the dark. It was all he could do not to cry himself.

  The sounds of night welcomed Tito, as if they agreed with his plan. The crickets' chirps heightened into a productive chorus, as owls and other night birds hooted and buzzed in the black sky. With their song so loud his footsteps would not be heard. He knew if he was lucky, he could travel ten miles along the road north . . . and perhaps by first light, find a farmer's shed to sleep away the day. He did not worry about money or food. He had learned many of the Mexican customs since coming to El Refugio, and many of the foods he needed would be growing in the fields—there for the taking at night. Being a thief did not worry him, either. He did not think it a sin to make his way home. And the nuns had taught him that God would provide. The meek would inherit the earth. If they were right, then all would be well. He trusted them . . . as much as he could trust anyone.

  But he did worry about the journey, about the long miles to San Luis Potosi. From there he would have to get to Monterrey, and then to Nuevo Lareado . . . where he would have to cross the border. The stories of Nuevo Lareado were enough to frighten anyone—stories of slavery, and murderers, and highwaymen that robbed from the old and desperate. He would have to face those fears when the time came—he knew he was young and weak. For now, though, he knew he must get as far away from El Refugio as possible. The nuns did not take lightly to runaways. That was his worry. He knew what would happen if he was caught.

  As Tito walked out of the gate an owl flew from the ceiba tree, and its shadow passed over him as a light turned on in the Mother Superior's room. If there was ever a time that he wished his nickname, El Fantasma, was true—it was now. He ran north as fast as he could, hugging the shadows, avoiding any noise, any human, not turning to look behind him until dawn started to break in the east.

  CHAPTER 18

  August 22, 2004, 9:59 A.M.

  Big Joe pulled the rental car to the curb, parking it in front of the tavern. Jordan stared at him, the interior of the car silent. He hadn't seen his father in thirteen years.

  “You gonna tell me what that was about, or do I have to guess?” Big Joe said.

  When he was young, Big Joe McManus could fill a room when he walked in. Now, his thick black hair had turned white, as solid as snow on top of a mountain peak, and thinning like vapors—like retreating clouds. His skin was dark and leathery from the Florida sun, and his body was leaner, but Big Joe would never be skinny. He wore a light blue polo shirt, khaki pants, and sunglasses shielded his eyes. Jordan barely recognized him, but there had been no mistaking his voice.

  “What're you doing here?” Jordan asked.

  “It seemed the right time to come back.”

  “Who called you?”

  “What do you mean, who called me?”

  “Spider said you called him. Somebody had to call you and tell you what was going on. That Holister got shot. That I got shot.”

  “Louella called. She thought I should know you were hurt.”

  Jordan stared out the window. His shoulder ached. Blood seeped out from underneath the bandage, staining Spider's shirt. “And that's why you're really here?”

  Big Joe clenched the steering wheel with both hands. “I didn't come back for an inquisition. What the hell are you implying?”

  Jordan grabbed the door handle, preparing to exit the car. The air conditioner was on full force. The pain was now intense, and he was not certain that Ed Kirsch was finished with him.

  Big Joe had given Ed a chance to make a run for the El Camino once Jordan dropped the .38. Ed had squealed his tires and drove off in a cloud of blue smoke.

  “I'm not implying anything. Just asking a question. What do you think happened to Tito Cordova? Did what happened between you and Buddy Mozel have something to with all of this?” Jordan asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “What's that got to do with anything? Buddy and I had a score to settle. We settled it out of court. I paid off the bar and made sure your brother had a job for the rest of his life, if that's what you mean,” Big Joe said.

  “And Buddy's hardly been seen since the accident.”

  “What happened to him or how he handled it isn't my problem,” Big Joe said. “He deserved what he got. Like I said, what's Tito Cordova got to do with anything?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”

  Big Joe let go of the steering wheel, his face flush, the deep wrinkle lines at the corners of his eyes almost vanishing as he narrowed his glare. “I don't know what's been going on around here. But that's old news. The past. That kid disappearing doesn't have a damn thing to do with the present.” He paused, looked into the tavern window. “Why is it every time we're in each other's presence it turns into an argument? I haven't been home in years and the first thing you do is accuse me of something I had nothing to do with. When are you going to grow up?”

  Jordan watched Big Joe's temples throb, heard the tension rise in his voice, and saw a familiar angry look erupt in his father's eyes. In a flash, Jordan was a twelve-year-old boy crumbled up next to his mother's casket. He wasn't afraid of Big Joe then, and he sure as hell wasn't afraid of him now. “I'm not accusing you of anything. Just asking a question. All hell breaks loose, and you decide to show up unannounced. Just seems a little strange to me. I don't get it.”

  “Spider knew I was coming. He didn't tell you?”

  “Obviously not.” Jordan opened the door. The heat reached inside the car immediately, and his own anger was growing, rising against the numbness he'd felt since he heard his father's voice.

  Just when he was feeling comfortable, starting to totally trust Spider, he found out nothing has changed. A hidden line of communication with their father still existed, a bond that would always be there. And Jordan would always be left on the outside. “You didn't answer my question,” he said.

  “You didn't answer mine, either. Why in the hell were you about to put a bullet in Ed Kirsch's head? You been messing around with Ginny again?”

  “Looks like you got it all figured out. Now answer my question,” Jordan said, hoisting himself up out of the car. He leaned his head back inside and waited for an answer. “What happened to Tito Cordova? Did Holister have something to do with it? Did you?”

  He wasn't sure if Spider had told Big Joe about the note and medallion, and he wasn't going to bring it up if he hadn't.

  Big Joe put the car in gear and shook his head. “You always were a smartass. Took after your grandmother, always sticking your nose where it didn't belong. I bet you're just like her. You got a soft spot for wetbacks, too, Jordan?” His tone was cold. Cold as a winter day standing in a cemetery.

  Jordan barely had time to stand back as Big Joe sped away, the door slipping from his grasp, banging closed.

  “Son of a bitch. You're a son of a bitch!” he yelled. Ginny's words echoed in his memory, calling him the same thing. “I'm nothing like you, goddamn it. Nothing!”

  The car headed straight down Main Street, and Jordan realized as he watched it that it was the same black sedan he'd seen backing out of the driveway. Big Joe had either been looking for him, or he was up to something. His gut told him that the latter was true.

  “Damn it,” he said as he kicked the curb and walked into the tavern.

  Spider was sitting at the bar in his usual spot. “What happened to you now?”

  Jordan walked straight to the bar. “Why didn't you tell me he was coming? Why the hell didn't you tell me?” he asked, pointing through the window at the vacant stoplight.

  Spider leaned back in the wheelchair. “Because I knew how you'd react. What was I gonna do, tell Big Joe not to come? Sure, like that's going to happen.”

  “You coulda told me.”

  “Look, man, you can be pissed at me all you want. You
had enough shit going on. Tellin' you Big Joe was coming home was like . . . well, throwing gas on the fire.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Not trying to be,” Spider said. “Now what the hell happened?”

  Jordan leaned against the bar and took a heavy breath. The air-conditioning was on full blast, the air cool and dry. Angel was banging around in the kitchen, the radio turned up loud.

  “Johnny Ray wanted my badge. The Town Board suspended me,” Jordan said, taking a cigarette out of his pocket.

  “Your shoulder's bleeding.”

  “I'm all right.” He lit the cigarette, ignoring the pain, the blood. “Give me a beer.”

  Spider raised an eyebrow, wheeled himself to the cooler, pulled out a bottle of Budweiser, popped the top off, and slid it in front of Jordan.

  He took a swallow, then another. “I was mad. So mad I couldn't see straight. Fucking Johnny Ray's an idiot. He looked like a smiling cat.”

  “That dude just weirds me out. Always has,” Spider said.

  “I walked to the house. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't go see it. So I sat down on the curb at Lincoln. Ed Kirsch showed up and came after me with a pipe,” Jordan said, finishing off the beer.

  “See, I told you he was a hothead. I knew he was going to come after you.”

  Jordan told Spider the rest of the story. The fight. Putting his finger on the trigger, wanting more than anything to shoot Ed between the eyes. But Big Joe showed up.

  Spider stared at him, didn't say anything for a minute. “You and Ed aren't done yet.”

  “I know. I'm beginning to think he might be more involved in this mess than I thought.”