by Attica Locke
Bell let out a tiny, bark-like laugh. “What a good question, Darren. Why is your wife just now getting to know me?” she said, using a tone that Lisa was too drunk to realize was openly mocking the way her words came out, individually wrapped, consonants and vowels sharply defined, every sound neatly in its place, unlike the slushy speech that poured out of Bell’s mouth. She gave her son a little smile as she waited for him to explain himself to his wife. And when she was met with nothing but raw silence, she reached for the wine bottle on the other side of the table and poured the last thimbleful before rolling her grenade onto the elegantly dressed table, saying, apropos of nothing, what a shame it was that the San Jacinto County Sheriff’s Department had never found the little .38 that killed Ronnie Malvo—the reason Mack still wasn’t cleared in that homicide—that the thing could be anywhere, but surely someone knew where it was. Why, it would only take a phone call to Mr. Frank Vaughn to solve the crime. She looked at Darren, making sure he understood she knew the name of the San Jacinto County district attorney, as she snapped her linen napkin across the lap of her Lee jeans. Darren gave her a shake of his head, a flaccid warning. He hadn’t told anyone that his mother had found the suspected murder weapon on the Mathews property in Camilla, that she had it in her possession—that she had him by the balls.
“What?” Lisa said, pressing her finger against chocolate crumbs on her plate and licking them off. She had a tiny stain on her silk blouse—a drop of cherry juice from the Black Forest cake. She was glowing still, and Darren felt protective of her and the peace that had settled over their marriage. His mother would destroy it if he let her. It wasn’t enough to threaten his career as a Texas Ranger; Bell Callis wanted his marriage hanging by a string too.
He hadn’t slept that night.
But he’d gotten up the next morning and done it all over again.
Morning, Mama, you need anything? Just thinking about you.
For weeks and weeks, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her—which was all she really wanted, he told himself. The threat could be contained. He suspected the .38 lay somewhere inside the four-hundred-and-seventy-five-square-foot trailer she called home, and of course it had occurred to him to storm in one day and simply snatch it from her. But his mother had the speed and temperament of a feral cat. Any sudden moves, and she would attack. She’d make him pay for robbing her of the new authority she held. He knew her too well. He told himself he had it all under control, a lie that put him to bed at night. Until it didn’t.
The Friday he finally broke began simply enough.
He had a get-together that night with some Ranger friends, and it was his turn to host. Roland Carroll had puked in their guest bathroom the last time, missing the toilet by a very messy three feet, and Lisa had said she’d just as soon not have his Ranger buddies over to their place anymore, so Darren had decided to move the party ninety miles up Highway 59 to his family’s homestead in Camilla. Looking back on it, he could see he had already been starting to formulate a plan of action regarding his mother. Even before he heard the car turning up the dirt road to the farmhouse that afternoon. He had been watering the last of the banana pepper plants along the side of the porch, thinking he could have them pickled in time for Christmas dinner, when Frank Vaughn, district attorney for San Jacinto County, pulled into the driveway, the tires of his Ford sedan turning over clumps of damp red dirt. Darren hadn’t laid eyes on the man since his grand jury testimony, when Rutherford “Mack” McMillan, longtime family friend, had escaped an indictment for the murder of Ronnie “Redrum” Malvo, a member of the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas and a grade-A asshole. At the time, Vaughn suspected Darren knew the location of the murder weapon—that he was covering for Mack—and in the end the grand jury had declined to prosecute. The degree to which Frank Vaughn put that on Darren was hard to say. But Darren knew this was not likely a casual visit. As Vaughn stepped out of his car, his stiff hair and the diamond chip in his A&M class ring caught the midday sun. “Afternoon,” he said, squinting so that his face looked nearly masklike, dark slits for eyes. He was a few years older than Darren—maybe he’d even hit fifty—and was deep enough into a career that would have landed him in a big city a long time ago if he had had the talent or inclination. His district included several surrounding counties, all of them under his domain; the wheels of justice in this little part of East Texas turned on his say-so, and he liked it that way.
“I help you with something?” Darren said. He reached for the spigot along the side of the house. The lukewarm water slowed to a thin trickle as Vaughn arrived at the foot of the porch stairs.
“Thought I saw your truck in town.” The DA’s manner was grim but not at all unfriendly—neighborly, even, as if Vaughn had stopped by to warn him of a storm coming, of the need to batten down windows and prepare for hard rain. “Was hoping to catch you for a word.”
“Well, you found me,” Darren said, keeping his voice even, betraying none of the alarm he felt at the idea that the DA had been looking for him. Darren was all too aware that if authorities were to get wind of the .38 snub-nosed pistol that his mother had found on this very property last fall, he could be indicted on charges of obstruction or worse. He would not only lose his badge; he’d face prison time.
Darren started coiling the water hose around a rusting hook that Mack—who worked for the Mathews family—had nailed to the lip of the wooden porch decades ago. It was cool outside, the air crisp and sharp, the sky like cut lapis, rain clouds having skipped town as quickly as if they owed somebody money. It was still a ways from a good December freeze. No need to wrap the onions and collards for another couple of weeks, Darren thought as he tucked away the hose. He worked with deliberation and patience in front of Vaughn, a show of steely calm.
“Well, you know we can’t really let this thing go,” the DA said, as if they were picking up a conversation recently interrupted. “A man dead and everything. Ronnie Malvo was a shit, wasn’t no secret about it. But we can’t have people just taking the law into their own hands. Not in my district, Ranger.”
“Don’t know what it’s got to do with me. I said my piece in court.”
“You did.”
“And Mack was cleared.”
“He was, yes,” Vaughn said. “For now.” He took a few steps forward so that he and Darren were face to face at the side of the house. “But if it’s someone else involved in this thing, I’m gon’ find out. You know that, Ranger. So consider this a courtesy call.” He glanced down at the tips of his boots, tan ropers losing a good polish in the dirt on the Mathews property. When he looked up again, he had a hint of a smirk on his face as he told Darren point-blank, “I could have walked into the Rangers’ office down to Houston, made a big deal about you not necessarily being cleared in this thing.”
“Me?”
“I hope that’s not the case, I really do,” Vaughn said. And yet the smirk deepened, actually bent the lines around his narrow eyes as he added, “But if you insist on protecting Rutherford McMillan, you may find twelve men and women standing to weigh your fate. There will be another grand jury, mark my words, Ranger. You can testify in front of it or be the one sweating its ruling.”
Darren visibly stiffened.
In the months since the Malvo homicide had been wreaking havoc on Darren’s life and career, this was as close as the DA had come to a direct threat. He tried to soften it by putting a hand on Darren’s shoulder to make him feel at ease, a gesture that was awkward because Darren was a good two inches taller than him, four in his boots, so that neither man seemed entirely comfortable with the balance of power here. “I’m hoping I can count on your cooperation in this deal,” Vaughn said as he started toward his car. “My office will be circling back, going over everything again in detail. There’ll be witnesses we’ll revisit, new ones we’ll want to talk to,” he said, pausing to fish his car keys out of the pocket of his navy slacks and let this next bit land: “Your mother, for one.”
Darren felt a bolt of
panic.
He knew he needed to be careful, but still his voice rose in a way that embarrassed him. God help him, he sounded scared, stunned actually. “Bell Callis never met Ronnie Malvo, couldn’t pick him out of a lineup but for the man’s picture being in the paper. My mother doesn’t know him from Adam.”
“But she knows you.” Vaughn was eyeing Darren over the top of the driver’s-side door. That smirk had unpacked its bags and settled in for a stay. Darren saw now the cocksure pleasure on his face, the look of a man who was up by a few hundred and holding a winning hand. “You’ve been spending a lot of time out to her place lately. Least, that’s what deputies around here have been telling me.”
“Can’t imagine what you think that means,” Darren said.
“Maybe it don’t mean nothing . . . and maybe it do.”
“Have you spoken to her?” Darren said, regretting the words as soon as they fell out of his mouth like loose teeth. He felt a loss of control that shamed and then terrified him. When he spoke again, it was with anger, righteous and mean. “My mother’s not well,” he said, because on some level it had to be true; it had to explain the whole of his life. “If I find out you’ve been harassing her—”
Vaughn raised his hand, not so much in a farewell as a dismissal, a signal they’d pick this up some other time. “We’ll talk, Mathews,” he said, sliding into the driver’s side of his Ford Taurus. “We’ll talk.” A few seconds later, Darren heard the engine turn over. He stood still, as if the ground had shot up vines to strap his ankles in place. He couldn’t move, even after there was nothing left of Frank Vaughn but a swirl of red dirt in the driveway. Shit. The jig was up. He was going to have to do something about Bell.
2.
HE WAS expecting only five Rangers that Friday night—Roland from Company A, stationed in Houston with Darren; Buddy Watson, Company B, working out of the sheriff’s station in Henderson County, south of Dallas; Ricky Nuñez, Company G, who’d driven all the way up from Corpus; Hector Martinez, Company E, Pecos County; and Patricia Nolan from Company F in Austin. Still, Darren knew things could get rowdy. In truth, he was counting on it; he needed cover for what he was planning. He’d brought eight pounds of barbecue and hot links up from the city, and, God bless him, he’d actually believed he wouldn’t drink, forgoing liquor just to prove he could. But hell if he wasn’t as grateful as a dog thrown a bone when Hector showed up with a bottle of Tennessee whiskey and Patricia with mescal and margarita mix. Both Buddy and Roland stocked his uncles’ old Frigidaire Flair with beer, Shiner Bock and Miller High Life. They had each of them cleared forty-eight hours, had the night and the next day in front of them to cut loose, as it had been a hell of a month for everybody. When Darren left Houston that morning, Lisa had told him not to worry about rushing back—a first. She’d stood on her tiptoes to kiss him goodbye, stretching mind and body to offer her support. There had been more than fifty incidents of hate-tinged violence across the state in the four weeks since the election, and Lisa’s feelings about the badge had softened. “Just come back safe,” she said.
Darren set a Lightnin’ Hopkins record on the turntable, a guitar-picking blues that made Buddy Watson roll his eyes and groan. But this was a rule they’d established early on: whoever hosted got to control the music and set the menu. Tonight was barbecue, but Ricky’s wife had sent tamales anyway. Warming in the oven, they filled the house with a smoky sweetness as their corn husks browned and pork fat dripped and sizzled. Of the roughly one hundred and fifty Texas Rangers commissioned by the state, the six of them in no way represented all of the department’s diversity, but they were the few willing to admit the job got a hell of a lot easier if you had like minds to shoot the shit with. Five men—three black, two Latino—and one white woman who had joined this unofficial fraternity out of solidarity. A second white woman, Vicki Brennan, one of the original members of their social club, had stopped answering their e-mails after the election.
As soon as the drinks were poured, the speculation began.
“What’s gotten up her butt?” Patricia said.
“Scared, probably,” Ricky said. He was wearing a black sweatshirt and matching Wranglers, and he’d downed two beers before he took a seat.
Roland made a face. “You really think she voted for him?”
“It shouldn’t matter,” Ricky said. “Not to this here.”
He meant the people at the party, the friendships they’d forged. But Patricia huffed and shook her head. “Oh, it matters,” she said. She was the youngest at twenty-six, having made Ranger just eight years out of the academy. A former ball player at Sam Houston State, she was nearly as tall as Darren, blond with a long face and strangely delicate features. She licked the salt off her glass.
“Vicki got her eye on headquarters, moving up the ranks,” Roland said. “We’re not liable to see her at one of these deals again.” He pinched snuff from a tin he kept tucked in the front pocket of his shirt and balled it under his tongue.
Hector nodded his shaved head. “She’s always been one of them,” he said.
He didn’t clarify who them was. But they all nodded their heads anyway.
“We all have to do what we can to get through,” Ricky said, and the Rangers in the room agreed with the sentiment. One by one, they each acknowledged that something had shifted in the past four weeks, not just in the world at large but on the job too. They were dealing with things they’d never seen in their lifetimes, stories they’d only heard from the older men in the department: church burnings; the defacement of a mosque in Bryan; black and brown kids shoved in lunchrooms, spit on in gym class; a Mexican woman currently in critical condition after she was attacked in front of her husband and three kids in the parking lot of a Kroger in Fort Worth. Buddy spoke of a hotbed of trouble near Jefferson in Marion County. He might even have mentioned a missing kid out that way. But Darren might have remembered it wrong.
Things got a little fuzzy after that.
He managed to go an hour before switching from beer to whiskey, but the slide was fast. It made wax of his spine, the liquor did; made everything go soft at the edges, melting away all the departmental talk, all their tales from the field, of which Darren had none. He was landlocked at the Houston office these days, bored in a way he was scared to admit to himself, afraid the word hid a deeper truth as blue as the record that was playing: Darren was depressed, sick with a rage that was eating him from the inside. Daily, he marveled with befuddled anger at what a handful of scared white people could do to a nation. He never again wanted to hear them question the point of rioting in Ferguson or Baltimore, or Watts and Detroit for that matter, hear them wonder why black folks would torch their own neighborhoods, because in an act of blind fury, white voters had just lit a match to the very country they claimed to love—simply because they were being asked to share it. And that’s the bit that stung, the hurt that cut bone-deep. After years of being lulled into believing that the universe bent toward justice, he saw how little friends and neighbors thought of his life, of his right to this country.
After Obama, it was forgiveness betrayed.
Before long, a third drink was poured, and Hector took a few beers and a pack of Marlboros out onto the back porch, and the party drifted out there. Patricia sat on one of the green metal lawn chairs and wrapped herself in a patchwork quilt that Darren’s grandmother had made before he was born. The worn cotton smelled of the blocks of cedar with which it shared a hallway closet, and the sweet scent mixed with the tang of pine in the air. It was cool outside and pitch-black beyond the yellow haze of the porch light. Roland, who never slept a night outside the city limits if he didn’t have to, flinched every time he heard a screech owl hooting. He was soon bumming smokes off Hector and daring any of them to say something about it. Buddy talked about the dispatcher in Corsicana he was putting it to three times a week: Could suck the stone out of a peach. Patricia called him a nasty bastard and threw a lime rind at his head. Ricky was already nodding off, his black ga
tors hanging over the edge of the porch’s love seat, a water-stained cushion folded under his head. They’d left the back door open, and the smell of tamales and barbecue crept into the night air. Darren sat closest to the warmth of the house, keeping an ear out for the oven timer.
He poured himself a fourth drink, marveling at his folly, that he’d actually thought there was a chance he wasn’t going to end up knee-deep in brown water tonight. His skin flushed. He grew hot beneath the gray T-shirt he was wearing. He grew furious, actually, mad at himself. His brain loosened by drink, he could admit he’d stumbled badly with Frank Vaughn this afternoon. The man was bluffing, he told himself; he had to be. But if Vaughn had gone to the Mathews place solely on a fishing expedition, Darren had acted skittish enough to convince him to keep his line wet.
