East of the Sun

by Trey R. Barker

  “Bullshit.”

  “Why the pig blood, Doc?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Why’d you smear Inmate Bobby’s cell with it?”

  “Fuck you, I didn’t—”

  “Right, which was why you told Croft you needed to get into Bobby’s cell. New allergy meds . . . a new allergy wash. You were washing the place with pig blood your cousin supplied.”

  Rory laughed. “That’s a pretty lame frame-up. We cracked it in about seven seconds.”

  Jace moved in close, dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m coming for you, Doctor Ernesto Reo Cruz. I know you killed Wrubel. And Bobby ended up dead at your hands, too, even if the blood is on someone else’s. I know you did it for drugs and I’m coming for you.”

  He looked from Jace to Rory, to the cell doors where old men watched him, laughed at him. “Chiquita, such big talk. You come, then.”

  His body shaking, he called for the inner door and within moments was back in the hallway, headed to medical.

  Jace’s guts were in her throat, hot and acidic and with even one more breath she might throw up all over everything. Her vision had narrowed to just Cruz, and her auditory exclusion was extreme. Rory was talking and talking, grinning and clapping Jace’s back, but Jace heard nothing.

  I just gave it all away, she thought. If he did those things, if he’s a murderer, I just gave away Von Holton’s entire case.

  Except it wasn’t Von Holton’s case. Not anymore. It might have started with him, but now it was in Jace’s lap and she was damned well going to see it through.

  Eventually, slowly, Rory’s voice battered its way through the auditory fog.

  “Oh, man, where’d you get them jail balls? Those are huge!” Rory hugged her, then slapped the back of her head. “Man, that was incredible.” She keyed her portable radio. “Bibb, you get that?”

  —come on, Bogan, have I ever let you down . . . don’t answer that—

  Rory guided Jace back to the jailer’s desk and sat her down. Jace’s head was pounding and racing, her hands shaking and her skin sheened in sweat. “That was amazing, worm. Maybe even better than I could’a done.”

  “Yeah?” Jace asked, her voice unsteady.

  “Maybe . . . just maybe.”

  Jace wasn’t so sure. She’d seen the look in Cruz’s eyes, felt the hot sting of his breath on her face, heard the threat in his words.

  . . . you come, then . . .

  Why had she mouthed off? Did she even believe the things she said? Did she believe he had killed Wrubel and was responsible for Inmate Bobby’s death? Did she believe he had sent his cousin to intimidate them? Did she believe any of that or was it posturing?

  Slowly, the pod coming back into focus, the voices on the radio coming back into her ears, she looked at Rory. “Dr. Ernesto Reo Cruz did it.”

  Rory was confused. “Huh?”

  “Killed Wrubel. He was responsible for the death of Inmate Bobby.”

  “Oh . . . yeah, he did. That was obvious.” Rory grinned. “I’m not sure I’ve ever known his middle name.”

  “Short for Robert.”

  Rory frowned. “Who told you that?”

  Something in Rory’s voice made Jace look at her. “He did.”

  “He lied. ‘Reo’ is Spanish.”

  “I figured that. What does it mean?”

  Rory squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “Culprit . . . offender. Or—”

  “Convict.”

  As the clock slipped past two a.m., Jace received a call. It was short, the man on the other end quiet and sure, his voice thick with a Hispanic accent.

  “Happy New Year’s, Chiquita. You are causing me problems. You have been for a while now. Stop. Do you understand?”

  Jace closed the magazine she’d been reading. She stared at Rory.

  “What?” Rory mouthed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The man laughed, quiet and dark, and it reminded Jace of being out in the desert looking at stars with Mama. Mama would wander off to pee—or fix, Jace later decided—and Jace would be alone in the stiflingly quiet dark, her security blanket gone, until Mama came back.

  “Yes, you do, Chiquita. I will tell you this only once. Stop.”

  “Do you know who I am? I’m the police.”

  The man laughed. “Yes, you are the police, but do not worry, I have my own. So go back to being a quiet jailer who does what she’s told.”

  “Or?”

  This time there was no laugh, only a tired sigh. “They always ask for the pain. What do you think the ‘or’ will be? What else can it be? You will stop or I will hurt you as hard as I can. I will kill your abuela. I will do it slowly and I will send you pieces as she dies.”

  Jace squeezed her phone until her fingers hurt. Her throat was dry as the desert, her skin as hot as the desert sun. “You don’t scare me, Jorge.”

  There was a long silence. Rory’s eyes widened.

  “Ah, Chiquita knows more than she lets on.”

  “Listen to me: touch my grandmother and I will kill you myself. I’ll track you down and kill you and feed your pieces to a hog farmer who owes me a favor.”

  He laughed. “Chiquita. You surprise me. You’re tough . . . or think you are. That’s fine; everyone needs to save their face. But if you ignore me, I will kill her, after which you and I will do our own dance.”

  Then he was gone.

  “I’m going to call the sheriff.”

  “Jace, no, you’re not. What can he do? He’s home, asleep. He hasn’t answered a call in twenty years. He has no gear, no legitimate training, nothing.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to me, Jorge’s a blowhard. Nothing else. He won’t do squat. But if he does, you want someone good crashing in her door. I’m going to call Ezell. He’ll go by and check on her. She’s fine—that guy was just blowing smoke up your skirt—but Ezell will check and make sure. Then we’ll go back to our old men.”

  “Rory, it’s my Gramma.”

  “I know, and I know you’re worried, but this is our job. People threaten us all the time. They never follow through. He’s trying to get under your skin.” Rory pulled out her cell phone. “You told Cruz to get a bigger shovel so he did, but it’s still only a shovel.”

  Rory called and a few minutes later, Deputy Ezell and a Zachary City police patrol officer were on their way to the Sea Spray.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Gramma called. She spoke quietly but Jace could taste the tension, the anger and fear. Gramma asked why two cops had come by her apartment. Jace told her there had been a prank call but she wanted to make sure Gramma was okay.

  “A prank call?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re lying to me, Jace.”

  “No, Gramma—”

  “You’ve never lied to me before.”

  “Do you want me to have someone come sit with you?”

  “For a prank call?”

  There was a long silence before Gramma hung up.

  CHAPTER 42

  Jace went straight home after her shift. No Alley B’s, no talking with Rory or Dillon, no explaining her theories to Major Jakob or the sheriff. The brass had taken the day off anyway, it being New Year’s Day, and would not appreciate being told that Dr. Cruz had killed Doc Wrubel and was responsible for Inmate Bobby’s death and the only evidence was Jace’s gut. Besides, Jace desperately wanted to see Gramma, to assure her that everything was okay, that Jace hadn’t broken her promise to keep the job away from her family. She wanted to hold the old woman in her arms and revel in her strength. She wanted to eat Gramma’s cooking, sleep on sheets Gramma washed. She wanted to help her fix the broken plumbing in room 216 and reglue the weather stripping around the door in 103. She needed to hear Gramma sing Mama’s song, she needed to sit with her while she read and listened to her music, while she went back and forth trying to decide what to cook for supper.

  Jace Salome needed the comfort of her know
n things, of her everyday things, that created the foundation of their lives.

  What she got was dominoes.

  The game was already in full gallop when she got home.

  She stood in the doorway to Gramma’s apartment, the winter sun just beginning to crack open the night sky behind her.

  “Throw down,” Hassan yelled. He stared at Preacher. “Mofo better throw down. Better gimme the goods.”

  Without a word, Preacher removed his fake teeth and hammered them down on the table. “Throw that, towelhead.”

  “Preacher.” Gramma’s voice was half an octave higher than normal, a signal of a night of whiskey. “We have to be tolerant of our less intelligent friends.”

  “Less intelligent?” Hassan stood and grabbed his crotch. “I got your less right here.”

  “Your words.” Gramma glanced at her granddaughter when Jace laughed. “Jace. How are you?”

  “Filled with the image of Hassan’s less.”

  “Creepy as hell. Play the hand, Preacher.” It was something Gramma said frequently when they played. Preacher and Hassan sometimes had trouble focusing.

  Preacher put his teeth back in, snapped them two or three times at Hassan.

  “Please, play the hand, Preacher.”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “Then get out, you crazy, Bible-thumping drink of dirty water.”

  Hassan laughed. Preacher glowered. Gramma drank whiskey.

  “You ask me for help and then you insult me.”

  “Well . . . yeah,” Hassan said. “Haven’t you met this woman? She’s a crazy old lady.”

  Jace noticed Preacher sat facing the door. Usually he sat back to the door so he could see the sunrise through Gramma’s sliding-glass doors. His briefcase was on the table next to him and slightly opened. “Is he pulling dominoes from his briefcase?”

  “Not this time, Jace.” Gramma finished off the amber in her tall glass and stood. She winked at Jace. “Pulled them outta his—”

  “Whoa.” Hassan waved his hands. “No, no, I don’t need no image of him digging in his skivvies for dominoes.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Preacher reached into his briefcase and let his hand linger there.

  “Skin it up, bitch.” Hassan jumped up and waved his hands. “Skin it up. I’ll get my M-1 carbine.”

  “Thought it was an AR-15,” Preacher said.

  “My AR-15, then.”

  “I thought it was an M-16,” Gramma said.

  “I’ll get all of ’em. Mow you all down.” He mimed a machine gun and blasted the entire apartment, spraying spittle everywhere.

  “Well, mow ’em outside.”

  Hassan and Preacher looked at Gramma.

  “Get out. We’re done. I’m declaring myself the winner tonight. Leave your money on the table and get outta my house.”

  Hassan looked at Preacher as they stood. “Can she do that? Just take my money?”

  Preacher shrugged. “Her house, her rules. I guess maybe she can.”

  “Well, that sucks.” Hassan went outside and stretched before heading to his own apartment.

  “Kinda does.” Preacher closed his briefcase and when he lifted it, Jace heard the thunk of something heavy inside and knew it was his pistol. Preacher kissed both women and left, closing the door behind him.

  Jace opened her mouth but Gramma shut it, snapping Jace’s jaw closed and holding it tightly.

  “Violence begats violence. I’ve seen it.” Her eyes dropped for just a moment before coming back up. “My past has ugliness deep in it but a wonderful man, your grandfather, swept it off my porch. Jace, it wasn’t a prank call. You wouldn’t have sent two officers to check on me, or ask if I wanted a babysitter. I appreciate that you did. I was scared, honey, very scared. Abelardo tells me his friend was murdered and he hurts but there is nothing I can do to stop his pain and then you send the police to make sure I’m okay. I was very scared, Jace. I haven’t been this scared since the Lubbock County boys called and asked if I knew Sharon Lusk.”

  “Mama.”

  “Her death was the most scared I ever was in my life . . . except for birthing her.” The old woman laughed and Jace clearly saw the age in her face.

  “I’m sorry I scared you, Gramma.”

  The old woman shook her head. “Pish. I called my boys over, we drank, we played. I’m not scared anymore. But mark my words: I’ve been where you’re headed, little girl. I don’t want you to go through what I did. It stole part of my soul and I’ve never gotten it back.”

  “I’ll be careful, Gramma. I promise. And I promise this job won’t come to you again.”

  “Don’t promise what you can’t promise.” Gramma frowned. “But you haven’t sleep-talked lately so that’s good news, right? Not as stressed? Maybe not as worried about the world?”

  Jace shuffled her feet. “Awk . . . ward. Actually, I moved my bed to the other side of the room.”

  Gramma laughed. “So I can’t hear you sleep-talking.”

  “Nope.”

  “Sneaky little bitch.”

  “Gramma? Will you tell me about it? About the ugliness?”

  “No.”

  Silence fell between them and eventually, Gramma opened up her giant stereo cabinet. A moment later, music floated gently across Gramma and Jace. At the first trumpet run, the first saxophone trill, Jace understood. This was the song that had filled her dreams. A spritely melody, almost a bounce, but in her dreams, it was melancholy and almost haunting.

  “Your mama always wanted that dream house of love. Her own house, a perfect yard, you. Maybe a dog.”

  “So this song was for me.”

  “ ‘Just you and I, forever and a day,’ ” the singer sang.

  Gramma nodded, her jaw tight. Jace knew she wanted to say something about how could a song be a gift for a child if that song was what the parent stripped to, but the old woman held her tongue.

  Later, they slept in the same bed and later still, when Jace was deep asleep, fighting dreams of go-betweens and a tiny house with blood on the walls and used heroin syringes on the floor, Jace sleep-talked the song.

  And Gramma, tears held tightly in her eyes, held her granddaughter until the morning slipped into afternoon and the afternoon slipped into evening.

  While Jace slept fitfully, dreamt of jails within jails, and sleep-talked to her Gramma, Rory burned her cell-phone and laptop battery almost completely down. She worked backward on Ernesto Cruz. A company five years old, financed by unnamed partners and incorporated in Delaware. A medical degree eleven years old.

  And way in the back, fogged by time, a string of convictions; stints in and out of various county jails and state prisons.

  “Son of a bitch is a thug.” She talked to herself while digging through the ZCSO computer system for the phone call Kerr made from ad-seg pod the day Bobby was killed.

  “. . . I don’t know, man; how I’m supposed to know that? He’s just gone. Guard told me Cruz was in here last night. The hell was he doing?”

  “None of your concern.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. You tell me what’s going on. Dude, I’m in this, too.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I just told you I don’t know . . . you deef? Maybe the tunnel. He goes down there sometimes.”

  “The tunnel?”

  “Yeah, a whole thing they got, used to move inmates to court. Ain’t been used in forever.”

  “Where does it empty out?”

  “Somewhere in the courthouse basement.”

  “Get your ass down there and find him.”

  “Fuck you, buddy. I ain’t doing that. I’m going to my cell and playing a good boy.”

  “No problem. I’ll be sure and send you your son’s head in the mail tomorrow. And maybe what’s left of the unborn one.”

  “Dude, you ain’t got no soul.”

  “Find him.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I will. Fuck off.”

  Just before she called Sheriff Buko
wski, she watched Jace’s video footage.

  And recognized the man going in and out of the courthouse.

  The Mexican cop.

  CHAPTER 43

  —control from Adam 1 . . . gimme A Pod outer . . . right now, goddamn it—

  The door popped immediately. A second later the inner door popped, the electric locks loudly metallic and audible throughout the entire main hallway and inside most of the other pods.

  “Salome,” Bukowski snarled, an unlit cigar bent and broken in the corner of his mouth. “With me. Now.”

  He keyed up his portable radio. “405 from Adam 1.”

  —Adam 1 . . . go ahead—

  “Salome’s done for the night.”

  —uh . . . 10-4. Anything I need to do?—

  “Just get somebody here. Now.”

  —10-4. 498 from 405. You’re off float. Get to A Pod rest of shift—

  —405 from 498 . . . yes, sir—

  Bukowski strode from the pod. Bibb, obviously watching, popped the doors before Bukowski called for them. Jace swallowed, looked at Urrea, mouthed an apology, and followed her boss, anxiety hot in her throat and on her skin.

  “Sheriff?” She was four or five steps behind him, almost afraid to get any closer. “What’s going on?”

  He said nothing, his boots loud and intimidating in the hallway. Each thud was magnified a thousand times by the concrete and brick walls, and by Jace’s own fear.

  “Sheriff?”

  His silence sliced into her with the subtlety of a butcher’s cleaver. They passed a number of deputies, roadies, and jailers, a few trusties still out cleaning, and though most of them greeted the sheriff, he acknowledged no one.

  In less than a minute they were in Bukowski’s suite. They passed through the outer office, which housed two secretaries, and entered his office. A huge oak desk dominated the room, covered with the ephemera of the office. The walls were awash in pictures and commendations and election memorabilia.

  Sitting on the couch along the wall was Dr. Vernezobre.

  “Abelardo, tell her what you told me.”

  Abelardo? Gramma’s friend.

  Jace had known Dr. Vernezobre knew Gramma but she hadn’t realized it was a friendship. That the doctor had called Gramma when he was hurting about Wrubel’s death surprised Jace deeply.