The Devil's Country [Kindle in Motion]

by Harry Hunsicker

  From the back of the building came a popping noise. A moment later, the neon open sign in the front window of Jimmy and Dale’s flickered on.

  The air was hot and humid. I wiped sweat off my brow.

  “You want another beer?” he asked. “On the house.”

  “Maybe later.” I headed down Main Street to search for Molly and her children.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I walked to the far end of Piedra Springs and back, stepping around downed tree limbs and scattered garbage left by the storm, stopping at each cross street, looking for any sign of the woman and her children.

  I saw the First State Bank, a limestone and marble building in the center of town. The bank sat between a shuttered movie theater called the Hippodrome and an old dry-goods store that was now a defunct antique mall. I saw a high-school-age boy wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey, riding a bike. I saw farmers driving pickups filled with hay bales. I saw a three-legged dog eating garbage.

  What I didn’t see was a woman in a prairie dress and her two children, one of whom was injured.

  At the outset, I was pretty sure my efforts would end up being futile, but I felt like I ought to do something to make sure they were safe.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was back where I’d started, in front of the bar.

  A diner was across the street, next door to the Comanche Inn.

  Earl’s Family Restaurant occupied a one-story adobe building with an enormous pitched roof and windows that looked out over Main Street.

  Bright-red paint decorated one of the windows, advertising the especials de la maison.

  Meat loaf. Double-battered chicken-fried steak. Earl’s Famous Enchiladas.

  I decided to check if someone at the restaurant had seen Molly leave the parking lot or, failing that, knew who Molly was or where she lived. Maybe I’d get something to eat at the same time. So I walked across the street, book under my arm, and entered. A bell on the door jangled.

  It was a little before seven in the evening. Half the tables and booths were full. Mothers and fathers with their children. Senior citizens. Men who’d spent the day tilling the land or working livestock.

  I realized I should have come here to read instead of Jimmy and Dale’s. Everything would have been different if I’d done that.

  A waitress in her forties with blue eye shadow and fake lashes as long as my thumbnail seated me in a booth by a window. Several people at nearby tables smiled and nodded hello, friendly like they tend to be in the western part of Texas.

  The interior of Earl’s was decorated with pictures of John Wayne and World War II bombers. The air smelled like cooked onions and a deep fryer that was a few months past needing its grease changed.

  Snippets of conversation drifted my way, talk about the tornado and the price of sorghum.

  The waitress brought me a glass of water and a menu. I couldn’t imagine the enchiladas at a place called Earl’s would be very good, famous or not, so I ordered the meat loaf and an iced tea, unsweetened. As she jotted down my order, I said, “You been in Piedra Springs long?”

  “How do you define ‘long’?”

  “You know a woman named Molly? She’s around thirty. Wears old-timey dresses.”

  The waitress scratched her chin, then shook her head.

  “What about Earl?” I said. “Do you think he might know her?”

  “Earl died three years ago. I’ll ask in the kitchen, but I bet they don’t know, either.”

  I thanked her, opened Gibbon, and started reading.

  Twenty minutes later, I was halfway through my meal and just getting to the part about Macrinus and his Usurpation when a Vietnamese man in his late forties entered the restaurant.

  He wore a crisp khaki uniform with a badge on the breast, brown Roper boots polished to a high gleam, and a semiautomatic pistol on his hip.

  The sheriff.

  The waitress who took my order greeted him, as did several customers. He took the booth next to mine, sat so that we were facing each other. The waitress brought him a cup of coffee. He added sugar and cream and then looked me in the eye like cops tend to do.

  He said, “How you doing, partner?”

  “Fine.” I put down the book. “And you?”

  “The four-twenty from Abilene, right?” He had a Texas drawl as strong as new rope. The accent seemed off-kilter coming from a Vietnamese guy.

  “That’s correct.”

  He was referring to the bus I’d arrived on. An observant man, this sheriff.

  “Greyhound runs only three a day through here,” he said. “Wasn’t hard to figure out.”

  I nodded politely, and we were both silent for a moment, sizing each other up.

  “You look like you might be in the same line of work as me,” the sheriff said.

  Cops always recognize one another. The way a person holds his head, scans the room, never quite relaxes, it’s pretty obvious. They say people who’ve been in prison can do the same.

  “I was with the DPS.” I paused. “Now I’m not.”

  The Texas Rangers are a division of the Department of Public Safety, so my answer was technically correct. I didn’t feel like getting into the details. Most people don’t leave the Rangers unless they retire or die.

  He cocked his head like he was waiting for an explanation as to why a man in the prime of life was no longer in law enforcement. When none was forthcoming, he said, “What brings you to town?”

  There were a lot of answers I could’ve given.

  I didn’t think he’d be impressed with my plan to read several of the great history books while exploring the nether regions of our fair state. I also didn’t want to tell him that movement was what had kept me reasonably sane these past few months after my family died.

  So I shrugged and said what I always did in these circumstances: “Just passing through.”

  He took a sip of coffee and rubbed his chin, appearing lost in thought.

  An elderly couple—the man wearing a short-brimmed hat and Buddy Holly glasses—stopped by the sheriff’s seat and discussed the storm.

  I returned to Gibbon and the Romans, finished my meal.

  A few minutes later, the sheriff appeared by my table. He pointed to the other side of the booth. “You mind?”

  “Not at all.” I put the book down again. “Please.”

  He sat but didn’t speak. He just looked at me like I was a fork in the road and he was trying to figure out which way to go.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  “You were across the street earlier, right? At Jimmy and Dale’s.”

  I nodded, liking his conversation starter not at all.

  “Slow afternoon over there, I would imagine. Not many customers.”

  I shrugged but didn’t say anything.

  The sheriff tilted his hat back, looked out the window.

  The seconds stretched to a minute. Neither of us spoke.

  The technique was old but effective. See what a person would say during a long period of silence. Most people feel uncomfortable in that type of situation. They want to fill the void, which means they might say something useful, reveal a nugget of information that they might not otherwise let slip.

  I’m not most people, though.

  After about two minutes, the sheriff said, “There’re these two old boys I don’t much care for. Right about now, they’re probably a half hour from the emergency room in Odessa.”

  I’d been wondering where the nearest medical facility was. I figured it had to be either Odessa or San Angelo, each at least a hundred miles away.

  “What I heard, they were at Jimmy’s earlier.” He paused. “About the same time you were.”

&nbs
p; I kept quiet, didn’t take the bait.

  “One of ’em has a broken nose and a hole in his gut. Somebody jabbed him with a stick,” the sheriff said. “The other got his bell rung pretty good.”

  “Why don’t you care for them?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “These two guys. How come you don’t like them?”

  Silence.

  The sheriff picked at his thumbnail for a few moments. Then: “I got my reasons. But that’s not what we’re talking about right now.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “These two fellows and how they come to get themselves banged up.”

  “Maybe they were out in the tornado?”

  The sheriff didn’t reply. He gave me a blank stare instead.

  “Let’s talk about why you don’t like them, then.”

  “When you’re sheriff, you can tell the pony what trail to take.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Right now, I need to know if you saw these two old boys at Jimmy and Dale’s earlier today.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “They’re white guys in their thirties,” he said. “Both of ’em wearing cowboy hats with a crease that’s low in the front. One’s got a Fu Manchu mustache.”

  After a moment, I said, “Yeah, I saw them.”

  “And you had an altercation with them in the parking lot?”

  His voice had a slight upturn at the end of the sentence, so maybe he was asking instead of stating what he already knew.

  In any event, I’m not real big on self-incrimination, so I didn’t reply.

  “Did you ever stop to think that they might have friends?” the sheriff said.

  As a matter of fact, I had. But I was more concerned with why a woman, standing in the rain with her wounded son and terrified daughter, was deathly afraid of those two men.

  “Who would those friends be?” I asked.

  No answer.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Other people you don’t care for.”

  “I don’t know you from Adam, but here I am, trying to do you a solid.” The sheriff shook his head.

  The waitress brought my check.

  “You left the bar for a spell,” the sheriff said. “Jimmy, he stuck his head outside. Apparently he saw you going all Steven Seagal on those two.”

  “Jimmy must have infrared vision,” I said. “It was as black as midnight and pouring rain.”

  The sheriff shrugged.

  “I wouldn’t trust Jimmy as far as I could spit,” I said. “Never believe a man with a mullet.”

  “You’re a pistol, aren’t you?” he said. “Ate up with the smart-ass syndrome.”

  An eighteen-wheeler loaded with cattle lumbered down Main Street, trailing a cloud of diesel exhaust.

  “Here’s how this is gonna work.” He tapped his index finger on the table. “You’re gonna be on the first bus out of here tomorrow morning.”

  “The nine fifteen to Pecos,” I said.

  He nodded. “And since you’ll be leaving, I won’t feel obligated to arrest you.”

  His offer seemed reasonable. My usual MO was three days tops in any given town, then back on Greyhound or the side of the road with my thumb out. I figured that might be too long in Piedra Springs, given the inquisitive sheriff and the two thugs I’d beaten up.

  Leaving meant I wouldn’t be able to look for Molly, however, and that bothered me.

  “Do we have a deal?” he asked.

  I waited for a beat. Then nodded.

  The sheriff smiled. He scooped up the bill. “Allow me. I insist.”

  “Thanks.” I marked my place in Gibbon with the cocktail napkin. “When Jimmy was running his mouth, did he happen to mention the woman?”

  The sheriff put some money on the table and arched one eyebrow.

  “Her name was Molly,” I said. “Late twenties, maybe early thirties. White, about five eight, a hundred ten or so.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. I know just about everybody in the county. Only Molly I recollect is in her seventies, lives on a ranch north of town.”

  I slid out of the booth. “This Molly dresses like a schoolmarm. Looks like she’s about to get on the wagon train for Californy.”

  Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I saw a flicker of recognition cross his face. Then his expression became deadpan.

  “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “First bus out tomorrow,” he said. “We have a deal, remember.”

  “You never said if Jimmy had seen the woman or not.”

  A moment of silence followed by a flash of emotion in the man’s expression. Anger, quickly squelched.

  “You’re staying at the Comanche, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “In the morning. I’ll give you a ride to the bus station.”

  I picked up my book. “Before I leave, I’d like to make sure the woman is OK.”

  “There’s nobody in town named Molly.” The sheriff shook his head and left.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Outside the diner the air smelled clean and fresh. Peach-colored clouds stretched across the horizon toward the setting sun. Looking at the town, you’d have had a hard time believing a tornado had passed through only an hour or so before.

  The sheriff was waiting for me on the sidewalk.

  “How come you picked Piedra Springs?” he said. “We make the middle of nowhere look like Times Square.”

  “Greyhound stopped here. I was tired of being on the bus.” I paused. “How come you won’t tell me about Molly?”

  “Already did. I don’t know anybody who fits that description.”

  The kid in the Dallas Cowboys jersey rode by on his bike, smoking a cigarette. We watched him until he disappeared.

  “I never caught your name,” the sheriff said.

  I didn’t reply.

  “Quang Marsh.” He held out a hand.

  I shook. “Arlo Baines.”

  He gave me a curious look, the name clearly triggering a memory. Maybe he remembered an article in the paper or a segment on the local news, something about either the murder of my family or the subsequent deaths of those responsible. Maybe he’d had coffee with a state trooper who’d told him the story.

  “Have a nice evening, Mr. Baines.” He smiled. “I suggest you go to your room and stay there until morning.”

  I told him good night and crunched across the gravel in the empty parking lot of the Comanche Inn.

  My room was on the back side of the building, out of view from the manager’s office, which fronted Main Street. The furnishings were old but clean. A lumpy mattress. Threadbare carpet.

  I stepped inside, clicked the dead bolt, and sat in the easy chair by the dresser, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire in hand.

  I read until it was time to go to sleep, and I tried not to think about my family or the woman named Molly and her children.

  I woke before dawn, as was my habit. I showered, packed my duffel, and went to Earl’s for breakfast.

  They had waffles, which made me think this was going to be a good day.

  A new waitress was on duty, a woman in her fifties with hair dyed the color of eggplant. I asked her if she knew a woman named Molly. Turns out she did, the senior citizen north of town. That was her mother’s second cousin.

  I thanked her and placed my order: a waffle along with two scrambled eggs and three sausage patties. Minutes later, the meal arrived. I ate. Drank a half pot of coffee and an orange juice.

  After breakfast, I headed back to the motel to read some more. I figured to give the Romans a half hour or so and then I
would wander around town and look for signs of Molly and her children until it was time to catch the bus to Pecos.

  I rounded the corner of the motel and saw Sheriff Quang Marsh standing in front of my room, banging on the door. His squad car was parked at an angle in front of my room, engine idling.

  I called out to him: “You looking for me?”

  He stopped banging and stared at my face like cops do when dealing with a suspect, the friendly demeanor from last night long gone.

  “Little early to go to the bus station, isn’t it?” I said. It was only seven fifteen.

  “We’re not going there just yet.”

  “How come?”

  “You didn’t tell me you were a cop killer,” he said.

  “That’s because I’m not.”

  He was referring to the men who’d murdered my family.

  They weren’t cops, no matter what their credentials indicated. They were something that stuck on the bottom of your shoe and smelled bad. In any event, I hadn’t even been charged, despite what the homicide squad had trumpeted to the media before the forensics came back.

  Sheriff Marsh pointed to the vehicle. “Get in the back. We’re going to the station.”

  The back of his unit was designed to hold prisoners. No inside door handles, a wire cage protecting the riders in the front.

  “Five years since the last murder in this town,” he said. “And then you show up.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He opened the rear of his squad car. “Pretty sure we found the woman you’ve been asking about, your friend Molly.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The interview room at the Piedra Springs sheriff’s office was in the old courthouse at the end of Main Street. The room doubled as a conference area where officers met before going on shift. It had gray carpet and walls painted a pale green, dotted with human resources posters.

  Several deputies hovered just outside, but Sheriff Marsh and I were the only ones in the room. We sat on opposite sides of a long folding table. The air smelled like coffee and copier toner.