“Look, uh, Chigger. I’m sorry about last night.”
Five feet to go.
Chigger smiled, flexed his fingers again, clearly looking forward to what was to come.
I kept walking. “See, I was having a bad day and—”
I feinted toward Mr. Confederate Flag. Then I uncoiled my arm like a striking snake and popped the guy on the right. The tips of my fingers squished into his eye.
The blow wasn’t hard, but it didn’t need to be. Eyeballs, they’re really sensitive. No permanent damage, just a lot of pain.
The guy screamed like a hyena stuck in a blender. He staggered backward, hands to his face, and stumbled off the curb, landing on his back in the gutter.
I was aware of this only through my peripheral vision. As soon as my fingers had connected with his eye, I’d turned toward the man in the Confederate flag T-shirt.
He was standing still, which was the wrong move, rearing back his arm to hit me with the blackjack.
I kicked him in the knee with the sole of my shoe, another blow that didn’t require a lot of force in order to be effective.
I can’t speak for everyone else, but I imagine they heard what I did: the tendons in his knee snapping like a banjo string yanked too tight.
Note to self: next time don’t use that much force.
He howled and fell to the ground, landing on an empty quart bottle of Schlitz. The bottle broke, instantly bloodying his arm.
Chigger, the smartest of the bunch, had jumped back. He was now out of reach.
“Where’s Suzy?” I walked toward him. “For your sake, I hope you didn’t hurt her.”
He looked at his friends, no doubt wondering how his carefully laid plans to beat the crap out of me had fallen apart so quickly.
He pulled a pair of nunchakus from his back pocket, two heavy wooden batons connected by a piece of chain about eight inches long. The weapon of choice for generations of Dungeons & Dragons aficionados, kung fu enthusiasts, and others who lived in their parents’ basements.
Across the street, a squad car stopped. No one got out.
“Be careful with those things,” I said. “You’re liable to hurt yourself.”
Chigger swung the chucks around his head, over his shoulders, a redneck Jackie Chan.
I stepped back, looked around for a weapon. The broom handle from last night would have been perfect, but there was nothing similar within easy reach.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “You scared of little old Chigger?”
Without warning, he swung for my head.
I jerked away but felt the weapon whizz by my scalp.
He chuckled, bounced on the balls of his feet, moved closer.
I eased back, shoes crunching on broken glass.
Mr. Flag, still on the ground, grabbed at my leg.
Chigger used the distraction as an opportunity to move in for the kill.
I raised my hand to ward off the blow, risking a broken arm instead of a concussion.
But the strike never came. Instead, Chigger screamed and dropped the nunchakus as my face burned and my vision hazed over.
I backed away, wiping my eyes until I could see.
Chigger, his face as red as a tomato, stood a few feet away, tears streaming down his cheeks.
The woman in the green canvas shoes was on the street, aiming a spray canister at him. She looked at me and said, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Chigger, temporarily blinded, moaned and accidentally stepped off the curb. He lost his balance and fell on top of the guy with the injured eye.
“Thanks for the help,” I said. “But I had him just where I wanted him.”
“Really?” She lowered the canister.
“More or less.” I took several deep breaths, tried to slow my heart rate.
The woman looked across the street. I followed her gaze.
Sheriff Quang Marsh was leaning against the hood of his car, watching us, making no move to intervene.
The woman said, “How come he’s just sitting there?”
“He’s trying to make a point. We had a difference of opinion over when I would leave town.”
She stuck the pepper spray in her backpack while I felt the adrenaline from the fight subside and anger take its place.
“A little advice,” she said. “Don’t beat up the sheriff. That’s a losing proposition.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I paused. “You always help people you don’t even know?”
A wry smile crossed her lips, and for a moment she looked like a younger version of herself, softer, not so businesslike.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “The enchiladas at Earl’s. They sucked.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sheriff Quang Marsh watched as I strode across Main Street toward him. He was still leaning against the side of his squad car.
I paused in the middle of the road as the Bentley drove by between us.
The sheriff turned his attention to the British auto, watching the vehicle disappear to the west.
I finished crossing the street. The woman in the green canvas shoes followed me.
I stopped in front of the sheriff. “What the hell kind of cop are you, anyway?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Those guys attacked me. You just sat here and watched.”
He peered toward where Chigger and his two buddies lay in front of the empty building.
“From over here,” he said, “looked like you made the first move.”
The woman pulled out a notepad and pen.
“Besides, everything worked out OK.” He paused. “After your lady friend helped you with the last one.”
The woman snorted. Scribbled on her pad.
“Usually a guy like you would have his deputies rough me up,” I said. “Not contract out the job to a bunch of idiots.”
He arched one eyebrow. “A guy like me?”
My face still burned. I wiped away tears. That’s one of the dangers of using pepper spray. The mist tends to drift with the wind, causing collateral damage.
“I didn’t contract out nothing,” the sheriff said. “You got into that mess on your own.”
Across the street, Chigger was standing now, leaning against his friend I’d popped in the eye. They were clustered around their buddy with the damaged knee.
“Guess I’d better call an ambulance.” The sheriff sighed. “You’re keeping the Odessa ER busy, that’s for sure.”
The woman glanced at me before continuing to jot on the notepad.
“That reminds me,” I said. “How’s the search going for Molly’s children?”
Silence.
“You haven’t looked at all, have you?” I said.
“There’s a twelve-thirty bus going to San Antonio.” He adjusted his gun belt. “The county would be more than happy to buy you a ticket.”
“Who’s Molly?” the woman asked.
The sheriff and I turned our attention her way. The sheriff said, “And who are you? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Hannah Byrne. I’m a journalist.” She paused. “With the New York Times.”
The sheriff didn’t say anything. His lips pursed, eyes squinted.
Cops hate reporters. All the questions, the Freedom of Information requests. The accountability. Hard to do good police work when there’s some bleeding heart peering over your shoulder, second-guessing your every move.
“So you’re not looking to buy a ranch?” I said.
“Huh?” She lowered her notepad.
“You asked
about the appraisal office. Figured you wanted to buy a ranch.”
“Do I look like a rancher?”
“Not really, but I try not to judge people by their appearances.”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “Uh, what’s the New York Times doing in Piedra Springs?”
“Working on a story,” she said.
“What kind of story?” Sheriff Marsh asked.
“The decline of small-town America. So who’s Molly?”
The sheriff stared at her, face blank. No one spoke for a few moments.
I filled the silence. “Molly is the name of a Jane Doe found last night with her throat slit.”
Hannah scribbled furiously. “When’s the last time you had a murder, Sheriff?”
Marsh didn’t say anything.
“Five years ago,” I said. “Isn’t that what you told me, Sheriff?”
Marsh shot me a look full of daggers and venom.
“Can I get the name of your public information officer?” When he didn’t answer, Hannah looked up.
“The county barely has money for coffee,” I said. “They sure don’t have the resources for a media relations person.”
Sheriff Quang Marsh took a deep breath and hitched his thumbs in his gun belt. “An unidentified woman was found murdered this morning,” he said. “Evidence gathered at the scene indicates she was a prostitute and that she got sideways with a customer.”
“What evidence?” I tried to contain my anger. “What are you talking about?”
Not only was the woman going to be painted as a vagrant, now she was being labeled as a prostitute, a doubleheader in terms of someone people wouldn’t care about.
If you wanted to be invisible in America, completely out of sight of mainstream society, be a homeless hooker.
“You need anything else, ma’am, drop by the courthouse.” Sheriff Marsh tipped his hat.
“What about her children?” I said. “You can’t just leave them out there.”
Marsh ignored me. He smiled at Hannah, got into his squad car, and drove away, heading down Main Street.
I swore, kicked at the dust in the road.
Across the street, the three hoods had disappeared, skulked away to lick their wounds and plot revenge, no doubt. A pickup rattled past, headed out of town. Several Mexicans sat in the back, laughing with one another. Other than that, Piedra Springs was as quiet as a tomb.
“Tell me about the children,” Hannah said. “What’s your connection?”
I didn’t reply. My face burned, though that was no longer from the pepper spray.
“What about the victim? Were you two friends?” Her tone was sharp, a reporter’s pressing voice. Any hint of softness long gone.
I considered telling her the story—the men threatening Molly, her wounded son. But talking to reporters doesn’t come easily to someone like me. So I stayed silent.
Hannah tried another gambit. “That sheriff’s an interesting guy. What do you know about him?”
“You really doing a story on the decline of small-town America?”
She didn’t reply, which was answer enough.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Eight Years Ago
There’s a moment in a man’s life when all that is good and hopeful is distilled into one instant. A feeling unlike any other. The strongest narcotic in the world, a flush of well-being that fills your body with warmth and light, the goodwill of those who came before you and the hope you have for the generations who will follow.
I’m talking of course about when a man holds his child for the first time.
My daughter. She was twenty minutes old, face wrinkly and sticky from afterbirth, tiny body swaddled in blankets.
She was beautiful, so wonderful and precious and full of promise that her mere presence left me tearful as I sat on the edge of the bed next to my wife.
Across the room, our son, two at the time, was playing with his grandfather, my father-in-law. The boy didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. We’d told him there was going to be a new addition to the family, his baby sister. We’d impressed upon him how he was going to have to look out for her as they grew up.
That had been in the abstract. The day of her birth was the reality, and, all things considered, he’d rather play on Grandpa’s phone.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Arlo?” My wife stroked the newborn’s tiny head.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“One of each,” she said. “That’s what we always wanted.”
I kissed my daughter’s temple.
A single tear slid from my cheek, dropping to the infant’s forehead as a nurse entered the room and told my wife the baby needed feeding.
Frank, my father-in-law, hoisted the boy onto his shoulders. “Let’s take a walk, little man. Give your sister time to have her first breakfast.”
They left, and I handed the infant to my wife.
“Go with them, Arlo.” She pointed to the exit. “You can’t forget your firstborn just because someone new came along.”
I looked at the door and then back at the baby.
“We’ll be all right.” My wife winked at me. “I promise.”
“Won’t be long.” I slid off the bed.
Frank and my son were in the waiting room at the end of the hall, looking out the window above the hospital parking lot.
Frank was in his fifties, with silvery hair and a tennis-court tan. He was wearing a navy-blue polo shirt, pressed khakis, and boat shoes. He looked like he’d just come from the country club, which he probably had.
My boy grabbed his grandfather’s phone again and scampered to a chair a few feet away. I watched him play with the device, remembering his birth in this very hospital not that long ago.
Frank stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. Sunlight reflected off the Rolex on his wrist. Frank always carried about him an aroma of Wrigley’s Doublemint and Polo aftershave, to my mind the smell of prosperity and privilege.
“I sure am proud of you, son,” he said. “That’s a nice little addition to the family you’ve got there.”
“Thank you.”
The tears had stopped, but my heart still felt bigger than normal, about to swell out of my chest.
“You’ve treated my girl right, made her happy,” he said. “From one man to another, I appreciate that.”
I gave him a nod of thanks.
He chewed his gum, the sinews in his jaw flexing against his tan skin.
I waited for what was to come. There was always something else with Frank. He was a successful man, the president of a bank, a pillar in the community. Driven and competitive, continually in motion, always working on the next deal.
“How long are you planning to keep playing cops and robbers?” he asked.
I looked at my son across the room, wondered what his other grandparents would have thought of him. Of me and the life I’d fashioned.
My father and mother had been killed in a car wreck when I was twenty. I was an only child. My wife and my son and daughter were all I had. All I needed, too.
“I’ve applied to be a Texas Ranger,” I said.
“Good Lord, Arlo.” Frank sighed, smacked his gum. “You’re bound and determined to make my girl a widow, aren’t you?”
“I’m good at what I do. The Rangers will only make me better.”
“The people you have to deal with. Common criminals. Murderers.” He shook his head. “Aren’t you afraid of bringing that home?”
I didn’t answer. The gun tucked under my T-shirt, the weapon I always carried when off duty, felt heavy in my waistband.
We’d had variations on this conversation before,
and I never knew how to explain the reality to a man like Frank. Being a cop was to be part of something larger than yourself. A fraternity, a group of people who would look after you and yours if the regular channels failed to do so. I tried one more time.
“You like what you do, don’t you, Frank?” I said. “And you’re good at it, too, right?”
He didn’t answer.
“So how would you feel if someone told you to stop being a banker?”
He stared out the window. “Every day at work you wear a bulletproof vest. What kind of life is that?”
“I’m a cop, Frank. It’s my kind of life.”
“You can be head of security at the bank.” He turned away from the window, looked me in the eyes. “Make four times what you’re earning now.”
My parents had taken out substantial life insurance policies, money that I had never touched, left invested. I wasn’t in the same league as my father-in-law, but I didn’t lack for finances.
I shook my head.
“OK. Fine.” Frank sighed again, just a little too loudly, and I realized that I’d been played like a tourist at a three-card monte game.
He pulled a notecard out of his back pocket. “Since you’re dead set on staying in this line of work, how about you do me a little favor?”
Across the room, my son—Grandpa’s phone in hand—squealed with laughter at whatever was on the screen.
My turn to stare out the window. I wished I were back in the room with my newborn daughter.
Frank held up the card. “This fellow wants to do some business with me. I need to find out if he’s legit.”
I took the card. Looked at the name, a man who owned a chain of strip clubs, among other, less savory business ventures.
Legit was in the eye of the beholder, I supposed. Always looking for the next opportunity, Frank on occasion dealt with people who were less than upstanding members of the community. The deal came first; the details were secondary.
“Follow him around for a day or two,” Frank said. “See who he hangs out with.”
The Devil's Country [Kindle in Motion] Page 6
