by Logan Miller
He wheeled the cannon across the room and aimed the barrel at the safe in the walk-in closet. He tilted back the muzzle and poured black powder down the bore. He was uncertain how much to use and poured more than he thought necessary. He then packed the lead projectile with the ramrod. He set the fuse in the touchhole and brought the cigar cherry down on the end of the fuse until it hissed with sparks and he hurried out of the room.
He ducked into the hallway and clamped down on the cigar with his front teeth and closed his eyes and covered his ears. There was a thunderous boom and the house shook and then went silent. He limped back into the room and peered into the closet. There was a deep crater in the steel door but it was still a safe. He loaded up the cannon and fired a second time. On the third cannon blast the hinges on the door gave out and the pins broke and the door was hanging at an angle.
He limped through the house and out to the garage where he found a crowbar.
He worked on the safe for a while until he pried off the steel door. It clanged onto the tiles and nearly broke his good foot.
He looked inside the safe. The velvet floor was piled with ten-thousand-dollar bundles that were bound with mustard currency straps. Hundreds of more bundles were stacked on the velvet shelves. He was staring at no less than several million dollars.
46.
One vehicle drove across the desert from South Tucson and the other drove north from El Paso. They arrived forty-two minutes apart at a truck stop on the outskirts of Albuquerque.
The drivers of each vehicle spoke briefly over the droning clamor and throbbing lights of idling semis that were huddled like a miniature city against the darkest hours of the night. They had little knowledge of the situation they were driving into and neither man had been able to get in touch with Marlo. After the third call in four hours they decided that it was best not to call any more and to simply continue to their destination. They spoke about weaponry and what each man was carrying on his person. They had been informed that high-powered rifles were awaiting them if needed.
The party from South Tucson tallied three men all under thirty and rode in an extended-cab Chevy Silverado. The two men from El Paso were twenty-seven and thirty-one years of age and rode in a Hyundai Sonata with factory tires and leather seats. The papers and registration on each vehicle were current. All the taillights and headlights were in perfect working order. None of the men had any outstanding warrants and each of them carried a valid driver’s license.
Each party used the restrooms separately and bought an assortment of sugary snacks and tall sodas from the fountain machine and enough gum and chili lime sunflower seeds to go around.
The vehicles refueled and then drove north on the interstate, staggered a minute apart from each other.
When they switched highways in Santa Fe and headed northwest it was just past 4:15 in the morning.
47.
Caleb limped back through the house and rummaged the garage again where he found a dusty sea bag. He shook it out and went back to the closet and loaded the sea bag with as much money as it would hold. He started counting the stacks and lost track around 280-something.
Through all of this he did not sit down. He remained standing, bent over his work. He could feel his eyes blinking more frequently and staying closed longer, burning, longing to drift away. He only needed a moment of sleep. But he knew this to be a lie. A moment would turn into hours. He was hanging on by threads of alertness. He knew that the instant he got off his feet he would crash into the dream world, without his knowing, and if he fell asleep here, he might never wake up.
He carried the loaded sea bag into the kitchen where he drank a bottle of spring water and tucked another one in his pocket. He went over to the bar and grabbed a handful of cigars from the humidor and buttoned them into a side pouch.
When Caleb stepped outside the sun was cresting in the east. At the foot of the valley he watched two vehicles turn right off the asphalt and make their way up the dirt road. He could not tell from this distance what type of vehicles they were, whether police or civilian, and he figured they were about five miles out, a good fifteen minutes from where he was standing. Perhaps twenty if they eased along the ruts and seasonal washes. From his elevated position amid the adobe walls, he was fairly certain they could not see him. He watched the vehicles disappear behind the mesas and when they reemerged within view of the compound, he would be gone.
He set the sea bag on the ground and looked at the head staked to the front door. He lit two cigars and stuck one of them in the head’s gaping mouth and smoked on the other.
He threw the sea bag over his shoulder and limped into the wilderness where he became a tiny wandering shadow upon the land and the vastness swallowed him whole.
Logan and Noah Miller are the cowriters, coproducers, and codirectors of two feature films, Touching Home and Sweetwater. Their first book, Either You’re in or You’re in the Way, was a San Francisco Chronicle #1 bestseller. Both live in Los Angeles.
