“And how do y'all know that?”
“I seen the picture. On' they's circulating.” He leans back in his seat.
“Police have been in here?”
“Yes, sir. And distributed them papers.”
Whicher pulls out a photocopied picture of Gilman James. He puts it flat on the table. “This the boy?”
“Hell, yeah. It was the morning of the power outage. Start of the week.”
“Power outage?” says Whicher.
“He was staying at the motel. Over yonder.”
“Staying how long?”
“Reckon just one night. Sunday.”
Whicher pulls out his notepad. Writes down the detail.
“He had that truck,” says Lem. “The one y'all are looking for.”
“The F150?”
“Yes, sir. Red, Ford F150. Jus' like the
de
scription.”
“That's him, then,” says Whicher. “How'd he seem?”
Lem reaches up. Scratches on the back of his neck. “Shoot. Kind a' hard to say.”
“Notice anything about him?”
“Well, sir. I'll say he was wanting to git back on the road a ways.”
“I don't follow?”
“Wasn't nobody going no place, no how. We all was powered out.”
Whicher throws him a baffled look.
“The man needed gas for his truck. We couldn't pump any.”
The marshal leans forward, in his seat. “
What did you say
?”
“Don't know what all happened to him,” says Lem. “We closed up the store middle of the afternoon, account of the outage. Went on home.”
“Was he still here then?”
“Cain't say.”
“But he was out of gas?”
“He was gone next morning. Is all I know.”
The Solitario.
Across the miles of scrub and rock to the south, a telephone repeater mast cut the long horizon. Thunderhead moving behind it.
I steered the truck across the primitive ground. Tennille by me, up front in the passenger seat. SIG in her hand.
“I left my truck someplace like that.”
I pointed at the land ahead, through the windshield.
“There was a long canyon. North of a big repeater mast.”
“The Solitario,” she says.
“You know all of this? Your way around it all?”
“This is my country.”
“I dumped the truck,” I says.
She looked at me.
“I got in a canyon running east. Couldn't get out. I followed it to that old miner's house of yours.”
“Why do you even need it?”
“You really want in this?”
She didn't answer.
“We got to move that truck,” I says. “Hide it. Make everybody think we're gone.”
From the back seat, I could hear Michael.
“Where are you man...”
I twisted to see him. “Right here.”
Blood showed red, through the bandage at his arm.
I'd get gas from her truck. Wait for night.
“Take it easy,” I told him. “Rest up. We're going to stop soon.”
Nightfall, we'd break—cross the border, for Mexico. Get the hell out. Forget her.
Tennille rolled the window.
“Why'd you fire those shots? In the doorway of that gas station. Those two shots,” she said. “You think you hit anybody?”
I felt a chill at my skin, despite the heat. Thought of Jesse. We had something between us now; a connection, more than blood.
She reached down to the floor. Picked up the paper grocery bag.
“My life,” she says. A kind of hot-looking flush in her face now.
I glanced at her.
She cocks her head over. “My life. In a bag.”
“In a bag, huh?”
“It's too small. You see that?”
“I see it.”
“What's inside isn't enough.”
“We’re talking about the bag. Right?”
She opened it. Reached in. Pulled out a handful of crumpled bills.
She started to count, trapping money under her leg. “A ride. For fifty thousand dollars...”
I looked at her.
She put a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I just pulled a robbery.”
She was silent. She thrust all the money back inside the bag.
“Nobody needs to know. You could go home,” I says. “Forget this.”
She gave an empty laugh.
“What about your daughter?”
She turned the silver bracelets at her wrist.
“What's her name?”
She picked up the brushed steel Zippo from the dash. Flicked it open. Flicked it closed.
I held the truck steady on the worsening ground, the chassis bucking and shaking. Trying to keep from throwing Michael around in back.
“Maria...” she finally says.
I couldn't picture her with any kid. Some child, to take care of.
There was something about her, something hard.
All I needed was two hours, three, till it was dark. I'd cross the border, take Michael. What was she going to do?
Across the border, I'd find a doctor; it couldn't wait. Michael was passed out on the back seat.
I owed him a life.
*
At the bottom of a scree slope, there was an overhang of rock. I stared through the windshield at a clump of evergreen sumac.
Blind, we'd come in. What I’m used to; you do that and get it wrong, somebody’ll put you in the meat-locker.
Every trail and track, Tennille seemed to know. I'd let her pick the route, trusting her. She couldn't risk being seen, no more than us.
The red tailgate of the F150 was poking out from beneath the mess of sumac. I scanned the empty land around us. The truck seemed undisturbed.
We pulled up. I cut the engine, climbed out—listening to the silence.
I opened up the cab of the F150. Felt the broiling heat inside.
“You know it needs gas.”
“Siphon some out of mine.”
“I got a length of hose,” I says. “In the tool-chest.”
I climbed up in back. I took the keys from my pants to open up the lock on the tool-chest—and stopped dead in my tracks.
Somebody’d bust the lock off of there.
Somebody knew I was there.
Terlingua.
Whicher writes fast in his notepad.
Across the diner table, Lem Stinson sits and watches, with his arms crossed.
“There anything else?”
“Well, sir, maybe yes. Maybe no.”
The marshal puts down his pen.
“I never told it them boys up to Alpine. Only heard an hour back my own self. Seeing how y'all was headed down here...”
“That's alright. What d'you hear?”
“Well. I'm raisin' Cain the hot side of the kitchen, we's talking about how y'all are coming down. Coming down this way. The
in
vestigator—on the case. Ain't it, sir?”
“Criminal investigator. That's correct.”
“Damn me, if Shorty don't pipe up...”
“Shorty?”
“Alvis. Alvis Town. Delivery driver. Little feller. All call him 'Shorty'.”
“Okay.”
“I says about how I seen the man y'all are huntin'. And Shorty starts in about his truck.”
Whicher leans on his arms. “Nobody's seen that truck in two days.”
Lem rubs at his chin.
“This guy, Shorty?”
“Well, here's the thing. But maybe it's jus' talk. I don't know...”
“What'd he say?”
“Word is the truck been seen. Up in the hills. The backcountry.”
Whicher's eyes narrow.
“Maybe it's jus' a dumb rumor. But word is somebody found it. Out in the desert. Hid away.”
“Where?”
“You'd have to find the guy that reckoned to see it. Y'all have to look hard on that, though.”
“This guy that found it?”
“Comanche feller.”
“Y'all don't know where he's at?”
“Man likes to move around a piece.”
The door of the diner opened. A Mexican guy walked in. Gray coverall, carpenter belt, T-shirt at the neck, covered in paint.
Lem calls over; “Hey, Esteban...”
The man looks back, wary.
“I thought y'all was fixin' to come by this mornin'?”
The man shrugs. “I needed two-by-fours. At the lumber yard.”
“Git over here, cain't you?”
The marshal feels the man's reluctance. Not marking it against him. The suit, busted nose, big hat. Lot of guys wary around Whicher.
“This Comanche guy,” the marshal says, “what's he called?”
“Goes by the name of Joe Tree.”
Whicher writes in the notepad.
The Mexican walks across to their table.
“If y'all was looking to git a hold of Joe Tree? Where y'all want to look?”
Esteban's face gives them nothing.
Lem turns to Whicher. “The two on 'em work together, time to time.”
“That right?” says Whicher.
“It's alright,” says Lem. “Mr. Whicher here's a US marshal. It ain't about Joe...”
“Like to talk to the feller is all.”
“I told the marshal, Joe likes to move around a piece. Ain't it?” Lem grins. “Anybody knows where to look, reckon y'all is it.”
Esteban shrugs.
“How 'bout that land of his?” says Lem. “Out in the hills. An' them trailers. Up by the Labrea place...”
“Labrea?” says Whicher.
“It's just a old house, out in the desert. That stretch, folk know it by that name. Joe Tree bought a parcel of land by it.”
Whicher stares out the window at the light beginning to fade. “Labrea. Maybe I'll go take a look...”
Black Mesa, Terlingua.
I drove my F150 behind Tennille, in her wheel tracks. She kept Michael with her—he was barely conscious on the back seat of her truck.
I lied we could hide the truck in the barn at her place. As long as she seemed to think we were in it together.
Whatever she had going on, I couldn't figure it. But it was still too light to head for the border.
We had to wait it out, her place was safer.
I'd get Michael, when it was dark. Take our chances, we'd taken worse.
Somebody'd bust the lock off the tool-chest on my truck. Nothing taken. But somebody knew. Sooner we got out, the better. It could only be a matter of time.
I didn't plan on hurting Tennille. It wouldn't come to that.
She might be crazy, I didn't have her down as stupid. She'd have to let us go, no way stopping us. She couldn't turn us in, not after what we'd done.
I followed her up a dirt trail towards a ridge of bedrock. The land starting to come in shade as the sun got low.
To the south, black cloud was building over the high mountain—in the west the sky clear, the light in streaks across the ground.
I could see the adobe house. I closed in behind her.
A dog ran among the scrub. Barking. Turning circles. Then it was gone.
At the house, I drove past her, down the sloping field to the barn.
I put my truck right inside it, out of sight, the keys left in.
I ran back up the field, toward the house.
Tennille's standing on the porch steps. Eyes on the hills.
“Somebody's been here...”
She moved to the window, it was open, marked up on the frame.
We stood, listening.
From across the flat, the dog set to barking.
Tennille stepped to the front door. Pushed at it with a finger. It was open.
I kept my voice low. “Where's the SIG?”
She pointed towards her truck.
I moved silent, eased open the truck door. Picked up the pistol, glanced at Michael, breathing shallow, eyes shut.
I left the truck door open. Climbed the porch steps. Put my boot against the door.
I pushed it all the way back. Raised the SIG, stepped inside. From the dim corridor, I checked each room, finger on the trigger, no quick moves.
It was clear.
Maria's room, the window had been forced. The front door unlocked from the inside.
“That bastard, Leon,” she said.
She walked from the house. I followed after her.
She headed across the flats. To the dog, still barking. It watched her. Feet rigid in the dirt.
I could see it was her dog. She reached it, knelt, then stiffened. Her hands moving to something at its back.
“That son of a bitch...”
I walked towards them. The dog jumped, tried to bolt, but she held it.
I walked slow. Saw the fear in its eyes.
There was blood in its coat.
“Don't come any nearer.”
I was close enough to see the long, jagged cut all the way down its back.
She shook her head. “Leon did this.” It struggled to break free. She held it. “It's alright, it's alright...”
I backed away. “I need to take care of Michael.”
“Get him inside...”
“You think he's out there?”
She held the dog tight. Scanned the hills looking for the slightest sign. In the dust blown gloom.
CHAPTER 16
Lights out. A bare room. Michael on a blanket, on a guest bed. I watched him. Night creeping in. Willing the darkness around us.
If her husband was trying to break in the house, cut up the dog. What next? I had to get Michael out in time.
“How is he?” Tennille, in the doorway.
“Weak. Leg's not too bad. The arm's still bleeding.”
“You have any idea what you're doing?”
“Just some basics.”
She looked at me.
“Ten years a Marine...”
“Oh?” she says.
“That was then.”
“I called my friend. Connie.”
“She the doc?”
“Ex doctor.”
“You really trust her?”
Tennille nodded.
“When's she coming?”
“Tonight. If she can. Connie doesn't work regular hours exactly...”
Michael looked sick. Sweat was drying on his skin. We couldn't stay all night. If her doctor friend didn't show, we'd be better just to go.
Tennille stepped from the doorway into the room.
She watched Michael flat out on the bed a moment.
She passed behind me, I heard her lift the blind and look from the window. Then she walked out, down the hall.
Michael
. All my life I'd known him. Him and Nate. From second grade.
The three of us were like brothers. He never would've joined the Corps but for Nate and me. Six months after us, he signed up.