The Far Empty (23 page)

CHRIS

C
hris was about to call Anne just to say hi, when his radio popped. It was Miss Maisie, letting him know an alarm had been tripped over at BBC. It happened every now and then, kids trying to get into the school, or more likely, onto the field at Archer-Ross Stadium. Usually it was enough to roll slowly through the lot with the emergency lights flashing, just in time to catch a glimpse of a shirtless kid hightailing it over a fence, tripping, laughing. Next morning someone might find a few crushed Lone Stars, a used condom. It was cold out tonight, though, hardscrabble winds, sharp enough to cut your breath away. Any kid screwing around out there was really desperate for a good time.

The sun had gone down a couple of hours earlier, but the edges of the surrounding mountains and mesas remained, sharp and tilted, cutting against the sky. They stayed there, stubborn, like the afterimage off a flashbulb. They trapped the setting sun’s rays in the higher
reaches, reflecting that dying light against the dark. He might never love Murfee, but at times he did love
this
place: the old ghost towns, the high desert; the mountains and valleys and cliff walls. The daylit sky when it was only the color of salt or sand or chalk. All the empty beauty of it—an incredible hardness made up of so much nothing.

When he rolled up, he hit his lights, circling the big lot. There was nothing to aim his spotlight at, so he didn’t. He went around in loops like the fall carnival merry-go-round. Up close, in the dark, Archer-Ross was as high as the Chisos, so circling it was like driving the length of a great sunken ship, resting at the bottom of the ocean. He was about to radio Miss Maisie, let her know it was probably nothing, when there was a flash to his left. It caught his eye so quick he hit the brakes too hard. He revved the truck, brought it around with the tires protesting, scanning the length of the stadium. After his conversation with Garrison, Archer-Ross, already huge, was now ominous and twice as large:
Who do you trust?
Everything extended into the dark around him, surrounded him—the whole place a black concrete maze.

•   •   •

He punched his spotlight, used it to paint the parking lot and the stadium walls. There,
right there
, he caught a figure walking toward his truck, trapped by the sudden white light. Hands raised, smart enough to stop even without knowing how Chris had spooked himself—how he’d already drawn his gun and was aiming it through the windshield. The hands were up, no gun, no gas can. Nothing. Just one man in a hooded sweatshirt, waiting for Chris. Not even a man—younger than that, a kid. Chris knew who it was; knew that sweatshirt, had seen it or one just like it a hundred times. Caleb Ross. He put his gun away before Caleb got into the car. The boy still
might have seen it pointed at him, though. If he did, he didn’t say anything.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Then, peering into the black behind Caleb, “Is there anyone else out here with you?”

Caleb shook his head. “No, just me. I’m alone.”

“You weren’t messing with anything? I’m not going to find graffiti painted somewhere?” Chris looked down at Caleb’s hands for paint on his fingers or on the edges of his sweatshirt. Caleb wasn’t that sort of kid, but nothing else came to mind. If there was a girl hiding out there in the dark, it was easy enough to admit it. If there was a boy, Caleb might have a lot of reason not to.

“No, sir, nothing like that.”

Chris searched the dark again. “Don’t worry about that
sir
shit. I need to know what you were doing. Then I’m going to call your father—
my boss
, the sheriff . . . remember him? Does he know you’re here?”

Caleb gave him a look that was answer enough.

“Where’s your Ranger?”

Caleb said something weird. “It was my mom’s, right? So I don’t trust it. It’s over at the Pizza Hut, where I’m supposed to be, where my father thinks I am.”

Chris let that go. “Look, you’re too smart for whatever the hell it is you’re doing right now. You’re the sheriff’s
son
. You know better than to screw around near the stadium. It has your family name on it, for chrissake. It’s about the only thing worth anything in this town.”

“I know.”

Chris dwelled on that, reading the heaviness in Caleb’s voice. He didn’t like what was there. “Damn, son, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You wanted someone to come out and find you.”

Caleb wouldn’t catch Chris’s eye. “No, not just anyone . . .
you
. I knew you were on shift, I found out from Miss Maisie. If someone else had showed up, I was going to bolt.”

Even more, Chris didn’t like where this was going, not at all. “Look, I’m taking you back to your truck, and then you’re going home.”

Caleb settled into the seat, pulled back his hood, revealing dark, tousled hair. He was pale, thin; looked older and tired, too. “Please, I need to talk to you. There’s no one else. I made a promise. I need your help.”

Chris started to say something, but Caleb’s face stopped him. “And no matter what, I don’t want my father to find out.”

“You know, you could have just called. Miss Maisie could have given you my number.”

Caleb nodded, his shoulders too thin for the thick sweatshirt. “I know, but it seemed too risky, too easy for you to ignore me.”

Chris still felt the weight of his gun that had just been in his hand, pointed through the windshield. “And standing out here in the dark, pulling alarms or whatever, isn’t? Accidents happen, Caleb.”

The boy’s eyes were deep, knowing. “Yes, they do.”

They stared at each other across the truck, desert wind working the windows and door handles—ghosts wanting to get in and join them. Chris ignored them. “Okay, you have my attention.”

“I wanted Ms. Hart to talk to you, but she wouldn’t see me.” Caleb rubbed his chin, at stubble that wasn’t there.

Chris was taken aback. “What’s Anne got to do with this?”

“My father’s interested in her. They had dinner the other night, his favorite place in Artesia. Did you know that? I think he met her once before. I’m sure he had a hand in bringing her here.”

Chris didn’t answer, didn’t even know what to say.

“Look, I know you’ve been talking to her, and since this involves her too, I thought she might help us all meet. Not just me, but a friend as well. I spooked her, though. She’s been avoiding me. After she went to Artesia, I got afraid she might mention it to my father, so I did all this tonight.”

Chris felt heat at his temples, sparks. “How do you know I’ve been talking to Anne Hart? How much have you been sneaking around? You’ve been following me, her?”

“This town isn’t that big, not nearly big enough. If I know, someone else does, too.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Caleb shrugged. “I’m saying you grew up here, you have to remember what it’s like.”

Chris nodded. “Consider me reminded. Now I’m getting you home.”

Caleb put a hand on his arm. “No, this isn’t just about you and Ms. Hart. Not now, anyway. I want you to help a friend of mine. Amé Reynosa. America Reynosa.”

The name didn’t mean anything to him.

Caleb took a deep breath, released it like he’d held it for a long time, maybe forever. “I think you found her brother’s remains out at Indian Bluffs. Rodolfo Reynosa—everyone called him Rudy Ray. I wanted to believe it was my mom, but it’s him. It has to be. He worked for the Border Patrol and everyone thinks he got in trouble with the cops or drug dealers and ran off. No one really searched for him, no one gave a shit. Everyone thinks they know what happened to him, just like they think they know about my mom.”

“And you’re not like everyone else, Caleb? You don’t think he ran off?”

“No,
no
. He was murdered. You found him buried at that ranch, and I think I have a way you can prove it.”

A Caucasian. Probably a Hispanic male, probably mid-twenties.
Rudy Reynosa was a name Chris remembered, mostly from high school; a little bit older than Chris, but not by a whole lot. He might have heard it since then too, something to do with the things, the troubles, Caleb had mentioned. He never knew Rudy had a sister. “Okay, say you’re right, why was Rudy Ray murdered? Who killed him?”

Caleb looked out the window, searching the same dark that had eluded Chris moments before. “I don’t know why, exactly, but Amé knows
who
 . . . and I believe her.” Caleb pointed at Chris, let his arm hang there. A heartbeat later Chris realized Caleb wasn’t pointing at him, but at his chest. At the Big Bend County Sheriff’s Department star on his jacket.

Chris heard him out, everything he had to say, while they drove back toward town. About an injury that Rudy had suffered as a kid, bad enough that it might still show up in a forensic exam, if someone knew to look for it. Also about a phone Rudy’s sister had kept full of mysterious phone numbers and one not so mysterious at all, possibly Duane Dupree’s. Chris thought there was even more the boy wasn’t telling him, didn’t feel yet he could tell him, but he’d heard enough.

“What do you think? Will you help?” Caleb asked, and Chris said he didn’t know, needed time to think. Not much different from what he’d told Garrison. He planned to drop Caleb about a mile short of his truck. Caleb knew a place and guided him there, behind the Dollar General store. After they stopped, Caleb held on to the door handle like he was holding on for dear life, and maybe he was. “Thanks for listening and not shooting me back there at school.” Caleb had
seen the gun after all. “After this thing with Rudy Ray is over, I hope you’ll help me.”

“With what?” Chris asked.

“Finding my mom. She didn’t leave Murfee any more than Amé’s brother did. She’s still here somewhere.”

Chris raised his hands. “Caleb, I . . .”

Caleb stopped him. “Look, I know you don’t believe me, not yet, but when you prove it was Rudy Ray at Indian Bluffs, you will.” Caleb got out and stood beside the truck, alone in the dark, lost in it. “You know that place in Artesia where my father took Ms. Hart? He took my mom there too, all the time, and his second wife, Nellie, because I’ve heard him say it. Hell, probably Vickie as well. It’s been there forever, just like him. They’ve all gone there, and now they’re all gone.”

“Jesus, Caleb, you don’t really believe your father killed your mother, do you?

Caleb worked hard at the words, as if he had never practiced them, never really imagined saying them out loud to another person. “I
know
he killed her.”

Before Chris could say anything else, his phone rang. He checked it, glanced at Caleb, who didn’t miss his look.

Caleb’s eyes were wide, nervous. “What? Who is it?”

Chris held on to the phone, ready to answer. “Get on out of here, get going now. It’s the sheriff . . . your father.”

MELISSA

S
he was surprised when he came into Earlys. Whiskey Myers was playing on the radio, a band they both once liked, a long time ago. Chris was slow getting to the bar, stopping to say hello to a few of the regulars. Seeing him like this, she noticed he’d dropped a few pounds, not much, but his uniform didn’t seem as strained, as uncomfortable. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, so maybe he was trying to grow out a beard or a goatee. He had a goatee in
ESPN The Magazine
. That had been a great picture, a photo that made him look even taller and stronger than in real life. It’d been snapped mid-throw, his arm braided, taut. The football was still resting on his fingers, aiming upward, surrounded by the glow of stadium lights. If she hadn’t seen it in person, she never would have believed it was real.

“Hey,” he said, sitting on the same stool Duane Dupree had occupied a week before.

“Hey, yourself. What brings you in here?”

“Was out by the school . . . a false alarm. Thought I would drop in and see how it’s going.”

“Paradise, absolute paradise.” It came out harder, had an edge she didn’t really mean. She didn’t want to fight with him, not here. “You want something?”

“Coffee if it’s made up. It’s damn cold, and not even Thanksgiving.”

She searched for a mug—always a pot brewing behind the bar to help the regulars sober up. Some came in just for the coffee and talk. She put the mug in front of him. He got lost in it, staring into the rising steam. She left him there and checked on the real drinkers.

He sat for a while, talking to her whenever she had a free moment. Small stuff, nothing important. She had a mug of her own tucked beneath the counter, but with him right there, she let it be. If he had something particular on his mind, he didn’t share it; just sipped his cup of coffee, and then another. He told stories about his parents, his time in high school and other things; thoughts, disconnected, all random. He asked her about her work before drifting sideways into silence. His handheld radio rested on the scarred wood next to his cellphone, in case Miss Maisie called him out, but it stayed quiet. He never once looked at the cell or checked it. If his eyes weren’t in his coffee, they were on her. She had no idea what he was seeing.

If he’d ever just opened the door a bit, said, “Hey, it’s funny but I think I stopped those two agents,” she would have said, “I know,” finally admitting to searching his things and willing to suffer whatever anger or disappointment came with it; how she’d watched the video and told Dupree about it. But he never did. He finally got up to leave, fumbling in his pockets for a few bills, even though Earlys
always gave out coffee for free. She could tell he was going to wave goodbye, slip out the door, but she came over, pushed the money back across to him.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” he said.

She laughed. “It’s a bar, Chris, there’s nothing but trouble in here.”

He smiled, joining her for a moment. “I’ll be home when you get there. Call me, let me know when you’re closed up.”

“Okay, I will,” she said. He’d never asked her to do that before. It was strange.

He shuffled from one foot to another. “There’s another thing. I talked to the sheriff tonight. He wants me to head out with him day after tomorrow, take me elk hunting on the land he owns up toward Sierra Escalera. I’ll be gone a day or two.”

She turned his empty mug in her hands. It was still warm from where he’d held it tight. “Chris, you’ve never been hunting.” It was half a question.

“Once or twice when I was kid. Mule deer, that sort of thing.”

She wondered if he’d ever told her that. “Do you want to go?’

“He’s my boss, Mel, the sheriff. The almighty Judge. Can’t say no.”

“Elk are like big deer, aren’t they?”

Chris cracked a smile. “Yeah, very, very big deer. Big enough that I might even hit one if I see it. Guess we’re having elk for Thanksgiving, babe. That’s what the sheriff wants, to bag one for Thanksgiving.”

She didn’t like his look, the whole tone. She surprised herself, maybe him too—reached out, put a hand on his arm, holding him back. It was the first time she could remember touching him in weeks. It had been good having him here tonight.

“Hey, you okay?” she asked as he turned for the door. What she
almost said, what she wanted to say so badly and what was on the tip of her tongue:
Are we okay?
Are we ever going to be okay again?

Chris smiled right at her, right
into
her. “Right as rain, babe.”

“It doesn’t rain much here, Chris. It’s a fucking desert.”

He smiled again. “Yeah, I know.”