High White Sun Page 24

  But it damn sure looked like he had, right up until she’d turned away and couldn’t watch anymore.

  Her daddy had died on a stretch of dirty concrete ten steps from her window, and afterward cops came and got the body and took some pictures and tossed their cigarette butts on the place where he’d drawn his last breath, leaving behind only a yellow chalk outline. It had been an ugly, empty thing, making her daddy seem like he’d been nothing, too.

  Impossible angles and curves, and all of it empty on the inside.

  But she remembered how he took her a dozen times to see the elephants Bertha and Tina; how he used to sing You are my sunshine, my only sunshine when he put her on his shoulders, and how he’d smelled like cigarettes and Aqua Velva and Royal Crown. He’d been so much more than that ugly, empty chalk sketch that she’d stared at every day until it was gone, finally fading away under the footsteps of people going on about their business.

  That’s all she had of her daddy: that damn outline and some memories to fill it in, and that was still a hundred times more than Little B had from Earl.

  Outside, Earl put an arm around Kasper and pulled him close like he was telling him a secret. She didn’t have anything against Kasper, but damn, it wasn’t right.

  Sunny, born Mary Grace Deshazo, although she hadn’t let anyone call her that since the summer of 1979, turned away from the window.

  Again.

  26

  She aimed for the head, even though that’s not what Ben had taught her.

  Two to the chest, center mass, and keep firing, until the threat stops. That was always his lesson.

  She found a spot between the eyes anyway, and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  • • •

  SHE WAS PICKING UP HER SPENT BRASS, hunting for it gleaming in the dirt, when she realized Sheriff Cherry had walked up to the makeshift range. He was standing there looking through her spent targets, the ones she’d held down with the boxes of .40 caliber ammo she’d brought with her, counting her good shots. The targets weren’t QT bottles or black and white circles, they were paper people . . . exaggerated criminals pointing guns straight at the shooter or holding knives, one even wearing a ski mask; their middle sections squared away with additional lines to separate out center-mass shots.

  Most of her targets were clean in the middle, the paper untouched. All of her shots were clustered around the head and neck.

  The sheriff was still wearing his ear protection, the sound of gunfire carrying loud and far out here in the desert. He’d probably heard the shooting when he drove up, his window down, and had walked all the way through Chapel Mesa’s shadows with them in place. The range had been bulldozed out of the hard earth four or five months ago, little more than a messy trench with a high berm in the back and a few rusted target stands. There was a thick tangle of tarbush along the berm that refused to give up, along with some red yucca that looked like drops of blood hanging in the air. It wasn’t much, and there was a nicer indoor range in Nathan, but the department used this one all the time; she and Harp most of all.

  She waved at the sheriff with a fistful of brass to let him know she was done, and he took off his plastic earmuffs.

  He raised a faceless target. “Nice group. I had no idea how good a shot you’d become.”

  “It’s okay,” she called back, dropping her brass into a bucket.

  Sheriff Cherry held it up some more, looked through the holes. “I’ve seen targets used by DHS, their Tactical Training Task Force. They’re printed up like zombies, and they say the only shots they count are head shots. I guess it’s their idea of humor.” He put the target down and slid the ammo box back over it, walking up to her. He bent down and started helping pick up brass. “So if the zombie apocalypse comes, you’re clearly ready. Harp would be hurt that you didn’t invite him out here with you. This is your guys’ favorite place.”

  She smiled. “He’s taught me a lot out here.”

  Sheriff Cherry bounced some brass in his hand, then leaned over and tossed it in her bucket. “Between the two of you, I may have to increase our budget for training ammo. I sometimes wonder if Till Greer even knows where his gun is, while you and Harp go to sleep with yours under your pillows.”

  She pretended to look for more brass, the sheriff’s words hitting too close to home. With all the guns she had staged around her house, she didn’t have one under her pillow, but damn close enough. If the sheriff noticed, he didn’t say anything. He had other things on his mind.

  “Look, we haven’t had a chance to talk much since you and Harp met with Danny Ford. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me. Harp told me about the things you said, how you handled the whole thing better than him. He doesn’t know if it changes anything for Danny, but . . .” The sheriff trailed off, deciding what to say next, how to say it. “I want to tell you I’m glad you tried. I think I’m supposed to say that, even if I’m not sure that’s how I feel. What I do want to say, what I want to make sure you understand, is that Danny Ford is not your brother. He’s not Rodolfo.”

  “Lo sé. They don’t look the same at all.”

  The sheriff laughed, picking up the last bits of brass and pretending to dust them off, clean them, as if it mattered. “You know what I mean. We don’t talk much about what happened with you, me . . . with Caleb.” He turned a spent casing over, reading the little words etched on it. “Or Sheriff Ross and Duane Dupree. I guess I don’t talk much about it, because I’ve always figured, what’s the point? It’s done and over. But we can talk about it, and we will, if everything that happened back then is affecting your judgment now. Danny Ford is not Rodolfo Reynosa. This is not a second chance to save your brother.”

  She raised her head. “I didn’t think that. Is that what Ben said?”

  “No, not so much. He’s worried about you, all of us, but for his own reasons. He doesn’t think this thing with the Earls is going to end well no matter what we do.” The sheriff watched the red yucca bend and wave in the hot breeze. “Maybe he’s right.”

  “I won’t do something foolish, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Both of you told me to stay away from Killing and I have. I will.”

  Sheriff Cherry nodded, satisfied, as if he just needed to hear her say it out loud.

  America remained silent for a long, long time, the only sound the jingle of brass in her bucket. Finally: “Do you really believe what happened to us can ever be over?”

  Sheriff Cherry shrugged. “It has to be.”

  She stared down into the bottom of the bucket. “Ben doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think people can change. He says they can’t get away from the bad things they’ve done, and that’s why the Earls will always be trouble for us, always hombres malos. I’ve made mistakes, too, but I want to believe I left them all behind. I just don’t know.”

  “First, you didn’t do anything wrong or bad, Amé, and second, you have changed. You’re not the same girl I saw outside of Mancha’s, not the same girl that Caleb told me needed my help. You were tough then, but you were also still afraid . . . very afraid, and for good reason. Fear makes a lot of people weak, but not you. In the end, it made you twice as strong. You’re here, now, doing a job that a lot of people didn’t think you could do and that most wouldn’t have even given you a chance at. But you’re my best deputy, and you know it.

  “And look, Harp cares about all of us in his unique ways. My father was not much of one to say I love you. He wasn’t affectionate like that. But if I ever mentioned I was looking for a certain book at the library, somehow, some way, it would appear on my dresser. If I said I needed some new football cleats, he’d make a special trip and get them before the next practice. When he noticed a broken lightbulb in my room, he’d always fix it before I even knew it was out. My dad showed me how much he loved me in all the little things he did, even though he never said it out loud much at all. Ha
rp’s kind of the same. When he’s telling you and showing you things, he’s doing it to keep you safe. He’s showing both of us he loves us.”

  The sheriff tossed a spent casing end over end into the desert. It caught light and seemed to burn up in the air before it hit the ground. “Maybe Harp is right and we can’t just run away from the bad things we’ve done and the shitty choices we’ve made, but that’s because we’re always going to carry those scars and the lessons we’ve learned with us. We’re supposed to. That’s called surviving. And I have to believe it’s not our mistakes that define us, it’s how we go on living after we’ve made them, for better and for worse.” The sheriff smiled at her. “And you, America Reynosa, are a survivor.”

  America thought about that, and about Billy Bravo; the entire weight of his life—the good and the bad, but most of all, how light he’d been at the very end, when she and Vianey had tossed his ashes into the river.

  You didn’t do anything wrong or bad, Amé . . .

  But Sheriff Cherry didn’t know about the boy sicario Máximo. He didn’t know about the money in her house and the guns she’d hidden there to protect it and herself, and she wondered if today was the day to tell him about it. What would he say, and what would he think of her then?

  She was still deciding when the phone on her belt buzzed. She stole a glance down, where it took her a long second to recognize the number. It was Avalos’s lawyer, Santino Paez. He’d never called her before and she couldn’t imagine why he’d be calling her now. He had talked about going to Artesia for dinner, but . . . it could have something to do with Avalos himself. She’d asked Paez to work on him, to get him to talk to her, and maybe, finally, he was ready.

  “Do you think about him, miss him?” the sheriff asked her, putting his last handful of brass in the bucket and wiping his hands on his jeans.

  “Rodolfo? Some days sí, some days no. It’s less every day.”

  “No, not your brother. I mean Caleb Ross. You know, since we’re now talking about the past and all.”

  Pero no todo, no hoy . . . not now, not until after she talked to Paez. After that, she’d tell the sheriff everything. She promised herself.

  As she hefted her bucket and started walking back to the truck, she knew she was about to lie to the sheriff, again. Even after all of their talk about choices and mistakes and learning from them, she didn’t miss a beat when she finally answered.

  In her life, how much could one more secret, one more lie, truly weigh?

  “No, I don’t think about Caleb at all.”

  27

  Mel caught sight of Ben’s truck coming down the long gravel drive, throwing up a plume of rocks and dust behind it, so she was already standing on the porch waiting for him when he pulled to a stop. It still seemed to take a long time, and even in the shade, heat had collected under the porch, so she was sweating through her T-shirt. She’d have to take another shower before getting ready for work.

  “What brought you all the way out here? You could have just called,” she asked.

  Ben was fumbling around in his truck, pulling out a bottle and a large box. He had a grin on his face.

  “Well, if I’d called, you might have said no.”

  “No to what?”

  Harp put the box on the ground, tipping it over with his boot.

  “To this . . .”

  * * *

  • • •

  IT WAS ABOUT FOUR OR FIVE MONTHS OLD but still large, all white, with almond eyes and dense fur. It ran around in circles, barking at something only it could see, and then tumbled up the porch to sniff and lick Mel’s bare feet.

  “Goddamn, Ben Harper, it’s a puppy.” She laughed, bending down to rough up its fur.

  “Don’t act like you’ve never seen one,” Ben said, following the dog up the stairs, the bottle still in his hand.

  “Not one like this.” She picked it up, discovered it was heavier and bigger than it first appeared, trying to get a good look at it. She stared into its liquid eyes and it stared right back at her, unafraid, and licked her forehead.

  “Well, set us up with some glasses and I’ll tell you all about him.” He raised the bottle, and she could see around the dog’s bobbing head that it was Balcones Brimstone. The same whiskey she’d served Jesse Earl.

  She carried the dog with her when she went inside.

  * * *

  • • •

  “HE’S A KUVASZ, a type of Hungarian livestock dog. Useful, if you had any livestock.” Harp raised his full glass to the empty scrub around them. They’d settled into chairs on the porch and the dog was lying beneath her legs, head on its paws, watching the distance.

  “You couldn’t have just got a shepherd or a miniature dachshund or something?” she asked, feeling the dog’s breath on her skin.

  “Well, I looked around and just came across him.”

  “There is no way you just came across this dog. You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble, Ben. And it had to have been a lot of trouble. He’s beautiful, but you shouldn’t have.”

  Ben sipped the whiskey, skinning back his lips at the burn in his throat. “I told you I was going to do it and I did. Now it’s done. Besides, he’s perfect. He’s all guard dog. He’ll look after you and your kids, when you get around to that. As a breed they’re incredibly loyal, always alert. They’re gentle with a family but damn cautious around strangers. I read they’re barkers, but out here, I figure that’s more a blessing than a curse. He’ll be good for scaring off the coyotes and wolves. He’ll take lots of attention and training, but he’ll be worth it.” Ben took another sip. “You know, though, you really might want to buy some cows or sheep or something to give him something to do. Or you can take him to the bar with you, let him hang out there.”

  “Ben, I haven’t seen a wolf out here, ever, and I’m sure in the hell not going to see one in Earlys. That’s just what I need, for him to bite a customer.” Even after she said it, she knew what he was really getting at.

  Ben raised his eyebrows. “Some customers might need it.”

  She reached down, ran her hand over the dog’s fur. It felt electric, charged. She needed to go in and get him his own bowl of water. She’d never owned a dog, and wasn’t sure if Chris had, either. “So you’re still worried about that thing at Earlys?”

  “I’m a cop, I’m paid to worry. It’s sort of the job description.”

  “Yeah, Chris was madder than hell about it. Worried. Almost made me quit my job, and now here you are with a dog. I’m sure that’s just a coincidence.”

  Ben ignored the last of it. “I don’t think that man makes you do anything. It’s not in his nature, or yours.”

  “No, I guess you’re right.” She considered the dog at her feet. “What do you think will happen with all that, with Danny Ford and the Earls?”

  Ben shrugged. “Don’t know . . . still hard to say, just like I told Chris.” And he left it at that, focusing on his drink. But she knew with all the things he didn’t say, whatever he thought was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be good.

  She took a mouthful of the Balcones and tasted fire and sugar and oak. It rolled through her, made her shudder. Her lips were pins and needles.

  “I’m going to get a bowl of water for the dog and some ice to cut this.” She raised her glass and stood up, and the Kuvasz stood up with her, tail wagging. “Does he have a name?”

  “Nah,” Harp said, pouring more into his empty tumbler. “He’s all yours now. You can name him whatever you want.”

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN SHE CAME BACK, she thought Ben might have snuck another two, or even three, glassfuls of the whiskey. He was standing and his eyes were bright and it had nothing to do with the sun, and the whole porch smelled like the Balcones. Like a campfire—like fruit and pepper and smoldering scrub.

  “You’re not al
ready leaving? You just got here.” She put the bowl down and the dog stuck his head in it, seeking out the water. “And, you know, it looks like there’s at least half that bottle left.”

  “Chris has to go up to El Paso for that meeting tomorrow and there’s some stuff we need to get done. I think Tommy’s going to be released today, so I need to be getting back.” He tracked her eyes to the bottle on the porch. “And yes, before you ask, I’m fine to drive. Hell, there isn’t shit out here to hit anyway.”

  She put a hand on his arm, holding him back. “But are you fine, Ben Harper? You’re worried about me, about Chris. Who’s looking after you?”

  He picked up the bottle from the porch and tucked it under his arm. She was afraid he was going to drink it all the way back to Murfee, and wondered how hard it had been for him to get it out here unopened, untouched.

  “At Jackie’s funeral, the priest, Father Murray, comes up to me afterwards and tells me how things are going to be okay, that I’ll make it. How I’ll be fine.” Ben held the bottle under his arm tighter. “Now, he really doesn’t know me, since I wasn’t much of a churchgoer, not regular, but he knew Jackie, because come every Sunday, she was sitting right up front in her pew. Sometimes I was working, other times I just didn’t go with her, but what it all comes down to is I just wasn’t there that much. All that extra time I could have had with her, and I let it go.”

  “Ben . . .”

  He stopped her. “No, it’s okay. Let me finish, please. So Father Murray, who probably thought I was a shitty husband anyway, still tells me with a straight face that I’ll be okay. That my Jackie will always be looking down on me, looking after me, taking care of me. And maybe it was complete and utter bullshit, since we both knew I didn’t deserve it, but at least he knew the sort of woman that she was, the heart that she had, so that was enough for me. It was then, and it still is now. That’s enough and it’s all I need.”