High White Sun Read online

  There were places and things and people in this world—in your life—you couldn’t leave behind no matter where you went or how far you ran or how much you tried to forget them. You never escaped whole. A part of what you were stayed behind, and a part of what had happened stayed with you always and forever.

  Like her old memories of Rodolfo. And Máximo from Ojinaga, with his dark eyes and wavy hair that had smelled of ashes the night after Dupree died, and who’d shared the same sharp-eyed smile as the man she struck yesterday out on Highway 90—a dangerous, knowing-too-much grin. But most of all, Caleb Ross, who’d once sworn how much he loved her and had promised to save her. Who had saved her, in ways she’d never expected and ways he’d never know.

  Leaving her wondering where he was now and dreaming of how his life might have turned out.

  She wasn’t sure if Sheriff Cherry still kept in touch with him. She knew all she had to do was ask, but each and every time she came close, she chose not to. The sheriff seemed to sense her unease, and never offered on his own to talk about Caleb or anything that had happened to them. She was thankful for that, because she was Caleb’s past and wanted to stay that way. Since she had returned to Murfee—this place and life they’d both been so desperate to flee—that had become truer than ever. Although she didn’t or couldn’t believe it for herself, she hoped he had found some way to forget all that had happened here. She didn’t call him or look for him, because she didn’t want to be the thing that brought him back here, reopening those wounds and haunting his dreams as Rodolfo and others still did hers. If he had any memories of her, she wanted them to be of those few good moments when they’d felt like they were the only two people in the world.

  Sharing cigarettes in the back of his truck, searching for fantasmas out at the Lights.

  Sitting out on the bench or the bleachers at school, laughing.

  Lying in his bed, feeling each other’s heat, wrapped in each other’s naked arms.

  Wherever he was, she hoped those thoughts might bring a smile to his face, for just one moment, and then nothing more.

  And that had to be enough for the both of them.

  * * *

  • • •

  SHERIFF CHERRY HUNG UP the phone and turned his full attention to her, shifting back in his chair.

  His office was small, too small, she thought, for the Big Bend County sheriff. She’d been told that the huge room upstairs, the one that took up most of the second floor and looked out on Main Street, had been used by the former Sheriff Ross, but when Chris Cherry took over he’d changed it all around, turning it over to his deputies. He’d claimed this smaller place downstairs for himself, near the hallway that led to lockup. Its only nice feature was a barred window with shutters that actually opened, like they were now, letting in molten light. Sheriff Cherry had the ceiling fan spinning fast above them, but it barely moved the papers on his desk; it felt like someone breathing on the back of her neck. The building was as old as Murfee itself, too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. Even with the AC turned up as high as it would go, it wasn’t enough, and it seemed to her that the sheriff kept his window open all year round anyway, the shutters pulled wide, no matter what the temperature. He was so tall, this old, cramped building probably felt demasiado pequeño. She guessed he liked having eyes on the real world outside, his way of escaping this place, even if it was only for a few minutes at a time and only by looking through bars onto the tree-lined street beyond.

  “That was District Attorney Moody, who I’m about to walk over and see. We were going to meet first thing this morning but he got held up for a bit. I guess we all did, with Terlingua. Anyway, when I see him we’re going to talk about our friend in lockup there, young Mr. Avalos. And somehow, I think that right cross you threw to his jaw is going to come up.”

  She didn’t say anything, looking instead down at the phone in her hands; swiping away the pictures of blood that were there.

  “Do you want to try and explain to me what happened? Take another stab at it from yesterday?”

  “Lo siento. It won’t happen again.”

  Sheriff Cherry sighed. “No, no, it won’t. I know that. But it shouldn’t have happened in the first place. It undermines what we’re trying to do here, Amé, the whole damn credibility of this department and the badge we both wear. People have to respect us, trust us. That won’t happen if we beat the shit out of someone in our care, even after what he did, or maybe mostly because of what he did. We have to be better than that. Azahel Avalos is our fucking responsibility. These slipups help guys like him go free. Goddammit, you know better.” He pointed out the window. “Right now, there are still folks out there pining for the good old days, for Sheriff Ross and Duane Dupree. They’re waiting for me, for you, to show we can’t do this job, that we don’t deserve it. They’re looking for any excuse, any goddamn mistake. Don’t give them the ammunition. Worse, don’t load the gun and point it at your own head.”

  “I was wrong. I know that.”

  “Okay, I guess I’m done, then. We’ll just have to see how it falls out.” Sheriff Cherry shuffled the papers around on his desk, still not quite done, no matter what he’d just said. “I told you not to make this personal. You really lost your cool all because he cracked wise about Tommy?”

  She sat still, her hands clasped in front of her. Más que eso, but she wasn’t quite ready to tell him that. She knew it was wrong and hated herself for it, but she wanted another chance to talk to Avalos alone . . . to look him in the eye and make sure she’d really heard him say what she thought she had. Then maybe she could talk to Ben Harper about it first and figure out what to do after that.

  She didn’t want to lie to the sheriff, so she didn’t say anything at all.

  He continued watching her, waiting, leaning forward with one hand propped beneath his chin. His eyes were bruised, soft, the way eyes get sometimes when you try to sleep but not well, or not at all. She recognized them because those same eyes had stared back at her in the mirror this morning, after she got the call about Billy Bravo and Terlingua. She’d already been awake for several hours, replaying the thing with Avalos in her head, watching the shadows coil and uncoil on the ceiling above her bed.

  She knew Sheriff Cherry didn’t quite believe her, but he wanted to, and that made her hate herself all the more.

  Finally: “Well, I’ll take that as a yes. Now I really am done with it.” He sat back up, unhappy. “All right, tell me about Terlingua.”

  * * *

  • • •

  HE’D HEARD MOST OF IT from Ben already, but she walked him through it again: the body, the girlfriend, the Wikiup. One of the county’s two ambulances had brought Billy’s body back to Murfee, and she and Ben had followed it so they could make some calls to his guide company, Trek River, who they hoped could give them some information for family notifications, but they needed to get back to Terlingua. They had the whole town to deal with; everyone was still a suspect. People drifted in and out of the place all day; some were already out on the river, others sleeping off the night before. Word of Billy’s death would get around and they planned on spending the rest of the day there questioning anyone they could find. Ben had Till Greer patrolling TX 118 and the River Road, FM 170, between Presidio and Terlingua, looking for anyone who might be trying to get out of town for good, and Buck Emmett was handling the crime scene and Billy’s trailer. Al mismo tiempo, Dale Holt was making some calls for them and checking in on Tommy and Avalos. They were so few to begin with, and spread so thin—there were a hundred things she and Ben needed to do—but still the sheriff had made a point of calling her in just to have this talk. He was angry about Avalos and wanted her to know it, and as much as Avalos was a problem she needed to deal with, she still wanted to take the lead on Billy Bravo’s death. She was afraid that when the sheriff finally dismissed her he was also going to pull her off the Terlingua case as punishme
nt for what she’d done on the road. Ben would argue for her, hard, but it might not be enough.

  “What do we know about these folks over in Killing that Bravo tangled with? Bikers?”

  “Nada. Just what Billy’s compañera said. We don’t even have names, la chica didn’t know them.”

  “But they sure as hell stood out to her. I take it she’d recognize them again . . .” Sheriff Cherry said it to himself as much as to her, turning around in his chair to take in the big map behind him on the wall. It was dark paper, heavily inked and lined, and protected behind a thick wood frame and smoky glass. It was one of the few items he’d brought down and kept from the old office upstairs. There had been all sorts of other things, antique guns and photographs, but he’d sold them all off and used the money for charity and the department. He stood, tracing a finger over the glass. “Killing’s another little ghost town that makes Terlingua look like Houston. I’ve never had a call out there. Not when I was a deputy, and not since. I don’t think I’ve been through there in years. There’s a few families hanging on, Raymond Joyce and his bunch, but not much else, or at least I didn’t think so.”

  “We’re going there tomorrow, esta noche, if we can.” She hit the word we hard, letting him know that she had to be involved . . . that Ben needed her.

  Sheriff Cherry turned back to her. “I may have to call in the Rangers on this, Amé. Royal Moody already told me they’re offering to investigate Tommy’s assault, and I’m guessing he’s going to let them. Royal’s just one more person who doesn’t think a whole lot of our abilities, mine most of all. He may want them to work the Bravo murder, as well.”

  “We can handle this. Ben and I can.”

  Sheriff Cherry nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He offered a thin smile, falling back into his seat. He looked so different to her from the man she first met two years ago in Mancha’s parking lot. But the eyes were the same, even now, even tired. Sheriff Chris Cherry was a good man and his eyes couldn’t hide that. They were mostly green, sometimes blue, but always, always, the brightest thing in a room. Caleb had had similar eyes—like hot sunlight on water—and for a short time, she’d thought they were the most beautiful things in the world.

  “Okay, Deputy Reynosa, let’s see how far you two get with Terlingua and Killing . . . then we’ll talk again.”

  She stood fast, grateful. “Yes, sir.” She wanted to go before he changed his mind.

  “And Amé, please let’s try not to hit anyone down there, all right?”

  * * *

  • • •

  SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO GO MEET BEN, but she needed to do this other thing first.

  Él sabía su nombre . . .

  She had to do it rápido because she didn’t want Sheriff Cherry to see her.

  She came out of his office and turned to go upstairs, but once out of sight, circled back around the big copier they were always repairing and went through the metal door into lockup. It was like walking forward through time, this part having been added to the original building to create their modern five-bed jail. That had been Sheriff Cherry’s doing, but since she’d joined the department, they’d never had more than a couple of them filled at any given time.

  Right now, there was only one.

  All six deputies were on a rotation for managing prisoners when the jail was occupied, but Sheriff Cherry had two custodians who also dealt with the day-to-day things: cleaning the cells, cooking food, dispensing meds. Dale Holt had jail duty today, but right now he was over at the Hancock Hill Regional Medical Center, visiting Tommy. That left only the regular daytime custodian, Victor Ortiz, whom she’d helped get hired, and the prisoner: Azahel Avalos.

  She’d called Victor earlier, so he knew she was coming. He manned a small office filled with even smaller computer screens; one for each camera focused on a cell. He was sitting in the dark, his weathered face lit only by those monitors, drinking coffee. She’d known Victor since she was little, when he’d lived on the same street as her mama and papa, the same street she still lived on now. He’d run a little paletería for a while and after school used to slip her mango con chile, her favorite, never charging her.

  Victor didn’t say anything, just nodded at her as she went by, with light and shadows reflected in his bifocals. She could smell his coffee, black and strong, like the coffees she always brought Ben.

  Azahel Avalos was in the first cell with a plastic tray across his lap, picking at the remains of his breakfast. His T-shirt and jeans had been replaced with a blue jumpsuit, his feet wrapped in dark socks. He looked up when he realized he was being watched through the plastic window on his door.

  Smiled, when he realized it was her.

  But the smile was different from the one he’d flashed yesterday; it was thinner now, like soft ice on the river. All for show. Avalos was truly and deeply scared. She didn’t know if it was the weight of what he’d done and what he was facing, or something else altogether.

  She was worried about what that something else might be.

  He got up and walked to the plastic. His breath fogged it, so he drew circles in it with a finger.

  “Oye, chica, ¿me extrañaste?”

  She tapped at the plastic, ignoring his question, but spoke in Spanish, low, so only he could hear.

  “Yesterday you said something to me. Do you remember that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be here long.”

  “Are you sure? Because right now you’re the only one here I see.”

  He shrugged, glanced down, not wanting to meet her hard stare. She could see not only the bruise on his face where she’d struck him, but also that his hand—the one that seconds before had been drawing on the plastic—was shaking. Whoever he’d pretended to be yesterday was gone. That person had disappeared like smoke, leaving only this shadow behind, thinner even than the shadows on her ceiling last night or those reflected in Victor’s glasses. And just like she knew so much about Sheriff Cherry and Caleb Ross through their eyes, she could see beneath Avalos’s hidden glances that he wasn’t truly dangerous. He was no killer, no matter how much he’d tried to act otherwise on the road. She’d looked into true killing eyes—Duane Dupree and Máximo—and Avalos was neither of them.

  She pushed. “You called me the girl with the gun.” She repeated it. “La chica con la pistola. But you also said my fucking name. You know who I am.”

  Él sabía su nombre.

  He knew her name.

  * * *

  • • •

  AND THAT’S WHEN she’d hit him yesterday. When he’d looked at her and said . . . you’re the girl with the gun, America Reynosa. She hadn’t been wearing a nametag; there’d been nothing on her badge or her uniform that would give it away. But Azahel Avalos had known her even before she’d put the cuffs on him.

  He’d said her name in surprise, but also in fear. The same fear that he couldn’t hide now and that was coming off him in waves. There was sweat in his hair and it was staining the back of his jumpsuit as he turned away from her and went back to his cot.

  He knew her name.

  And he was afraid of her, and she didn’t know why.

  6

  Royal “Roy” Moody was the law. He had two offices, one in Murfee and the other in Nathan, and whenever Chris needed to meet with him, he was always at the other one, which meant Chris spent a lot of time waiting around for him, like he was now.

  Royal was down the hall in the bathroom and had been forever. Chris sat in his office, a place that looked only half here, like Royal himself. There were a couple of dusty prints on the wall, generic cowboy stuff, and a picture of a smiling wife and son that Chris would have sworn came with the black plastic frame. Everything else—what Chris assumed were law books or case files—were hidden in water-stained boxes, stacked on the floor and on bookshelves. The desk was empty save for the picture and a battered laptop.
Chris had stood for a while by the two big windows that looked out over the parking lot and across the street to the Dollar General store. Even the lot was bare, except for Chris’s truck. He’d counted flies long turned to rust by the sun on the windowsill, and wondered at a lone nickel winking among the dead—how it had gotten there, who’d held it last—before giving up and sitting down.

  A toilet flushed and a few seconds later Royal strolled in, wiping his hands on his pants. Chris tried not to hesitate when Royal offered to shake.

  “Sheriff,” Royal said, sliding into the chair behind his desk. “Got a goddamn mess on your hands, I see. Now, two messes.” He raised two fingers for emphasis and rooted around in his blazer, finding a single stick of gum that he unwrapped with one hand, popping it in loudly. Royal Moody was short, maybe five-six, sporting the only outfit Chris had ever seen him wear—a blue chambray shirt, bolero tie, black vest, and a dark blazer that was neither black nor blue but some color in between. He also had his Stetson Bent Tree straw hat set down tight, hiding a nearly bald head. Chris had been told Royal used to be a damn fine baseball player in Pecos, but that was hard to square with the small, uptight man he’d come to know. Royal had been a longtime friend of Sheriff Ross and had never gotten over his death, or the fact that Chris had taken his place. Their relationship was cordial, professional, but little more than that. He was a good lawyer, though, very good when he wanted to be, and that was enough for Chris.

  “What are we looking at?” Chris asked.

  Royal snapped his gum. “I’m gonna charge the Mexican kid with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon on a peace officer.” He paused. “You know, the car being the deadly weapon.” Chris nodded, got it, and Royal continued. “Anyway, that’s a straight-up second-degree felony, and I’ll ask for and will get a high bond, in the neighborhood of a quarter of a mil at least. We don’t want folks running down our deputies. If he doesn’t make it, and by all accounts he won’t, you’ll have ninety days . . . well . . . call it a little less than that, to do whatever you’re going to do investigation-wise, before I have to get it all in front of the grand jury for indictment. Otherwise, we’ll likely be releasing him on a personal recognizance bond, and then it’s adiós, back over the river he goes.”