A Thousand Falling Crows (30 page)

Sleep had come easily to Sonny after a long day, and Blue had made his way back to the foot of the bed, staking out his spot.

The moonlight was dim, offering a patch of soft light in the window, but the rest of the house was dark. The mantle clock ticked, and the radio was off. Water dripped at a slow rate from the faucet of the water pump, and even the mice in the walls had quieted down. Roaches came and went, still feasting on what had been left out for them to scavenge, but they were silent about their work. Sonny had vowed to start cleaning up the place the next day.

Two prosthetic prehensors lay on the table, almost identical. One was a little more comfortable than the other.

When the phone began to ring, the sudden arrival of the clanging bell and the unexpectedness of it, startled Sonny awake immediately.

He got to the phone on the fourth ring, determined to quiet it down, hoping like hell that it was a wrong number. Good news never came in the middle of the night.

Blue had padded after Sonny and stood at his feet.

“Hello,” Sonny said into the receiver.

“Did I wake you, Ranger Burton?”

Sonny recognized the voice straight away. It was Frank Hamer. “It's the middle of the night, Frank.”

“Sorry about that, but news of a robbery came in from Vinson. No money, just food. Sounds like our trio. I think they're goin' to get desperate out there, just like I said.”

“What can I do for you, Frank?”

“We're goin' to set up at a few spots by the state line at dawn, just in case they try and make their way back. Gonna meet at Lancer's Market in an hour. I said I‘d call you.”

“I‘ll be there. Thanks for calling, Frank.”

The line went dead, and Sonny stood there making sure he was awake and hadn't dreamed the whole conversation.

The abandoned hunter's shack had smelled like death warmed over from the very beginning. Now it was worse. Eddie lay on the floor on his back, unblinking eyes staring at the ceiling, his face adorned with ribbons of blood that were quick to dry. The flies had already found their way inside the door.

Silence had returned to the lonely night, after the echo of the gunshot had advanced out into the world, fading away around Jupiter or Mars. The stars pulsed in the sky, offering the only hint of life, and the sliver of moon looked frozen in place, like it was staring down, unable to comprehend what it was seeing.

The only sound that pierced the silence at any time was a dry wretch, the sound of a body flailing, toes to tongue, from the inside out. Carmen couldn't stop puking even though nothing came out of her mouth. Knees on the ground, palms of her hands forward, she crouched like a dog unsure of where to go next. She had fallen, stumbled out of the shack, unable to collapse all of the way.

The ground was hard and pebbles dug into her hands, but she didn't care. She was numb to physical pain of any kind. It was her mind and heart that were on fire. Particles of gunpowder and smoke coursed through her veins, unable to destroy, unable to hurt. It was like they were looking for a home. The invisible cause of the pain was unbearable.

Eddie was dead. Had died instantly. With one pull of the trigger, Tió had ended twenty years of rage, of being second-best, abused, threatened, beat-up, and pushed around. He had screamed like a banshee and chased the echo of the gunshot out the door, disappeared into the darkness, fleeing his own action of madness, his own fears, and the ultimate realization that was yet to come: He was alone now. Alone and lost.

Carmen heaved again and allowed the guttural pain to escape from her mouth. It sounded like a wail, a grieving barred owl, a coyote trapped in a narrow pass, unable to free itself. Nothing solid escaped her lips, only drool and spittle that tasted like three-week-old milk that had been left out in the sun.

She didn't know how long she had crouched there, but she knew if she fell the rest of the way to the ground she would just lie there, refuse to get up, drift off, and hope to awake to find that this was all a nightmare, not real. She would become more vulnerable than she already was, an easy meal for any predator that happened by.

If she stood up, then she would have to admit that she was on her own, too. Just as lost as Tió. In charge of her own destiny. She would have to decide what to do next, what to do with Eddie's body, what to do about Tió, where to go from here.

The darkness of night would not last forever. Morning would break and shine new light on the world, exposing the deeds and crimes of the night, just like it did every day. There was no escaping the light, the truth. Carmen knew that much, even though she was just a girl.

So she stayed that way, on all fours, half-human, half-animal, until she could stay no more, until her body threatened to disobey her mind, her will. She stood up when she no longer had a choice.

Carmen's eyes had adjusted to the dark as best they could, but her heart skipped a beat when she saw Tió standing by the door of the shack, leaning on the weathered clapboards with all of his weight, head down, the pistol dangling in his right hand. She froze in place, hoping he hadn't heard her, seen her. But it was too late. He raised his head and looked straight at her.

Even in the dim light of the fingernail moon, she could see that his face was soaked with tears, like a sheen of oil had been painted across his perfect Aztec-god-like cheeks and forehead—a warrior returning from the battle. Tió glowed with sadness and doom. He was not an angel arriving to save her. His eyes were caught in a deep struggle, one of many that had accumulated over the years. Slights and fights and bites that were beyond Carmen's knowledge or desire to know, all boiling up in the quick pull of a trigger.

She didn't know if she was safe, if she should run from him—or to him.

“We have to leave, Carmen,” Tió said. His voice sounded like a trumpet on the radio, wavering with a plunger at the end of the horn, slow and sad, not fast and happy. There would be no dancing on this night.

Carmen hesitated, studied Tió the best she could. There was no escaping him. There had been no escaping from either of them, the Clever, Clever boys, from the moment she had climbed down the tree with her pillowcase of clothes and gotten into the car with them. The joyride had turned bloody, doomed from the start. She had been too young to know then what she knew now. The arrival of death is a quick teacher.

“We can't just leave,” Carmen said. She stepped forward slowly, like she was walking on a winter pond, the ice thin and uncertain.

A burst of light suddenly flared in front of Tió. He had struck a match on the sole of his boot. “I have fire.”

Carmen stopped in her tracks. Tió held the safety match at his chest. Hot, orange light glowed outward, making the dirt and rock formations that surrounded the shack look like an alien planet, an imaginary place where fanged, blood-hungry monsters lurked in the shadows. And the light glowed upward, glinting off Tió's shiny face, making him look twisted and strange, like maybe one of those alien monsters had consumed his soul. That would explain everything. But Carmen knew this was no radio play, no made up drama. The twist in Tió's face was real.

“We can see, that's good, Tió,” Carmen said.

He shook his head. “I can burn the shack. Set it on fire.”

“Somebody will see it.”

“We'll be gone,” Tió said. “It won't matter.”

“Where are we going, Tió?”

“I‘m going to take you home, Carmen. Isn't that what you've wanted to do all along?” Tió said, tossing the match inside the shack, onto the bed that he and Carmen had shared, onto the bed covered with Eddie Renaldo's blood. It didn't take long for the flame to turn into a blaze.

CHAPTER 29

It felt strange to Sonny to be in the truck without Blue. The dog had been a constant companion since they had come together, but on this night Sonny thought the dog should remain behind, at home, inside where it was safe. He had no idea how the hound would react to gunfire—if there was any. Frank Hamer seemed certain of his plan, so there was little doubt that the seat next to him would not be the place for a lame dog.

Instead of Blue, the seat held his .45, a fully loaded gun belt, three boxes of shells for the 12-gauge Winchester repeating shotgun that sat wedged between the seat and the door, and a ten-inch Bowie knife that had been his father's. He figured he'd need every bit of ammunition from his personal armory to face the Clever, Clever boys.

Whether it was a smart thing to do or not, Sonny had taken the time to put on the prosthetic. It had felt far more comfortable than he had expected, and it gave him a sense of balance on his feet that had been lacking since the amputation. Suddenly, he had more equilibrium, stood up straighter. He had even used the hook, for the first time, to shift gears, from first to second. It was a start, and the gear slid into place perfectly, allowing Sonny to keep his good hand on the steering wheel, and his eyes—mostly—on the road.

The truck's headlights cut into the darkness like hundred-candle torches, showing him the way to Lancer's Market. A skunk had scurried across in front of him, leaving a foul smell in its wake, but that was the only creature of the night that Sonny had seen. He was glad he hadn't hit the thing.

The night sky was clear, and there was no hint, yet, of the day to come. It was just a little after four o‘clock in the morning. Dawn would start to break in another hour.

Six vehicles sat in Lancer's parking lot—Jonesy's car, another sheriff's car next to it, a black Ford sedan that Sonny figured belonged to Frank Hamer, Jesse's sedan, Bertie Turnell's delivery truck, and the truck that served as Hugh Beaverwood's ambulance and hearse. It was a full lineup, one that Sonny had expected and dreaded. He knew Jesse would be none too happy to see him.

Sonny pulled up next to Jonesy's brown-and-tan Chevrolet and sat for a second. Eight men stood on the porch of Lancer's Market, two of them that Sonny didn't recognize. They must have been with Frank or were county deputies that he'd never met. That was possible, since he'd been out of the field for a while.

It had been a long time since he'd been part of a gang like this, a posse of sorts, and even though it was still the middle of the night for most folks—and most creatures—he felt more awake than he had in a long time.

He didn't have to wait long to face Jesse. The Ranger was at his door before Sonny could grab up his gun belt and step foot into the parking lot.

Jesse rapped on the window with his knuckle as hard as he could. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Sonny stared at his son, his face all bound up in anger and dissatisfaction, and he barely recognized him. “You better ask him,” Sonny said through the window, motioning to Frank Hamer, who had come up on Jesse without being noticed.

Jesse turned to see Hamer, and Sonny pushed out the door.

“I called him here, Ranger Burton,” Frank Hamer said, standing as tall and straight as one of those new oil derricks that were starting to pop up across the Texas landscape. “You have a problem with that?”

“I do. He's a liability. He can hardly take care of himself, much less fire a gun. And he's only got one arm.”

“Looks like he's got two to me,” Hamer said, nodding toward Sonny's full sleeve and hook.

“What the hell?” Jesse said.

Sonny slapped on his gun belt, pulled it through the buckle, and tightened it on his hip. Luckily, it went off without a hitch—or any practice. Adrenaline and pride made for a viable combination. “No ‘what the hell' about it, boy,” Sonny said. “Where do you want me, Frank?”

“You can ride with me, Sonny, if that suits you?”

“Suits me just fine. Just fine.”

The road dipped just before the state line, and the ditch beside it was deep enough to put a car into. It was Jesse's place, out of sight to watch for the car that had shot at him. He had a flashlight to signal Frank Hamer, Sonny, and Jonesy. The other deputies, along with Bertie Turnell, were on a road over, armed with an old Navy flare gun, just in case the boys came that way.