Cryer's Cross (6 page)

“Dad?” Kendall says. “We have to find him. I want to keep searching. It’s not dark yet.”

Mr. Fletcher checks his watch. He glances at Mrs. Fletcher.

“I’m in for another round,” Mrs. Fletcher says. “Why don’t you head back to the farm, Nathan. Kendall and I will go out again with someone else.”

Kendall smiles tearfully. “Thanks, Mom.” They go out with another group.

After dusk, when Kendall and her mother return, they find Sheriff Greenwood again. Exhausted, Mrs. Fletcher goes into the restaurant to call Kendall’s dad to come out and pick them up. Kendall approaches Sheriff Greenwood.

“I need my school buddy assignment,” Kendall says. She’s so tired she can barely hold back the tears now.

Sheriff Greenwood glances at her and takes his clipboard out. “You’re all alone out that direction,” he muses.

“No kidding.” Kendall can’t help it. She’s still stinging from yesterday’s interrogation, even though the sheriff played the good cop.

He mumbles, “Eli’s grouping with the north end. Travis is east, but one of you would have to travel alone to meet up . . . hmm.”

Kendall scratches the toe of her boot in the dirt as the sheriff reconfigures his list.

Darkness descends quickly without big-city lights. The stars twinkle. She hears the four-wheelers before she sees them. It’s Marlena and Jacián.

“Ah, now there’s a thought,” Sheriff Greenwood mutters, looking up. “Yes. That’ll work.” He turns toward them. “You two can swing by for Kendall on school days, right?”

Jacián is silent, and in the dark, Kendall can’t gauge his reaction. Marlena pipes up, “Sure. We’d love to.” She climbs off and goes over to Kendall. Gives her a swift hug. “I’m really sorry. You must feel horrible,” she says softly.

Kendall’s throat tightens. She nods. Can’t speak.

“We covered miles and miles, made it to the foothills and up beyond Cryer’s Pass, along the woods, and back.”

“That’s awesome,” Kendall says, without enthusiasm. Her body aches. She just wants to crawl into bed and forget everything.

“Jacián and I can give you a ride home now if you need one. You look exhausted.”

“My dad’s coming. Thanks.” She’s almost asleep on her feet.

At home she checks all the windows and doors in the entire house before falling into bed.

The quiet stretch unsettles, rattles Our aching souls. We roam the floor, bitter, restless, shoving others out of Our way. Searching for new life. And then We grow quiet and return to Our spot. Remembering, hoping.

We save Our energy for another day.

After a week of chaos the local search for Nico Cruz ends. They’ve combed every accessible section of the valley on foot. Every American with a TV has heard about the strange situation in “quaint” Cryer’s Cross, Montana, where young, innocent Tiffany disappeared in spring, and sinister, older bad boy Nico disappeared only months later . . . probably because he killed her. Or brainwashed her into hiding out for three months so they could fool people into thinking their disappearances were unrelated.

Never mind the quiet girlfriend, Kendall. She keeps her head down and doesn’t talk to the reporters. Does she know something? Speculation ad infinitum.

Kendall can’t stand it.

Every morning Kendall wakes up and remembers. And every evening at eleven her phone doesn’t ring. More than once she thinks about calling Nico’s number just because it feels like a connection, but she doesn’t want to startle his family, make them remember, force them to relive their personal horror any more times than they already do.

Over the course of the week Kendall goes from shock to mourning to frustration and fury. The news crews are bored, tired of having only one restaurant to eat in and no fast food within thirty miles. Tired of the loyal, tight-lipped people. They try to get a fresh angle, but the people of Cryer’s Cross are a quiet, protective group. Even Jacián just gives them a look and walks away when they yell out questions to him.

Kendall sits on the restaurant steps, waiting for her mother to stop chatting inside the drugstore. She pushes her hair off her forehead. It falls back again when she stares down at her hands. Behind her, old Mr. Greenwood and Hector Morales sit in their chairs, not talking. As usual.

Jacián comes toward them. “
Abuelo
,” he says sharply. “Are you coming now with me?” Kendall notices that he takes on a hint of an accent when he speaks to his grandfather.

Jacián ignores Kendall, walks right past her up the steps.

Hector looks up and says something to Jacián in Spanish. Jacián replies in Spanish and then turns, jogs down the steps and to his four-wheeler. He heads off alone.

Kendall turns and squints at Hector. “Jacián isn’t supposed to be going off alone, you know. He could get arrested.”

Hector smiles, but he looks worried. “He’s okay. He’s already eighteen, and stubborn. What can I say? Sheriff says he’s legal to go alone, just stupid. It’s nice of you to worry about him, though.”

“I’m not worried about him,” Kendall says crossly. How can she explain it? The rule-follower in her can’t help but say something.

“I’m sorry, Miss Kendall. Truly. About the Cruz boy. I know he was your beau.”

Kendall stares at the dirt between the steps. “He’s not dead,” she says. “He still is my . . . my beau.” She cringes at the old-fashioned word. It’s odd how the longer Nico is gone, the easier it is to call him her boyfriend.

Hector is quiet. Kendall glances at him to make sure he’s not mad at her tone, and he assures her with a sympathetic smile.

“Where’s Marlena?” she asks. “Did she search today?”

“She took a fall last night, so she’s been down all day. She hit a rut that was hidden by brush and she flipped off her four-wheeler. She got a little too cocky with it, going too fast.” He says it softly, his hand shielding his mouth. “Don’t let the news crews hear of it.”

“Oh, no,” Kendall says. She pulls herself out of her
own misery for a moment. “Is she okay?” She remembers suddenly that tonight would have been the first soccer game of the season, but Coach canceled because of Nico.

“She broke her leg and dislocated her shoulder,” he says. “She’ll be okay.”

Kendall’s eyes bug out. “Oh my God. That’s terrible!” Her fingers flutter up to her throat. “I can’t believe this. I’m so sorry, Hector. I didn’t know. Is there anything I can do?”

He tilts his head and glances at old Mr. Greenwood. “As I always say, people in tough times need tough friends. Right, friend?”

Mr. Greenwood grunts.

Finally Kendall’s mother emerges from the drugstore. She grabs Hector’s hand and squeezes it. “I just heard about poor Marlena inside,” she whispers. “So sorry to hear it. I’ll drop Kendall by to visit tonight.”

Hector raises an eyebrow at Kendall, as if to say,
See? This is how it’s done,
but all he says is, “Yes, ma’am. She’ll appreciate that.”

As Mrs. Fletcher and Kendall walk home, the news trucks come roaring past on their way out of Cryer’s Cross, leaving a trail of dust. For them the story is over.

Kendall sits in silence as Mrs. Fletcher drives her to Hector’s ranch. She’s tired. Not quite ready for life to resume.

“Call me when you’re ready to be picked up.”

“Okay,” Kendall says with a sigh. “How about now?”

“It’ll be good for you to think about someone else for a bit,” Mrs. Fletcher says carefully. “Help you cope.”

Kendall doesn’t have any tears left. She’s too weary to voice what she and her mother both know—that Nico is probably inexplicably gone forever, just like Tiffany, and life has to go on. In a farming town it is a simple fact of survival. The produce, the animals—no one can make living things pause in their growing. Not one human event can make the potatoes wait. When they are ready, they are ready.

* * *

Kendall pauses at the front door of Hector’s house as her mother drives back down the long driveway. Jacián is in the grassy yard between the house and a corral. A floodlight shines on a soccer goal. Half a dozen soccer balls are scattered over the grass and around the net, and Jacián dribbles one slowly, then fakes left and spins around an invisible opponent. He passes the ball to himself and sprints to the goal, smashing the ball into the net at a sharp angle.

He moves like a dancer.

He reaches down to pick up a ball and sees Kendall standing there. They stare at each other for a moment. Then Kendall breaks the stare and knocks on the door.

Mr. Obregon lets Kendall in. He and Mrs. Obregon greet her warmly and thank her for coming. They usher her through the house to the family room, where Marlena rests on the sofa, right leg in a cast that reaches to midthigh. Her left shoulder is immobilized in a sling. Hector sits nearby in an old rocking chair. Marlena’s eyes are closed, but she stirs when Kendall comes in.

“Hey,” she says with a sleepy smile. A single crutch lies on the floor next to her.

“Hey,” Kendall says, taking it all in. “Wow. Did they keep you at the hospital overnight? This looks . . . really serious.”

Marlena grins. “Yeah, but it’s not as bad as it looks. The fracture’s nice and small—cast on for four weeks, maybe six.
My foot itches like crazy, though. The shoulder—I dislocated it before once in a soccer tournament back in Tucson. This time it popped right back in. Swelling’s going down already. Just hurt like a futhermucker for a few minutes.”

“Marlena,” Hector says. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head slightly, but Hector couldn’t look mean if he tried.

“Sorry,
Abuelo
. It’s the painkillers.” Marlena looks guilty.

Hector chuckles. “What makes you do it the rest of the time, hmm? You must be always on the painkillers.”

“It wasn’t even a real swear!”

“It is the intent, not the word, that makes something harsh,” Hector says. “So yes, I agree. In this case you are off the hook.” He turns to Kendall and reaches out. “How are you this evening, Miss Kendall?”

Kendall walks over to him and takes his hand for a minute. “I’m okay,” she says with a shrug. “At least I’m not in pain like Marlena.”
Or like Nico. He might be in pain too, if he’s even alive.
She glances out the picture window behind Hector to where Jacián continues to work soccer plays. He nails the goalpost, and the ball ricochets out. Kendall sees Jacián yell his frustration, but she can’t hear him. She nods out the window. “Does he do that a lot?”

“Every evening with Marlena,” Hector says. “It’s his dream to play professional.”

Marlena eases to a sitting position and follows Kendall’s gaze. “He looks so alone out there. He’s worried.”

“About what?” Kendall asks.

“The team.”

“Yeah,” Kendall says. “Me too. Losing . . . losing Nico. . . .” She turns abruptly to look at Marlena. “Oh, crap. And you. Der. I . . . .” She thinks for a minute, and then her lips part as she realizes. They are down to six players. Their already too small team is now no team at all.

Marlena presses her lips together and looks like she’s going to cry. “I heard Jacián on the phone with Coach tonight after dinner. He was trying not to yell. Then he went storming out there. It’s been hours.” Her voice quivers. “I feel so bad.”

“Well, there’s no rule that says we can’t play,” Kendall says, but her heart sinks. “Just common sense. Eight was already too tight. Six . . .” She trails off. She was counting on soccer to bring her out of her misery. If she can’t dance or act, playing soccer is her savior. It’s the only other thing that can occupy her mind enough to stop the whirling in her brain. “Maybe there’s a freshman we can coerce, just to get our numbers,” she says, but she already knows that Coach has begged every eligible kid in school just to get the eight they have—or had, as of a week ago.

“You know there’s not,” Marlena says, miserable. “Coach is tapped out.”

They sit together in silence, mourning for different reasons.

After a minute Marlena says, “How are Nico’s parents?”

“In front of me they seem fine. Like they’re really trying to be upbeat for my sake. My mom says they’re having a terrible time, though. He’s their youngest kid and the only one left here. Everybody else moved away.”

“That’s so sad,” Marlena says.

Neither of them really knows what to say.

Hector interrupts the silence. “Maybe you can tell us something about Nico,” he says. “Stories always help. Tell Marlena about when you were younger.”

Kendall sighs, but humors the older man. “Okay. . . .” She thinks for a minute. “Well, so we’ve been neighbors since I was born. Nico is two months older than me. We grew up together, rode bikes or walked to each other’s house every day. Both of us have farms, and our houses are set really far back from the road, like yours here. Riding my bike to Nico’s felt like this really long journey, so I always had to pack a lunch, right?” She smiles a little at the memory. “And then I always felt bad so I packed a lunch for Nico, too, and then I’d ride down the driveway on my bike and stop at the road, looking both ways like fifty times, even though there’s hardly any traffic down our road, and I’d get up the nerve and fly across the street and make my way to Nico’s, maybe stop and try to catch a grasshopper or whatever. And by the time I got all the way up to his house, I’d be all ready to have my lunch because it felt like a lot of work, but Nico always made
me wait. He’d come out and we’d go ride around the tractor trails all through his property, all along the perimeter of their land. Their property backs up to a neighbor who doesn’t live there anymore—an old man who died a few years ago, Mr. Prins. Remember him, Hector?”

“Oh, yes. He was a cranky old deaf man. Didn’t have a kind word for anybody at the end. I knew him since I was a teenager,” Hector says. “He wasn’t always so mean, but sometimes things happen that change a person.” His eyes cloud.

“Yes, well, I was scared to death of him. But Nico was totally fascinated. He couldn’t stay away. He tormented that man and dragged me into it with him. Mr. Prins would be hoeing his garden and we’d stand right behind the property line, as if it somehow protected us, and scream at the top of our lungs, trying to get him to look at us, ready to run like heck if he ever looked up. But he never did.”