Jimmy and Frank gave me the sort of look you give a puppy that just shit on a white carpet, then jumped up to retrieve the van. Barnstone said he thought he had some aerial photographs; he headed for the house, leaving Carney and me to our silence. After five minutes or so, Carney’s stolid presence caused me to suddenly need a smoke, which I couldn’t find.
“You don’t have a cigarette, do you, man?” I said.
Carney glanced behind himself but found only the turkey sleeping among the bantam chickens roosted in the low branches of a mesquite, then he took his makings out of his black tunic and rolled me a cigarette. Then he brought it to me. Or perhaps “brought” isn’t the right word. One moment he was squatting by the garden; the next he was standing beside the table, his lips parted as if to speak, and the cigarette extended toward me; then he was gone, as quick and silent as a mongoose or a cobra before my “Thanks” cleared the air.
Barnstone came out of the house just as Jimmy and Frank returned. He lit a Coleman lantern and spread his navigational materials—maps, compass, straightedge, and protractor—across the table. Frank carried all our weapons over to the table to clean and load them while Jimmy checked the van’s engine and controls, then did his best to quiet the engine with steel wool and asbestos wrap before he joined us at the table.
Since I had the moral inspiration, I was in charge of the drugs, trying to come up with the right mixture of raw biker speed and Peruvian flake to keep us awake but not insane. Not an easy chore with people like us, trust me.
I also felt obligated to try to figure out what the hell was going on, given the recent events. Frank and Jimmy could only tell me that Norman’s paperwork checked. As far as they could tell, he was who he said he was—as if anybody else would have claimed to be Norman—and he came from where he said he did. But in the short time they were downtown, they couldn’t turn up a word about the woman who had dropped him at the orphanage.
Thinking over my adventures downtown, I decided I didn’t harbor any illusions that Joe Don Pines had given me one hundred thousand dollars to look for his wife. My best guess was that he had given me the money not to look for his wife. And given the electronics in the briefcase, I also suspected he didn’t really expect or want me to keep the money. But I had no idea what sort of plans he had for me. Hell, I had no idea why I wasn’t dead. My second best guess was that I was supposed to take the fall for something. Perhaps the tons of cocaine supposedly moving toward the border. The only thing I knew, and I had no reason to know it, was that Wynona and Baby Lester were on the ranch, and I was running out of time to get them out.
While I was ruining my mental health, Barnstone plotted a course to an arroyo three miles from the edge of Edwards Hole, where we could stash the van, then cut across the desert to the edge of the Hole. Then he got off in a discussion of the geological explanation of these southern desert sinkholes. It involved limestone and water, not meteors. Frank and Jimmy and I acted as if we knew what he was talking about up to that point, but when Barnstone started talking about the size of the sinkholes, we had a little trouble with that part.
“Kilbourne’s Hole,” he said, “is nearly one hundred feet deep and contains over six hundred acres. Phillips is a little larger but not as deep. Edwards, on the other hand, is twice the size of Phillips and twice as deep as Kilbourne’s. That’s why it has better water closer to the surface.” Then he slid a large aerial photograph from under the stack of maps. “This is what it looked like fifteen years ago. Joe Don has made some improvements, I understand, but what I don’t know.” Then he stopped to glance around the crowded van. “It sits right in the middle of a serious drug and wetback border corridor, so some of the improvements are bound to be along the lines of better security. If we get caught down there, we probably won’t get out without some legal problems …”
In the pause, I suggested, “Or disposal problems.”
Jimmy grinned. “Disposal problems?”
“Somebody has to do the body count,” Frank said, then stepped back with a wide gesture. “Gentlemen, choose your weapons.”
Behind me from the dark shadows of the reed hut, I heard the stropping of Carney’s knife.
“How many people we looking at here?” Jimmy asked as he picked up the suppressed twenty-two automatic.
“I don’t know,” Barnstone said. “Joe Don’s mother still lives there, runs a little truck garden with half a dozen old Mexicans …”
“No problem,” Jimmy joked. “When Frank’s an old Mexican, he won’t be no problem …” Then he realized what he had said, so the three of us shut up long enough for Barnstone to look up and realize we had left him out of something. But he didn’t ask.
“… and there’s bound to be some ranch hands, but for all I know these days Joe Don might have a reinforced platoon down there. We could wait another day, do an overflight …”
Jimmy picked up two extra clips as I reached for the Browning High-Power that I’d carried for twenty years and the Airweight for a hideout piece.
“Let’s do it now,” Frank said, and waited for Barnstone to pick up a weapon, then shrugged and picked up the shotgun, a bandoleer of buckshot rounds, and his service revolver. Barnstone still didn’t move, so I walked over to the van, dug into the footlocker, and grabbed my spring-loaded sap. He took that, slipped it in the cargo pocket of his fatigues without a word, then reached into his backpack and withdrew a starlight night scope.
“Well,” I said, “those things don’t stick to you like a dust bunny unless you paste them on with a three-thousand-dollar bill.”
“Never pay retail,” Barnstone said, almost smiling.
Then I passed the lightly loaded blade point of my grandfather’s pocketknife under our noses, and we snorted like communion scholars complaining about the Host. Then we climbed into Norman’s van and headed for the sinkhole, middle-aged men dressed up for war. If I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed that we were happy.
Three hours later we were back in the van, giddy with success, Wynona safely in my lap and my arms, Baby Lester sleeping on Frank’s giant chest, Jimmy speeding across the desert under a quarter-moon, and even Barnstone grinning. We hadn’t spilled any blood but our own. And most of that minor scratches and our fault as we stumbled among the thorny residents of the desert. Except for the clotted dribble leaking off my left ear.
It turned out that about the only place to slip over the side of Edwards Hole without climbing equipment was at the road cut down the side from the airstrip, which turned out to be lighted but unguarded. Slipping downhill toward the ranch buildings along the roadside ditches made us a little touchy but nobody seemed to be watching for us. Except for the REA outdoor lights, two windows flickering with the electronic reflections of television screens, and a little fire by a small outbuilding beside the corrals, the ranch buildings were dark.
When we reached the flat bottom of the Hole we could see that three men with rifles squatted around the fire, passing a tequila bottle and a joint around the small circle. The sweet smell of mota drifted like fog across the still air of the Hole.
When we got close enough to the fire, we set it up without a word, as if we had been running night patrols all our lives. Jimmy, Frank, and Barnstone bellied behind the small plank building beside the corral—a tack shed, more than likely—as I covered the movement. We all paused a moment, listening to the soft Spanish, the gurgle of the tequila, the slow smoky exhales, then our guys went through the slovenly guards like corn through a goose. Almost without a sound: the flat muffled slap of the sap; the strangled gasp of a choke hold; and the sudden gasp of the last guard as Jimmy put the suppressor between his eyes.
The guards were trussed and gagged with strapping tape and propped against each other around the fire before I could trot quietly over to the shed. The single window, blue with the reflection of the television, was too high to see through and the cracks in the board-and-batten shed walls too narrow. The hasp and the padlock on the single door were too l
arge to knock off without too much noise, but Jimmy had found a key ring in one of the guard’s pockets, and I finally found the right key.
As quietly as I could, I opened the door and stuck my head quickly into the darkness relieved solely by the small television, which saved me from serious damage. A silvery glint caught my eye, and I just had time to dodge before I took a glancing blow on my ear. I grabbed a smooth, hard arm and smothered the familiar body with mine.
Sometimes, if you’re not willing to hit a woman as if she were a man, she can beat the hell out of you before you can stop it. Wynona did a pretty good job on me with the bridle and bit before I got her to the ground.
“Babycakes,” I whispered. “It’s me.”
“Oh, god,” she sighed, then tried to hug me to death.
When she finally turned loose, I lifted my head slightly. Baby Lester reclined like an eastern potentate in his car seat, a pacifier lodged into his mouth. When he recognized me, he jerked it out of his mouth, raised both little arms over his head, and gurgled happily.
“I think he remembers me,” I said quietly.
“Of course, he does, stupid,” Wynona said. “Where the hell have you been, Sughrue?”
“Coming as hard as I could,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true. Then she locked her mouth on mine and held on until Baby Lester complained.
On the way back to Barnstone’s, he suggested that we stash the van among a drift of dunes, then settle in to fox any pursuit. We snuggled into the cool sand fifty yards from the van and waited for the moon to rise over the Franklins. Then we drifted back slowly, Jimmy driving again by moonlight. The pause and enforced silence eroded our giddiness. Suddenly, it was all business, the exchange of information, some of the hard stories.
Wynona sat on the van’s floor between the seats, nursing Baby Lester while I explained who the rest of us were, then segued into what had happened at the Quirky Arms when we went in after she was gone. When she found out that Mel was dead in the back room of the bar, Wynona cursed her for the love and friendship. Then she wept so hard that Lester caught the confusion and joined her.
“Who the fuck …” she blubbered, “what … I told her not to worry …”
We gathered closer, helpless, until she was able to continue.
“Sarita said we’d be safe, me an’ Lester, at the house in Aspen,” Wynona began. “It belonged to her family, and nobody knew about it …”
“The Quirky fucks did,” Jimmy interrupted, then excused himself and kept driving.
“I guess so,” she said, “but I didn’t know that, I was just supposed to have a job there. My big brother got it for me …”
“Lenny Townsend?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
“How come he’s got a different name?” Frank wanted to know.
“My mom remarried,” Wynona said, “you know, after my daddy … my daddy died, and Lenny took the name …”
“Then Joe Don took him,” I said.
Wynona turned to me. “What the hell would you do, Sonny? Some rich man come by the house and say, ‘Come be my boy, boy?’ What would you say?”
“What did you say?” I asked.
Wynona paused, then answered, “I said, ‘Fuck you, Joe Don Pines. I done got a daddy, even if he’s dead.’” Then she paused again. “But my mama was on his side so hard I had to leave the house just to get some peace …” Then she was silent again, her face turned to me, the skin glowing in the moonlight. I touched her face briefly with the palm of my hand. Wynona shook it off gently, and I held it against Baby Lester’s cheek, warmed by her breast. “Goddammit,” she sighed, “I could sure use a beer. You boys got a cold one in this heap?”
Frank and Barnstone nearly crippled each other trying to get her one.
I let her have a good long hit off it before I asked:
“What happened after I last saw you in Aspen?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Lenny came by, picked us up, and flew us down here on one of Joe Don’s jets.” Then she bowed her head. “Then they said I had to stay out there at the ranch …” She raised her face to mine. “They kept wanting to know where Sarita was. But I didn’t tell them. And they kept saying that you were coming to kill me, Sonny … But I knew better than that, so I kept trying to leave the ranch. Even knocked old Mrs. Pines down. She’s a mean old bitch. She hung on to my leg like a mad monkey ’til them Meskin boys could come. That’s when they locked me in the tack shed.”
Lester suddenly had enough to eat but he was too excited to sleep. He shoved his mom’s breast aside, then reached for me, but Frank picked Lester up in his giant hands before I could move. Baby Lester seemed quite happy to snuggle on Frank’s shoulder and watch the moonlit desert flow past through the van’s windows.
I gave Frank a look, but he ignored it. He was deep into his baby fix. Then I scooted over on the passenger seat and lifted Wynona so she could share it. She turned away from me, staring out the driver’s window.
“I’ve got two really serious questions,” I said, “and I have to know tonight.” She nodded without turning her face toward me. “Do you know where Sarita Pines is?” Once again, she nodded silently. “Is Joe Don Baby Lester’s father?” This time she nodded so slowly she might have been carrying a stone on her head. Or in her heart.
We planned to drop Barnstone at his house and crash at a motel near the airport to at least make it a little harder for Joe Don to find us—if he were looking, and I couldn’t imagine that he wasn’t—but as we pulled into Barnstone’s backyard, we were greeted by an amazing tableau.
A blazing fire roared in the pit. Carney hunkered in its shadows, one of those ugly new automatic rifles with a bulky suppressor rested on his knees, his face dark beneath his conical hat. Little Mary and Norman sat like posed figures on one side of the picnic table, Solly on the other, the duct tape shining on their wrists and ankles.
“Who the hell is that?” Wynona asked, taking Baby Lester from Frank.
“A lawyer, a biker, and his intended,” I said. “Barnstone, get Wynona in the house. Frank, Jimmy: you guys cover me.”
“Jesus Christ,” Barnstone whispered. “Watch the son of a bitch like a snake, man.”
Jimmy stopped the van sideways to the table as Frank slid open the door. They exited the van, rolling into the dark cover of the barn and our quarters as Barnstone hustled Wynona and child around the stone fence toward the front of his house. I climbed out, took the Browning out from under my arm, and walked into the fanning circle of firelight, the pistol dangling from my hand.
“Hey, Carney,” I shouted. “What’s happening?”
Carney just lifted his head enough so I could see his eyes glinting in the firelight. His eyes looked dead blank, but with tiny flames burning inside, as if he had died a long time ago but hell was still in his future.
I moved a few steps closer, but Carney just looked at me. Until I raised my pistol. Then, moving like a cobra, he covered me dead with the assault rifle. “Just putting it away, man,” I said, then reholstered the Browning as slowly as I could. But he still kept me covered, so I stayed where I was.
“What’s the matter, man? You didn’t know who these people were?” I said softly.
Carney nodded, his hat moving, but not his eyes.
“They’re friends of mine from Montana, man,” I said. “They’re all right. Promise. The one guy there …” I pointed with my chin. “He’s got a goose named Millard Fillmore. Annie, she would’ve liked old Millard. He’s one boss goose …”
Carney’s eyes came to life with glittering red tears. I was either dead now, or alive for a time. He nodded swiftly, then disappeared as I was blinking. The flickering night filled with sighs. Even Solly, Norman, and Mary managed to sigh around the raw eggs stuffed into their mouths.
A few minutes later, introductions made, apologies tendered, we gathered around the fire and tried to fill the adrenaline gaps in our systems with a more peaceful chemistry.
“… but the worst fucki
ng moment,” Norman shouted, “was when the son of a bitch selected—fucking selected—the proper-sized eggs to stuff in our mouths …”
“Of course, they got turkey eggs,” Mary wailed, laughing, “and I got what looked like an apology because he didn’t have any banty eggs.”
So it was we restored peace among us again. Miracle of miracles, I watched Norman apologize to Barnstone for past transgressions, which Barnstone shrugged off as long-ago and faraway, though I gathered they had taken place in this very yard. Mary and Wynona passed a giggling Baby Lester back and forth so many times they finally wore him out; he went to sleep in mid-pass. Solly drifted around the garden to Carney’s corner, squatted there talking so softly it almost sounded as if he were engaged in apology, talked until I saw Carney’s grimy hand extend from the shadows and grasp Solly’s in a shake of fierce brotherhood.
Then Solly strolled back from the dark toward me. Jimmy and Frank pulled up beside me. I asked Solly what the hell he was doing in El Paso.
“You know how long it’s been since you checked in?” he said quietly. “I can see you’re in good hands, but I got worried. And Norman wanted to come along. He is the client, you know, and we’re his minions.” Then Solly laughed, looked at Frank and Jimmy. “You guys look a lot healthier than the last time I saw you.” Only Frank laughed. Jimmy muttered something under his breath that might have been “fucking officers,” but I couldn’t tell. Then Solly turned to Frank. “Remember that black kid? What was his name? The one Sughrue dug the mine out from under.”
“Willie Williams,” Jimmy answered flatly.
“Right,” Solly said. “What the hell ever happened to him?”
“Did his tour,” Frank said, “then went home.”
Norman joined us in the resulting silence. “You guys swapping war stories?” When nobody answered, he slapped me on the arm. “You find my mom yet, Sughrue?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, “and we better tell it someplace else …” Then I turned around to find Barnstone, asked him, “Think we’re too hot here?” He thought about it for a minute, then nodded sadly. “Got any ideas?” I asked.