The Far Empty (31 page)

DUANE

T
ruth be told, it was Jamison Dupree who saved Cherry and then made Duane into a hero. Duane might
still
be running if his dead daddy hadn’t yelled at him to get his ass back there; that if he didn’t stop running
right fucking then
, he was likely running forever. Reminding him that all those bullets filling the dark for Cherry were meant just the same for him, too. Duane wouldn’t find any safety by running off into those hills alone, and even if he outran them that night or the next or a dozen more, eventually they’d catch him after all.

Hell, if he didn’t
do something
, he was giving the Judge what he wanted anyway, even without a bullet in Duane’s skull. Better they both be dead, but
everybody
loved a hero. And if Duane somehow fucking survived the night,
heroes weren’t expendable
.

By the time he’d turned around, the plane was already inching across the ground, returning to the sky.

Through the oil light he’d seen those beaners, all shadows and hollows where their eyes should be, trying to grab their fallen, so he threw enough rounds downrange to make them reconsider it. They tumbled back into their plane, sparks dancing on its skin, and he may have even hit one or two as prop wash spun the pie plates skyward, trailing wet fire.

He’d gotten back to the cover of his truck when he saw Cherry crawling on the ground, alive.

•   •   •

It had been a god-awful mess, though, getting Cherry into the truck, begging him not to die and trying to hold his blood in him while driving. At one point Cherry had grabbed his hand tight, like a woman almost, their fingers all twined together, as Cherry’s eyes went all glassy and bright. Duane thought he was dead then—even pulled over and put his ear to his chest—put his face up to his lips to catch only the faintest movement of breath on his skin, fading fast. He whispered, “Don’t you die on me! Don’t you
dare
die on me!” and got so frustrated he punched Cherry in the chest and felt the other man’s heart jump when he struck it. Then Cherry had spit up a load of black blood and was breathing again, hard, like a man not quite ready to die.

Duane had gotten back on the road and made a call to the Judge, letting him know they were headed back to Murfee. Also, he wanted to hear the Judge’s voice when he realized Duane was still alive.

•   •   •

Being a hero was hard work. Not that he didn’t like the attention: the claps on the back and the smiles from people who used to look through
him; all the folks lining up to hear his story, and the free burgers at the Hamilton and free drinks at Earlys, if he ever was to become a drinking man.

He could sense, though, every now and then, that a few wondered how he’d escaped without a scratch—how Cherry was the one who’d done all the killing that got them off the Far Six alive. He always had to remind them then, with a sad smile, that the
forensics
—his ten-cent word—weren’t all done yet, and it still might be they’d pull one or two of
his
slugs out of those dead beaners

He’d goddamned fired enough of ’em. Those moments then passed with a laugh, his laugh, the biggest of all. The hardest part was that he couldn’t get over to Nathan to get some
foco
because now everyone everywhere knew his face. When people slapped him on the back, it made his skin catch fire; when they smiled at him, he was afraid he would burst into flame. Drinking his Dr Peppers was like drinking crushed glass.

He could pinch some from Eddie Corazon, but it was hard to get out to Mancha’s as well, because everyone was watching him. He didn’t much trust Eddie, either, thought it best to keep his distance after making him come out to the Cut to get him . . . down by the water, after that mess with the agents. So he was back to staring out his windows into the dark, gnawing at himself, knowing that dark was anything but empty. There were still eyes out there everywhere. They never went away; cameras and ghosts and cellphones and wolves and microphones.

He texted his little Mex girl, thinking he might make her get him some, but like always she ignored him, and he wasn’t free enough to track her ass down. So he dug out some makeup and patted it on his
skin to hide the yellow color and the hollows beneath his eyes and the places he was picking at on his arms, and people started saying he’d gone Hollywood and was just staying ready for the cameras. He wanted to kill those people, every goddamn one of ’em.

•   •   •

He was dying one piece, one day, at a time, and still hadn’t crossed paths with the Judge, who’d been spending most of his time in El Paso, standing in front of cameras while Duane ran the show in Murfee. Circling each other like two dogs Duane had once seen fighting in the street near Rufus. Hackles up, haunches flecked with dust, soon to be blood.

Those dogs had gone at each other growling and barking while Duane sat in his truck, smoking and humming along to Slim Richey and the Jitterbug Vipers. In his mind he’d bet on the bigger, mangier one, a shepherd mix, but the little one—nothing but black and brown spots and broken teeth—got low and at the belly of the other, tore at it but good, until all sorts of important stuff came balling out in a pink and red mess.

The bigger dog tried to drag itself away, but the little one worried at its guts, pulling them farther out. It hadn’t fared much better, though, its skull punctured by the shepherd and an eye loose in a socket.

Duane got out of his truck and walked over and put a bullet in both, still locked in mortal struggle. He snapped their picture like that, using his cell camera, the first one he ever remembered taking, and looked at it again and again for weeks after. He once sent it to the Mex girl. He’d left the carcasses where they lay until the turkey vultures came and took them away.

•   •   •

Duane had bought a few days by not running away at the Far Six, but little else. He still had all his ghosts waiting for him. He still smelled the ash of the burning girl, forever caught in his hair, in his skin.

He still had the Judge to deal with.

Heroes weren’t expendable, true. But they could be hunted, forever haunted. In the end, you could never outrun all the things you’d done. From his side of the grave, his daddy had somehow forgotten to tell him that.

ANNE

S
he was cursed.
A
bad penny
, her dad would say. She didn’t want to think that way, but how else could she explain the horror of Lucas Neill and watching and feeling her husband die in her arms? What other explanation was there for Chris Cherry, nearly killed in the desert? They were saying all around town his heart may have stopped one or two times before he decided to stay alive. She saw the bloody pictures in the newspaper, that awful handprint against the glass, and it made her remember Marc’s own bloody hands on her . . . his fingers touching her face, and later, standing in front of a mirror, not wanting to wash those stains away.

She knew it was as futile as reading tea leaves, searching for a pattern in a spiderweb or falling snow—counting butterfly wings a thousand miles away. Part of her knew there was nothing to link those tragic events of her life, but she was having trouble sleeping all the same, plagued by a carnival of bad dreams, unable to ignore the
only connection that did exist. Two men she’d known, a thousand miles apart, a lifetime away. One she had loved with everything in her, the other she could have easily grown to care about, after fearing nothing might ever blossom inside her again.

But instead, just so much blood. And nothing between them but her.

•   •   •

Two days before Marc died, they made love.

He came in late from work; he was on one of those odd swing shifts, and she was long asleep when he slipped into bed next to her. The window was open, wet Texas air moving through the blinds and wandering around the room—invisible hands turning the blades of the box fan she’d left off—and the heat of his body woke her.

He got into bed, naked, something he rarely did, slipping his arms around her. She could feel him pressing against her, urgent, and she responded. He used his fingers to get her ready, and she rolled into him, opened herself to him, and he held her down, their fingers laced together, his face between her breasts. He threw the sheets off and they both lay exposed, the light outside magically turning them into weird shapes on the walls and ceilings—performers in their own spotlight. She tasted beer on his tongue, her own tongue, knew he’d sat in his cruiser with Lieutenant Cafee or Bobby Dale and had a couple before coming home to their bed, and she didn’t care. He was so hot she felt her own sweat sizzle against his skin, and even though her hands were pinned, she felt the heave and roll of his shoulder muscles deep in her own legs. She strained off the mattress to reach him, to meet him, and when he came, he’d called her name and threw out a few other words a bit too loud.

He rolled away from her and laughed, tried to get off the bed and brush his teeth, but she wouldn’t let go of his hands, tasting herself on his fingers before she let him leave.

Those were the same fingers that left bloody track marks on her face, forty-eight hours later.

•   •   •

She couldn’t reach out to Chris. She didn’t feel comfortable driving to El Paso to see him or even trying to call him.

Christmas break started in a few days. Caleb had told her the sheriff was due back in Murfee tomorrow or the day after, and was going to stay awhile this time. As a courtesy, Texas Rangers were still on duty 24/7 at the hospital, guarding Chris until he was well enough to come home.

Caleb thought he had a very small window of opportunity to do what he wanted to do, what he felt he had to do, for Chris’s sake. He didn’t explain it all, and there were very serious parts of it he was leaving out, but he’d said enough that she knew he needed her help.

In his own way, Lucas had asked for her help, too . . . cried out for it, and she’d pushed him away until the very end. As badly as she’d handled it, it had been the right thing to do, although everyone paid a terrible price for it. Was it worse to do the right thing badly or the wrong thing right from the start?

Marc and Chris Cherry. Lucas Neill and now Caleb Ross. She prayed for Caleb’s sake that she wasn’t their bad penny after all.

CHRIS

T
he stranger held the pictures up again, repeated Mexican names he didn’t know, and when Chris asked again, he simply said, “These are the men you killed, Chris, that night out on the Far Six.”

Chris didn’t recognize the man but knew the voice, the very first ghost from the other end of the line. He was older than Chris had imagined, in dark pants and a button-down shirt in a color Chris couldn’t quite put a name to. His cuffs were rolled up to reveal tanned arms and an expensive watch, a silver and black bracelet on one wrist. If he had a badge and gun, Chris couldn’t see it. He looked like a lawyer.

Chris felt naked in the hospital bed, even with the covers up. The blinds were cracked but it was dark outside, getting darker, light wavering in the distance. Still, the room was too bright by half, all the machines around him a little too loud, blinking Christmas colors. He’d been awake for a few minutes that felt like hours, and he was already exhausted. He wanted Mel here.

“I don’t remember a whole lot,” Chris said, his own voice, older and worn-out, surprising him.

“No, I imagine you probably don’t. You’ve been through a helluva lot. I’m not going to take up too much of your time, but we’ve never had the chance to talk face-to-face. We spoke on the phone, but maybe you don’t remember that, either. You also called me the night all this happened, and I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you fast enough. I’m not sure it would have changed anything, but still . . .

“It’s good to finally meet you, Chris. My name is Joe Garrison. I’m with the DEA. We’ve had our eyes on Murfee for a while.” He shifted photos around, showed Chris a picture of the burned-out Tahoe.

“Darin and Morgan were two of my agents, looking into the disappearance of Rodolfo Reynosa. Of course, you and I both know where he was.” He raised a yellow envelope with a Texas DPS stamp on it. “This is the complete forensic file on the remains you discovered at Indian Bluffs. The file you called me about.”

Garrison reached down, picked something off his pants. “Rudy came to us to be an informant. He worked for Nemesio—major, major bad guys right across the border. He also claimed to work with bad cops. He was scared shitless, and in way, way over his head. He strung us along, saying a lot without saying anything important, if you know what I mean, but more than enough to keep our attention. He wanted assurances, money. He wanted promises. He hinted that he got recruited into Nemesio by an uncle,
family
, but was worried about a younger sister, still living in Murfee . . .”

“America,” Chris said.

“Yes, I think that’s her name.” Garrison nodded. “Anyway, our boy Rudy was playing all ends
and
the middle, and most of us figured he got himself killed because of it. He fell off of the earth before we had
the chance to bring in him. That’s why Darin and Morgan were down there, looking for him . . . unofficially. Darin was big on working solo. He was probably that kid who colored outside the lines, who never read the directions for anything. But he had a nose for the job, and he had a feeling about Reynosa. By then you’d already found him.”

“Who killed him?”

“Ten-million-dollar question. Nemesio? Someone else?” Garrison reshuffled his pictures. “My bet is on someone else. There have been rumors for a while that Murfee is bad . . . sold out to the narcos, helping get dope through down there, protecting loads. With all the problems in Juárez a few years ago, the Big Bend has become a lot more attractive. Nemesio has owned it for a while, and they are evil motherfuckers. It’s all religious, mystical bullshit with them. They’re dangerous, crazy, and lately they’ve been leaned on hard by another cartel, a newer one, the Serrano brothers, who’ve moved into smuggling routes and areas Nemesio have long considered sacred. Fucking cartoon characters, the whole lot of them . . . but cartoons with machetes and guns and too much time on their hands. They’re very, very creative in that way. But the three men you killed weren’t Nemesio, although I think we were meant to believe they were, so if we came looking, we’d look the wrong way. They were Serranos, looking to touch off another drug war down there with our help, like the one we experienced up here. They didn’t land that plane to drop off dope or pick up money. They weren’t couriers or smugglers, Chris, they were known
sicarios
, assassins.” Garrison held up a picture, the face on it a blank slate, the eyes empty and vacant and uncomfortable to look at for long. “Our intel on this one is that he’s killed twenty people. Twenty.” He put the picture down. “You put two bullets in
that fucker, by the way, and I want to personally thank you for that. One right between the eyes. Goddamn amazing shot.”

Eyes he couldn’t look at. Chris stared out past Garrison to the window, to a distance full of lights.

“And he . . . they . . . were here to kill me?”

Garrison leaned back. “Now, what do you think?” He followed Chris’s gaze to the window. “Do you know how many people were murdered over there just a few years ago? Over three thousand. That’s nine people
a day
. Another two thousand plus, a year after that. Killers killing killers, true, waging their own nasty little war, but that’s still a lot of dead people. And too many of them
were
innocent, just bystanders . . . mothers or wives. Not to mention all the other bad men using the cover of that bloodshed to have a fucking field day. That’s Ciudad Juárez you’re looking at, all those lights. For a while, short of a real war zone, one of the most dangerous places on earth.

“But during that time, do you know how many people from this side of the border, U.S. citizens, the narcos murdered?” Garrison held up a solitary finger. “One. A guy they snatched out of El Paso . . . cut his hands off and left them duct-taped to his chest, because they thought he’d ripped off a drug load. He was found in the Valle de Juárez, a message to anyone else who might try the same thing. Allegedly that murder cost about a quarter of a million dollars, because it’s not cheap to kill someone here. Not cheap at all. But over there? No more expensive than a bullet.” Garrison seemed lost in the lights he was staring at. “How about the number of U.S. law enforcement? That would be
zero
, Chris. Even for the narcos, the smart ones, it’s too expensive to kill guys like us, and that’s saying a lot, given what they paid for that piece of shit we found in the Valle. They’ve learned the hard way it’s bad for
business, not worth it. Right here in El Paso, a couple hundred yards separate Texas and Mexico, yet even with all the violence and mayhem the last few years, they’ve remained worlds apart. But down in Murfee? In the last couple of months, we’ve had two federal agents attacked, leaving one dead, and two sheriff’s deputies fired upon. It’s open fucking season down there. I want you to tell me why.”

“I’m not sure what you think I do or don’t know,” Chris said. “I’ve barely been in the department a year, and you’re not even convinced I’m not one of these bad cops you keep talking about, are you?”

Garrison nodded. “I’m
mostly
convinced, but try harder. Maybe you were and aren’t now. Maybe you’re just another Rudy Ray, trying to come in from the cold, or were never involved at all. They asked and you said no. If you’re not mixed up in it, if you don’t know shit, why does everyone want you dead?”

Chris sat silent, and Garrison checked his watch.

“Okay, Chris, I’ll trade. Here’s what I think. Your department is crooked, through and through. One or more of your buddies there killed Reynosa, either because Rudy knew they were double-dealing Nemesio, or switching sides to the Serranos, or because they pieced together Rudy was a fed snitch. It doesn’t really fucking matter. But they also tried to take out Darin and Morgan, and now you.”

“My department? Everyone? Me?”

Garrison stared at him. “Like I said, convince me otherwise. Darin and Morgan had their suspicions about Duane Dupree and one or two others, but they wanted to believe you might be righteous. They hoped you were. I do, too. Depending on how things had played out, they might have approached you, like I did, a few weeks ago.”

“Dupree saved my life. Doctors said if he hadn’t brought me in when he did, I would have died out there.”

Garrison shrugged. “Change of heart? Guilty conscience? Dupree doesn’t strike me as the head of the snake, never did, and Darin didn’t think so, either. Dupree’s nothing but a short order cook. I’ve been in this business a long time. The how and the why aren’t even important anymore. It’s just the
who
.” Garrison put away all of his pictures but one, leaving the heavy packet on the bed. Garrison flipped the last photo in his hand over, held it up so Chris could see it. It was an official picture, a pretty young woman in a dark business suit, trying to smile serious.

It was different from the one he’d seen in the paper, but still he recognized her, there was no way not to. It reminded him of the picture on her license.

“She doesn’t look anything like this anymore, and never will, even if she lives. She’s here, Chris, down the hall, in the burn unit, if you want to visit her. You don’t want to talk to me? Deal with me? Fine. You can explain it all to her.

“Here’s the thing. Maybe you’re protecting someone, or you think you’re being a hero. It doesn’t matter. My people were hurt, one of them is dead. I don’t forget that. I can’t. I’m not going to, ever. And I’m not going away, ever. That’s not how this works. You can’t outlast me or outwait me. I’m patient, and I’ve got time. How much time do you think you have?” He pointed at the DPS report. “You can’t even die and take your secrets to the grave, Chris. I won’t allow it. When all this is done, with or without your help, I’ll bulldoze that little town of yours, and everyone and everything in it.” He stood up, stretched. “Of course, I might not have to do a fucking thing. Remember Nemesio, those professional madmen? They’re still out there. They aren’t smart . . . they don’t follow the rules of business. Whoever dealt with them, crossed them, has no idea what they are dealing with. No idea at all.”

Garrison gathered up his packet, although Chris could still feel the weight of the pictures and reports on his bed. “I had to wait to talk to you until most of your department returned to Murfee. I have people watching
your
people. Why is that? You know what I said about the head of the snake? It’s like this sign I once saw outside a little jail near Arco, Texas. It said ‘Beware of snakes,’ in both English and Spanish. Grass all around the place was tall, uncut, like a fucking swamp, dangerous as hell. And right now? Murfee makes that place look like a fucking paradise.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Chris. I really have. But not like this. Never like this.”

Chris raised his hand, the one that had been shattered by a bullet. The one he used to throw with. The last wound he had received, lying on his back, reaching skyward, waiting to die. A part of him wanted to get his thoughts in order, make sure Mel was safe. The world was still just so much smoke, so much broken glass; so many pieces that had to be put together. And everything inside him was broken too, a thousand pieces of himself to put back together as well. Still, he raised that damaged hand, holding Garrison back. He was so goddamn tired, but he knew where to begin. One piece at a time.

“It started with zip ties. You know, FlexiCuffs? It’s all there in the DPS crime lab report. That’s what I saw out at Indian Bluffs. That’s what got my attention. Another second or two, and I would have walked away, and no one would ever have checked again.”

He walked Garrison through the car stop out on 67, and the video. He talked about that day with Dupree at Mancha’s and the back of Dupree’s truck, and although he didn’t specifically say Caleb’s name, he did say that Rudy’s sister might have information that could directly link Rudy and Dupree. He described how Eddie Corazon
talked about picking up Dupree, smelling like gas. Garrison asked him how high it all went, and Chris said he didn’t know, wasn’t sure, but was afraid it went as high as it could go. He said the sheriff’s name out loud, once, and left it at that.

He said he would do whatever Garrison needed him to do.

•   •   •

Later, after Garrison left, he realized the agent had left the DPS report envelope behind, empty except for one thing—her picture.

He got one of the nurses to wheel him down the hall to her. He wasn’t supposed be up and about, but she understood without him really having to explain, and so did the big Texas Ranger sitting outside his door, flipping through a magazine.

He could see her only through thick glass, in her own magic bubble, floating, suspended, in the middle of the burn unit in a medically induced coma. It was still unknown if she would ever come out of it on her own. Or if she’d want to, knowing what had happened. Maybe she did know. Remembered it, dreamed it, reliving it . . . over and over again. She looked so goddamn small, held in the hands of the huge machines keeping her alive. Chris sat for a half hour watching Morgan Emerson lost in her own twilight.