A Thousand Falling Crows (12 page)

Sonny couldn't see the town yet, and his turn came long before any of the buildings would come into sight. But the openness of the way forward seemed even more lonely than it had earlier. The rain and clouds had closed everything in. Now there was nothing in between him and the emptiness of North Texas. He could already feel dread creeping back into the farthest reaches of his mind, but Sonny didn't mind being alone at all. Especially after everything that had happened.

He downshifted, and, as he turned south toward home, the box in the seat next to him slid forward, like it was going to topple over onto the floor. Out of instinct, he leaned over to stop the box from falling, but he did so with his invisible right arm. The groceries tumbled to the floorboard.

Sonny had taken his eyes off the road, and when he settled back up behind the wheel there was something standing in the middle of the road. A dog. He swerved to miss it. But he was too late. He hit the dog, sending it spiraling into the ditch with an eardrum-shattering yelp.

CHAPTER 13

Carmen Hernandez had never liked to run. Her knees were turned in slightly. She wasn't pigeon-toed exactly, pigeon-kneed maybe. It wasn't like she was a cripple, even though she'd been born early. Her mother'd had a hard labor, and she'd died three days after giving birth. Her father never forgave her for being the cause of her mother's death. The physical defect, if it could be called that, was barely noticeable when she walked, but her whole body arched to the right when she ran, and she was never very fast on the fly. She had never needed to be. Until now.

She ran away from the motel, from Felix Massey, as fast as she could. Tears blurred her vision, and she wished it was still raining so it would wash away the smell of the fat clerk pressing against her, grinding his hardness into her. She'd wished for a knife, too, but was glad it was out of reach. She already felt the guilt of blood on her hands. She didn't need any more.

But it wasn't raining. The clouds had pushed northeast. Only a dim gray line on the horizon remained, with an occasional flash of lightening, offering itself to Carmen as a reminder of the storm, of the gunshots inside the
mecado
and the lingering assault that came after Eddie had dropped her off at the motel.

Her lungs began to burn, sweat dripped down her throat, and, to make things worse, she had little idea of where she was. She knew how to get home, to get to Memphis and Wellington and back, but not what stood in between, off the side roads, down the farmer's lanes. Out in the middle of a field she was lost. She could barely tell north from south, east from west, but the sun saved her. She could tell where she was running based on its place in the sky.

The motel stood like a decaying monument alongside the road, surrounded by vast, open fields. At one time the building had been a stagecoach stop on the route north. Rooms for let had been added on over the years, but it wasn't until the advent of cars, of lots of cars, that the rooms had been converted, in haste and greed, as an offer of rest to travelers again. It had been a perfect place for Eddie to hole up and mix his gin.

Carmen looked behind her every few seconds to make sure she wasn't being followed. So far, she was alone. Felix hadn't appeared on foot or in a car. There was no sign of anyone.

She had to watch closely where she stepped. Rabbit holes became snake dens, and during the heat of the day rattlers slept on the lip of the entrance, soaking up sun to keep warm, so they would stay alive during the cool nights. The last thing she needed was to get snake bit or break an ankle. She could fall and disappear into the scrub, lie there and die. She wondered if Eddie would come looking for her—or be done with her now that she had disappeared, ran out on her own? There was no way to know the answer. Carmen didn't know what Eddie would do when he came back and found the room empty of her and her things.

The ground rose up in the distance, giving her sight of a long berm. It was a railroad track running north and south, parallel to the road, though it sat about a half mile from it. The tracks gave her a place to run to, a place to follow. Farther to the north, a line of trees poked up along the tracks. Telephone lines edged along the berm both ways. Some of the poles tilted one way or the other. They looked like giant cactus, offering no sustenance, only a place for the crows to roost.

She picked up her pace and didn't stop to catch her breath until she was on the far side of the railroad tracks. It wasn't a perfect place to hide, to rest, but it would have to do. She sat down and tucked her head between her legs so she was out of sight, at least from the road, and tried to settle herself down.

Carmen's heart raced, nearly outrunning her mind, as she allowed all of the day's events to play out behind her closed eyes. She began to sob, cry from the depths of her belly. She trembled and shook, then vomited again, just like she had inside the motel room. Only now it was just bile, offering a sad, familiar taste in her mouth. Salty tears crossed her lips just after, adding to the discomfort and desperation of her situation.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and realized that she was thirsty and hungry. The thought only made her cry harder.

She wanted to go home, but she knew she couldn't.

Sonny slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a stop. The engine coughed and protested but kept running. He looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see the dog try to stand up in the ditch, then fall back down into the mud.

He exhaled deeply, muttered, “Goddamn it,” then reached over, picked up the .45, and pushed his way out of the truck.

A warm breeze greeted Sonny, wrapping around him, offering up the smell of the recent rain and of mud and decay. He was in the middle of a crossroads, and the nearest house sat a mile up the road. It had been empty since the middle of last winter, when the Crunhalls, all eight of them, had loaded up into a flatbed truck, along with the belongings they could fit into it and hadn't used as firewood, and headed west to the promised land of California.

The dog could've come from anywhere. It could have been dumped off by somebody without the means to feed it. Or it could have run off from a nearby farm, simple as that. There were still a few farmers trying to hang on. Whatever the animal's story was, Sonny didn't much care. He was just unhappy that they'd crossed paths in such an untimely way.

He made his way to the side of the ditch with heavy steps, then stopped and looked down. His trigger finger edged its way across the slim piece of metal, finding its proper place with ease. The weight of the .45 on his left side made his shoulder droop like the scales of justice. He was off balance, sinking in mud.

The dog stared up at Sonny and whimpered. It looked underweight, ribs showing just under loose fur, like it had been doing a poor job of scavenging food, just like every other creature left to fend on its own this side of Wall Street.

Sonny would have been surprised if the dog weighed twenty-five pounds soaking wet. But it wasn't a pup. There was some gray showing on its upper lip, contrasting starkly against its black coat—what part he could see that wasn't tainted with mud.

To his surprise, the dog didn't act aggressive at all. Most animals this side of wild would try to skitter away with a growl and barred teeth if they were hurt. But not this one. It stared into Sonny's eyes, whimpered again when he didn't respond, and held up its front paw.

“You're gonna make this hard on me, aren't you?” He looked quickly under its belly, and added, “Boy.”

The dog just stared at Sonny. It was more than he could take. He looked away again and took in the gathering loneliness of the situation. He knew the best thing he could do was to raise the gun and pull the trigger without any further ado. Be done with it. Get it over with and get on down the road.
Put it out of its misery and go home
.

Sonny lowered his head. He couldn't do it. He'd seen enough death and killing for one day. The image of Tom Turnell taking a shotgun blast in the stomach flashed through his mind. He couldn't find it in himself to shoot the poor dog, pull the trigger, or kill any living thing.

The dog was a hound dog of some kind. A mutt. Short haired, mostly all black from what Sonny could see, with a white patch on its chest and on the tip of its tail. He shrugged at the realization, walked back to the truck, and deposited the .45 under the driver's seat, then made his way back to the dog. He eased down into the ditch until he was about three feet in front of the dog. It hadn't moved an inch.

“Can you walk?” Sonny asked, then said, “That was a stupid question wasn't it? Like you can understand a word I‘m saying.” He crouched and offered his hand to the dog, balling his fingers into a fist, protecting them from a sudden attack. He didn't know this dog, still didn't trust it.

Sonny'd had dogs come in and out of his life since he was a boy. Working dogs mostly, ones that had a job around the house and weren't there to be a pet. Ones that kept the coyotes and foxes out of the chicken house, when there had been one, or to bark an alert when there was a need. Mostly, a dog was an extra mouth to feed, a luxury if there was no task for it to keep up with—one that saved money. Scraps were tossed into the yard to feed it . These days, most folks didn't have many scraps to offer an animal.

Dogs that offered comfort or just plain old friendship were a thing of childhood. Jesse'd had a few dogs, but they would disappear or come up dead, until the point came when Martha said no more would be allowed around the house. Sonny was always working, and she was the one that would end up burying them.

The dog leaned in and licked Sonny's knuckles. Sonny smiled, then slowly opened his hand and gave the dog a gentle rub on the side of the head. The dog leaned into him and whimpered softly again.

The cry was more than Sonny could take. He stood up, leaned down, scooped up the dog and stuffed it under his good arm.

It occurred to Sonny that the bed of the truck might be too hard on the dog, so he walked over to the passenger-side door and eased the dog onto the seat. It was then that he saw the bone protruding from the right front leg. The movement caused blood to flow outward, and Sonny quickly settled the dog into the seat, pulled out his handkerchief, and wrapped it on the leg, the best he could, using it as a tourniquet to slow the flow of blood. One more time, his battlefield experience had come home with him. The dog stayed quiet and didn't seem to mind the handkerchief. It settled down into the seat and didn't move another inch.

Pete Jorgenson lived three miles south of Wellington on a sprawling piece of land that had been in his family since the white man had settled in the county. Pete was tall, blonde, a hulking man of obvious Swedish descent who wouldn't hesitate to reach in and pull a calf out of a cow if he had to or bind a sparrow's wing and see it to flight again, even if he thought the bird would die before it healed. He was a gentle soul and the only animal doctor within fifty miles. It was the only place Sonny knew to take the dog.

Like the rest of the houses along the county road, Pete's house looked like it had fallen into disrepair. The two-story clapboard house was in serious need of a whitewash. The boards were gray and weathered, and a few of the shutters hung cockeyed, one way or the other. Most folks didn't have the money to pay Pete for his services, though he kept up with the calls for them the best he could. They'd barter food if they had it or services if they could provide them. Currency had come in a lot of different forms, including relief from the government, if a man could bring himself to take it. Sonny doubted Pete did.

By the time Sonny stopped the truck and had his hand on the door handle, Pete was already coming out the front door, followed closely by his wife, Lidde, a short, round woman, as tall as Pete's shoulder and jolly as an elf was expected to be. Her cheeks were always poised to break into a smile. But there was no happiness on her face at the moment, only concern.

“Didn't expect to see you on this day, Ranger Burton,” Pete said, looking up from Sonny's missing right arm and into his eyes as quick as he could.