A Thousand Falling Crows (17 page)

“All true, all true,” the man said, with a broad smile on his face as he put the box in a compartment in the back of the machine and slammed the door closed.

The girl slid inside the car, smiling back at him, though she still looked like she was nervous. The man closed the door for her and almost skipped around to the other side of the machine.

The crow could take no more. It cawed out in a panic, like it was being mobbed by a gang of blue jays—but there wasn't a jay to be seen.

The alarm didn't stop the vehicle or alert the girl. It was too late. She was going to be dinner. She just didn't know it—yet. Just like she didn't know she was riding with a hawk, even though she thought he was a dove.

CHAPTER 17

The house was empty, with the exception of Blue, who had slept at the foot of the bed. Aldo had left in the darkness of night after convincing Sonny to help him. It was almost like the Mexican was a wraith, a memory buried in a dream. Not quite a nightmare. But not rooted in reality, either. The visit was nothing but faded images after Sonny woke to the new day. Images flickering in black and white like a newsreel, voices distant and hard to understand. But there'd been no question of what had happened. Sonny was going to talk to Frank Hamer, poke around and see if he could help bring Aldo's wayward daughter home.

He thought it was a fool's errand, that there was no chance of success, but he'd given the man his word. Besides, if it helped bring those Clever, Clever boys to justice, all the better. His word was his word. That much he remembered, as he rambled through the house in his boxer shorts and undershirt. He liked wearing undershirts. There was no empty sleeve left to bang at his side, reminding him of what was not there. He had the phantom pains for that. The doctor told him it would happen and it had. Shooting pains down his arm would wake him in the middle of the night. Or an itch came and went. Sonny ignored them as best as he could, other times he screamed out in frustration. There had been no one there to hear him until now.

Blue padded after him wherever he went, his bum leg stiff, tapping on the floor like a constant snare drum. It was a new sound in the house, one that brought comfort instead of concern. The bandage and splint had held through the night, and Sonny was glad of that.

Sonny made his way to the kitchen and turned too quickly after filling the coffee pot with water, readying it to boil. He nearly stepped on Blue. He wasn't accustomed to having something underfoot, on his heels, no matter where he went.

Blue didn't yelp, just skittered out of the way the best he could. Then looked up with his hound dog face expectantly. “I‘m sorry,” was all Sonny could offer.

There was no morning routine that involved the dog. Sonny supposed he'd have to figure that out. But not on this morning. He felt like he had a hangover from the day before. It was worse than an all-day drunk. Not that he would know what that felt like. It was just a thought. He'd never liked liquor all that much. The end of Prohibition hadn't affected him at all. But the events of yesterday had left him feeling more unbalanced than he'd felt in a long time.

“I suppose you don't like coffee?” Sonny said to Blue, when the dog didn't change its expression.

Sonny shook his head, then went about fixing his coffee. Once the dinged-up steel pot was on the stove, he turned on the radio. It was habit, part of
his
routine, more than anything. He welcomed outside voices in the house most mornings. It was one of the ways he knew he was still in the world.

The familiar announcer's voice droned on automatically, like the conversation had never ended. “The Brooklyn Dodgers fell to the Chicago Cubs yesterday, five to two in regulation play, at Wrigley field. It was another win for Lou Warnke, putting him at ten and five for the season. That wraps up sports for yesterday, June 26. Coming up in the news, FDR signed the Federal Credit Union Act in an effort to promote savings and the offer of credit. But first, a message from our sponsor, Sudsy, a P and G product that stays so fresh . . .”

A quick-paced song began just as the water began to boil. Sonny was tempted to turn the radio off. He quit listening as soon as the sports ended and the topic of politics came up. Baseball was a respectable distraction. Just once he'd have liked to have gone to a professional game at a big field like Wrigley, but he figured that wasn't going to happen now. Such things were for big city folks anyway—Brooklyn, Chicago, Boston, all places that held little draw for him, and little imagination, as far as that went. Sonny liked the openness of North Texas, of the Panhandle. Most of the time, you could see things coming long before they arrived. A fella could be ready for a storm long before it hit and get things put up out of harm's way. Most times. He didn't see the storm coming yesterday. Didn't see it at all.

He sighed and stared out the window over the sink. The day was going to be just like most days in the summer, the sun a bright blowtorch hanging in the sky, scorching everything in sight. The world was brown, dull, and flat, and it was most likely going to stay that way for a good while to come.

Sonny turned back to the mess in the kitchen and thought about what the radio announcer had said before the commercials started to air. The president wanted people to save money and borrow money. It made no sense to him, but he had little interest in the workings of Washington these days—or tried not to. Folks had to have money to save and money to buy on credit, and there weren't many that could do either. They were lucky if they could pay cash for groceries they needed to get through the day. The Depression was a conspiracy between man and nature as far as Sonny was concerned, dust storms caused by bad farming techniques, weather patterns, government policy, and the age-old greed of man. There was not one person to blame, but there were days when the need was there to lash out at someone for the mess. It would be helpful to be angry at one person—but the world's problems were more than that. All the blame in the world wouldn't change things, fill the bellies that went to bed hungry at night. Sonny knew that to be true, but it didn't help.

He lowered his head at the thought. He was one of the fortunate ones. But the sadness that suddenly flowed through him was more about the memory of yesterday, about the murder of Tom Turnell, than it was about those suffering without a bank account, a roof over their head, or a chicken in their pot. Tom was dead after doing his best to defend the store, and Sonny, as far as that went, and there was no kind of legislation that could change what had happened.

All Sonny could do now was try and help Aldo find Carmen. If she was with the boys that had killed Tom, then he would have his chance to redeem himself, pay back something to Tom by putting Frank Hamer on their tail. It was the first thought he'd had when he'd opened his eyes this morning. In an odd way, Sonny was grateful to Aldo for coming to him. It had given him a way to get even with the world, a reason to put two feet on the floor.

He poured himself a steaming cup of coffee and walked out of the kitchen. Blue followed, and the radio played on, but Sonny wasn't paying attention to the words, to the music, to the advertisements. He had everything he needed to get through the day. Everything but his right arm.

He stared down at the table in the dining room, at the closed box that held the prosthetic, wondering if he had worn the prehensor, the hook, if things the day before would have turned out differently for Tom Turnell.

Sonny set his cup of coffee down next to the box, then opened it.

The prehensor was all leather straps, buckles, and polished metal rods, all connected to a shiny hook at the end. He stared at the thing for a moment. It was the longest he had ever looked at the man-made contraption that was supposed to take the place of his arm.
Impossible
, was the first word that ran through his mind. It was an impossible, ugly-looking thing, and there seemed no way to him that it could be useful, now, tomorrow, or yesterday. Until he touched the point of the hook, and then he realized that it could have been a weapon. Not as accurate as an index finger on a trigger, but a weapon nonetheless. The point of the hook was sharp and could be sharper.

The radio saved Sonny from traveling any farther down a path of regret. The announcer came back on, promising local news, an update on the County Line Murder. That's what they were they calling it. He left the prehensor in the box and made his way back to the kitchen.

“Tom Turnell, aged forty-nine, was killed at point-blank range,” the announcer read on emotionlessly. “A lone customer was in the store and was unhurt. The police have two suspects in the heinous murder, Edberto and Eberto Renaldo, also known as Eddie Renaldo and Tió Renaldo. Both are about five feet, eight inches tall, with medium brown skin, brown eyes, and black hair. They are reported to be identical twins. The same in every feature. There are also reports of a female companion, who may have been driving the car they fled in. A second robbery was reported late last night at Drummond Station, just north of Shamrock, at the intersection of Route 66. No one was injured in this robbery, but it is believed to be the same trio, even though the perpetrators were a man and a woman. The description for the man is the same, and the woman was a head shorter, young in movements, but brown in skin and eyes. Her hair was black, and her face was obscured by a red bandana. If you see the described people, do not approach them. They are to be considered armed and dangerous. Call the police or Texas Rangers immediately.”

The announcer started to say more, but Sonny turned off the radio. He'd heard all he needed to.

Aldo had never told Sonny where he lived. It wouldn't have been hard to figure out or find. Sonny spoke the language, had the confidence, even now, to go where most Anglos wouldn't dare. He wasn't afraid of Mexicans or repulsed by them. He had been raised by one. Maria Perza was the first woman he had ever loved. She might have been the only one that he'd truly loved. But now was not the time to consider such a thing. He needed to find Aldo, even though his gut told him that it was already too late to save Carmen.

It took Sonny an hour to bathe, shave, and dress. He was getting better at aiming the dowel rod, fashioned with a small curtain hook, and buttoning up his shirt. The fly on his pants was a little more difficult, but he could manage. Zippered pants would be easier, but there was nothing the matter with the pants he had except it took a little longer to get them on and off. He couldn't just throw out all of his pants and go buy new ones. Times weren't that easy. Luckily, he hadn't had any emergencies that required quickness of hand—yet.

Blue hobbled along after Sonny at every turn, and it wasn't until Sonny was halfway through his morning routine that he thought about putting the dog out to do its business and feeding him. Once outside, Blue rushed back to the door the best he could and waited on the stoop until Sonny let him back inside.

The last thing Sonny did before leaving was grab up the .45. If the events of yesterday had shown anything, it was that his decision to leave the house armed had been a good idea—even though his gun hadn't saved Tom Turnell's life.

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked Blue, as he stopped at the door. The dog looked up at him and wagged its tail slowly. Not happily, just a couple of twitches to respond back to Sonny in the only way it could.

“Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt if you came along.” Sonny opened the door and walked out. Blue didn't need to be asked. He followed dutifully, limping past Sonny as he closed the door. The dog got halfway to the truck and stopped to look at Sonny, like it wasn't sure where to go next.

“Go on,” Sonny said, pointing to the truck. “I‘ll lift you in.” Blue didn't move. He waited for Sonny, then followed him to the driver's side door.

Sonny pulled up in front of the hospital and stopped the truck. Heat rushed in the open windows at the first opportunity, as soon as the breeze of motion had stopped. A matter of seconds turned the interior into an oven. It wasn't yet noon, but the sun blared so brightly that the clear sky held barely any color at all; it was white, baked, almost ready to burn completely away. But the discomfort—if it could be called that, since the heat was always present—didn't spur Sonny to jump out of the truck. He sat staring at the hospital, summoning up the courage to face the place again.