Rivers: A Novel (35 page)

“They’re gonna keep watch,” Charlie said.

“Hell no,” Cohen said. “You’re already making Mariposa go.”

“They ain’t gonna do nothing but sit outside the door and wait for us to get back. When we do everybody is free and clear. But I ain’t taking no chances.”

“And what if we don’t get back?” Mariposa asked.

“Then I guess they’ll work it out amongst themselves. You ain’t making the rules anyhow. Now show me where your boys are, ’cause we got business to get on with.”

COHEN AND MARIPOSA WENT UP
the staircase first, followed by charlie and then the two men. Cohen opened the room door slowly and looked in at Evan and Brisco, who hadn’t moved from the bed. Brisco slept with a blanket pulled to his chin and Evan remained locked on the television.

“Evan,” Cohen said.

“Open the damn door and go on in,” Charlie ordered and he pushed him a little.

Cohen and Mariposa entered the room and Cohen walked to the television and turned it off. He told Evan to sit up and when Evan saw the old man come in behind them and the pistol in his hand, he sat up quick and swung his legs off the bed and to the floor.

“Don’t get up,” Charlie told him. The watchmen moved into the room behind Charlie. “Say what you gotta say, Cohen.”

Cohen moved toward Evan and in the dim light of the room, Evan saw the concern on his face. Mariposa moved next to Cohen.

“You got ten seconds,” Charlie said.

“We gotta go back down tonight,” Cohen said. “Me and Mariposa are going with Charlie to get the Jeep and then we’ll be back.” He reached into his coat pocket and held what was left of the money. He turned around to Charlie and the men and said, “He better have every damn thing he’s got right now when I get back.”

“He’s gonna,” Charlie said.

“Tell them.”

Charlie turned to the men and said, “Everything stays as is or you don’t get another dime.” They nodded. As Charlie spoke to them, Cohen leaned over to Evan, tucked the money under his leg, and whispered, “Twenty-four hours and then do what you gotta do.” Evan nodded.

Mariposa walked around the edge of the bed and brushed Brisco’s hair away from his face. She tucked his blanket around his small body and then she and Evan looked at one another. An uncertain, concerned,
wordless exchange and she thought of telling him goodbye but didn’t like what it suggested.

“Time’s up,” Charlie said.

Cohen mouthed twenty-four hours to Evan and then he and Mariposa walked out the door, where Charlie stood waving the pistol like an usher escorting guests to their seats. Cohen and Mariposa started down the stairs and Charlie pulled the door shut, told the men to stay put and that the boys don’t leave unless the building catches on fire which ain’t gonna happen. When the three of them were downstairs, Charlie stuck the pistol in Cohen’s back and led him and Mariposa out of the café door and into the night, telling Cohen, “Don’t get fancy. It’ll be my way or it’ll be a bad way.”

THE LINE HAD BEEN OFFICIAL
for six months and the two-year mark for Elisa’s death was approaching. Cohen had been trying to keep busy. Trying to fend off thinking of her death as an anniversary. One morning he had been outside looking under the hood of the Jeep when he saw the horse standing in the back field. She was brown and her wet coat shined and she wore a saddle but no rider. He put down the socket wrench and wiped his hands. Stood still as the horse looked unsure and he didn’t want her to bolt. She lowered her head and grazed, then she looked around, looked in the direction of Cohen, and she made a few steps in the direction of the house.

He walked across the backyard, moving patiently. He stepped over a barbed-wire fence and out into the field. The horse moved again, stopping along a fallen oak tree, her coat the same color as the mound of dirt wrapping the massive roots of the old tree. Cohen stopped. She remained unsure but curious. He whistled and she looked at him. Moved several steps in his direction. He whistled again and held his hands out by his sides, showing his palms. He moved a little closer and so did she and in another careful minute he was an arm’s length from her.

He looked her over without touching her. He spoke in a calm voice as he moved around her backside, making sure she wasn’t wounded in some way. Water dripped from her tail and mane and she was muddy but didn’t appear injured. She wore a saddlebag along with the saddle and her name was engraved on each of them. Habana.

She snorted. Shook her wet mane. He held out his hand to her
nostrils and she craned her neck forward. He held his hand there and talked to her and then he reached out and touched her and she accepted it. He rubbed her nose. Ran his hand along her neck. Patted her some. He turned and began to walk back toward the house and he told her to come on but she didn’t follow.

“Come on,” he said again and whistled. “Let’s get your saddle off. Come on. I’m safe.”

She turned and looked back in the direction she had come from, to the jagged tree line along the back field.

“Come on, girl.”

She didn’t follow. Instead she started walking back the other way.

Now Cohen was the curious one. He wasn’t wearing his coat and he didn’t have the sawed-off shotgun nearby and he felt like if he went back for either, she would be gone. He wore his rain boots and he thought that was good enough, so he followed her.

She took him back into the trees, moving over or under or around what was left of the cottonwoods and oaks and pines. He stayed seven or eight steps behind her, and she frequently turned to look and see if he was still there. For half an hour they walked and Cohen thought several times of trying to turn her back but she seemed to know where she was going.

It wasn’t five minutes when they came upon the body. Habana stopped and leaned over and nudged it with her nose but the body didn’t move. On his back were three dark red blotches and three small holes in his shirt. He was laying facedown in the leaves and mud. One arm under him and the other stretched out and his legs crossed. Cohen knelt and felt the man’s back pockets but there was nothing in them. He then rolled the man to his side and felt the front pockets and he pulled out a set of keys and a silver Zippo. He stood up and looked around on the ground for a pistol or shotgun or anything that might come in handy but there was nothing. Habana nudged the man again and Cohen patted her and apologized. He thought that was it, that she would go with him now, but she nudged the man a final time and only then did she continue on.

The day was overcast and windy and there were probably three hours of light remaining. His instincts told him not to, but he followed her anyway.

Eventually the trees thinned and they came to a clearing and he figured they were at least four or five miles from his place. The land was marshlike and Habana stopped to drink the muddy water, then she looked around for him and kept walking. She didn’t walk out into the clearing but kept to the tree line, sloshing through the mud and rainwater and in no hurry. He had no idea how long this would continue and he was beginning to regret letting it go this far, but then the tree line extended around to the east and when they moved around the bend, Cohen saw a far-reaching white wooden fence. Some of it stood and some of it didn’t but it stretched on and he didn’t see the end of it right away. Habana walked toward it and when they were closer, Cohen saw the house.

He wanted her to stop and called for her to stop but she didn’t stop. He moved from out in the open and back into the tree line. But she walked casually and Cohen was able to get a good look at the place. It was a two-story Spanish-style house, terra-cotta-colored with arched windows and doorways. A balcony reached around the entire second floor and the ceramic roof tiles seemed intact but for one missing here and there like a lost tooth. A patio stretched out of the back of the house and there was a pool. The house appeared to sit in the middle of the fenced-off property as the white fence lined all sides but was at least a hundred yards away from the house in all directions. A horse trailer and truck were parked in the field to the west side of the house. Cohen wondered why he had never seen this place but he didn’t think about it long as two SUVs drove around the side of the house. He grabbed Habana’s reins and held her. He whispered to her and she let him lead her back into the trees.

The SUVs drove out toward the horse trailer and truck but continued past and didn’t stop until they came to the fence. At the fence line, five men piled out of each vehicle. The back doors of the SUVs were opened and each man took a shovel from the back. Each man put on a
pair of gloves, each man went to a fence post, and each man started to dig.

Cohen stroked Habana’s neck and watched. He watched for an hour as the men dug in a spot, then moved on and dug in another, working their way from fence post to fence post in an orderly fashion. There wasn’t much light remaining in the day and Habana was getting restless. Cohen saw the men were occupied and he and the horse were far off and in the trees, so he felt safe moving. He held Habana’s reins and led her and she went with him this time without hesitation.

After walking for a mile back along the tree line and into the woods, as the last of the day disappeared, he stopped and told Habana that this might go a little better if we do it the old-fashioned way. She seemed calm, so he put his foot in the saddle and mounted her and led her home.

THE NEXT MORNING, AT FIRST
light, they returned.

This time Cohen had the shotgun and a shovel and gloves. When they came to the house, the SUVs and truck were not there. The horse trailer sat in the field.

Cohen waited against the tree line and when he felt certain that no one was there, they rode out to the part of the fence where he had last seen the men digging. What he discovered as he rode along the fence were holes at every post along almost the entire south section of the fence. The holes were a yard wide and a yard deep.

He got down from Habana, tied her to a standing piece of the wooden fence, and then he didn’t know why, but he started digging. He added five holes to the long line and then he stopped. His back ached and his hands were sore and it was midmorning. The feeling that the men in the SUVs would be back told him to quit, so he quit.

The next morning he came back before daylight. At the fence line, he noticed that the holes now made the entire length of the south side and there were another ten stretching up the west portion of the fence.

He got off, tied Habana, and went to work. He dug through dawn
and then it started to rain and he quit. Riding back to his place, he explained to Habana that he didn’t know what the hell was going on but that he was done. My damn back is killing me.

The next morning he was back again. A light rain fell and made him nervous as he dug because he couldn’t hear as well if the SUVs returned. Habana seemed unhappy standing in the rain, moving around more than usual and picking up her feet and smacking them down in the wet ground. An hour past dawn, he was wet and hurting and felt a little stupid.

And then the shovel hit something. He was about two feet down and whatever he hit was strong and solid, and as if he had been plugged in, he began to dig at double speed, his imagination and adrenaline both racing, and in a matter of minutes he had uncovered all sides of the trunk. It was wide and broad, larger than any of the holes that had been dug. He didn’t bother trying to dig it out but instead he removed the dirt from the top and from around its sides. When he was done, he lay down on top and it was as long as he was, and he stretched out and grabbed the sides with his arms straight. He got up and stood on top, thought quickly about what to do. The trunk latch was padlocked and he didn’t want to fire the shotgun and risk making a big noise, but he had to. He fired and the lock and latch busted and Habana reared and whinnied. Cohen tossed the shotgun aside, stepped off the top of the trunk, and knelt at the edge of the hole. He reached down and tugged at the top and pulled it open.

He was unsure what to think. He looked around as if it were a joke on one of those hidden-camera shows where the jokesters were waiting to leap out and point at him and cackle hysterically. There were stacks and stacks and stacks. Pretty and clean. Crisp and straight. So perfect, they seemed fake.

He took Habana’s saddlebag and stuffed in as much as he could. Then he shoved stacks into his coat pockets and down into his pants and into his boots and anywhere else he could shove them. He mounted Habana and ran her across the field, hurried her through the jigsaw of the fallen trees and limbs, and ran her to the house. He hopped off, took
the saddlebag inside and unloaded, then hurried back out, mounted, and ran. He was able to make two more trips and it took until midday. The rain fell steady and Habana seemed to be getting tired but he didn’t have half of what was in the trunk.

“One more trip,” he told her and they took off again.

This time when they came around the bend of the tree line, the SUVs were there. And the men were there. They were pointing and yelling at one another and he didn’t wait to see what they were going to do.

He turned Habana and disappeared.

EVAN REALIZED THAT NO MATTER
what the old man had said, no matter what had been agreed upon, and no matter what had exchanged hands to make the agreement, it wouldn’t be long before the two men outside the door decided to come in and see what they could find. It was a simple message that was delivered by both common sense and by Cohen’s twenty-four-hour whisper.

In less than a minute, the world had changed again. One moment he was lying on the bed watching television, with Brisco safe and dreaming next to him. The next moment a man with a gun had pushed Cohen and Mariposa into the room and Cohen had told him they had to go back down and those two will stand outside your door and make sure you don’t leave until we get back. Brisco never woke through the exchange and Evan was glad he didn’t. But Evan paced the room now, looking at his little brother, looking out of the window, walking in and out of the bathroom, replaying Cohen’s words in his head, wondering what the hell.