The Dead Run Page 8

  Before Ruth could open her mouth, Nichols pressed on. “Sherry’s mother is Melinda Richards. You remember her, Mr. Seth?”

  “Reverend,” Seth said absently. “Yes, of course. Melinda Richards was once a member of my . . . flock here. But the Lord had other plans for her. I don’t believe I ever met her daughter. But if what you say is true, I’ll certainly pray for her. We all will.” He dropped his hands to his knees. “I must confess, Sheriff, I’m still at a loss about why you’re all the way out here.” Another closed-lipped smile, this one directed at Cantwell. “And who you are. You’re certainly not dressed for law enforcement.”

  The psychologist sprang to her feet. “I’m the one who freed Melinda from your sick little ‘flock,’ Seth. I know all about what goes on here—all the girls who’re never seen again once you—”

  Nichols rose up, spun, and faced her. “That’s enough. Sit down. Now.”

  Cantwell’s eyes looked like they might singe holes in his uniform, but she complied.

  Seth never flinched. “So this is the famous Ruth Cantwell,” he said in the same flinty, even drawl. “Just so you are properly informed, Sheriff, I’ve got a restraining order against her on file with my local police department. She’s not legally allowed within a thousand yards of me. I don’t suppose she told you that, did she?”

  Nichols whirled toward her, his face a gathering storm.

  “That true?” he demanded.

  She crossed her arms and looked the other way. “He’s got a whole team of lawyers whose job is to keep—”

  “Wait in the car.”

  Seth stood, pocketed his hands, and shook his head at the ground. “Thank you, Sheriff, but that’s not necessary. I think I’m beginning to understand what’s happened. Dr. Cantwell and others of her ilk have spent years trying to convince the authorities that something unsavory is happening here. God as my witness, sir, none face so much persecution in today’s world as men and women of true faith.”

  He paced before the fireplace. “The worst that can be said of our community is that we keep to ourselves. We praise God, we live simply, and we love one another. Dr. Cantwell has seen fit to take Melinda Richards away from us—a woman who came to me broken by betrayal and sin, a woman I healed through the grace of God. Dr. Cantwell poisoned her against us. So completely, it would seem, that even now she would attribute her misfortune to me.”

  Seth stopped pacing and threw his arms wide. “We have nothing to hide, Sheriff. And certainly no knowledge of your missing girl—neither I nor anyone here. I’m sure you have no permit to search my property, as no judge would grant you one on such a pretense . . .”

  He paused, and Nichols allowed his own grim silence to confirm the assumption.

  “But I shall render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s. You have my permission to look anywhere you like and speak to whomever you wish. There are no secrets here. I ask only one thing, Sheriff.”

  Nichols eyed him warily. “What’s that, Reverend?”

  Seth flashed another wan, watery smile.

  “When you find nothing of interest on my property, kindly remember next time the folly of acting on groundless, malicious rumors. You may enforce the laws of man, Sheriff Nichols, but you are a servant of God. As are we all.”

  Nichols gave him a curt nod. “Fair enough.”

  “Very good. Now, are you sure you won’t have something to drink before you go? The iced tea is homemade.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Ms. Cantwell? For you?”

  They both stared at him, incredulous.

  Seth clasped his hands in front of him. “You see,” he said, “we practice forgiveness here.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Each stride was torturous; every exertion pushed the wire deeper into his skin. By the time Galvan reached the summit, there was nothing left of the boy but a set of footprints.

  Fucking kid was barefoot.

  Galvan tracked him until the marks disappeared, swallowed by the brush some thirty yards off. He straightened, did a slow three-sixty and then another. Nothingness in all directions, far as the eye could see. Galvan mopped the sweat from his brow with a shirtsleeve, allowed himself a head shake and a wry smirk.

  Still trying to be a hero, huh, Jess?

  What an asshole.

  Then something threw a beam of sunlight straight into his eyes, and Galvan winced and spun away, all reflex, forearm covering his face. Just as quickly, he straightened, scanned the horizon.

  Had to be a mirror. The kid, flashing him. But why?

  There—again. A few hundred yards out, up another hill. Galvan set out toward it, pacing himself this time. A nice leisurely jog, as if this desert were a manicured suburb, Galvan a tracksuited exec getting in a quick couple miles before work.

  The mirror flashed twice more as Galvan approached, like a lighthouse beacon bringing in a boat. He staggered up one hill after the next, legs growing heavier with each step. Always sure he was closing in, that over the next rise he’d find the boy.

  Back of his mind, he knew something was wrong. Why run, only to stop and signal? The kid wasn’t a lighthouse. He was a fisherman, reeling in a catch.

  Another bad hand to play out.

  Galvan reached the top of the next hill and found himself staring down into the shallow valley beyond.

  A dirt road wound through it, packed tight by steady travel.

  Smugglers’ lane. The desert was threaded with them, if you knew where to look. What to look for.

  Most, though, you were better off ignoring. Attracted the wrong element, as the expression went.

  A truck, mud-spattered and ancient, sat by the roadside.

  Dead. Had to be. No other reason in the world to stop here.

  Galvan took a few steps down the hillside, crouched in the first bit of shade he’d seen all day, and waited.

  Sure enough, a minute later the kid came around the vehicle’s side, fiddled with the driver’s-side mirror until he caught the sun, and threw a few flashes out across the land. Then he walked back out of sight. Probably to huddle in whatever shadow the truck cast, Galvan thought.

  Alongside whoever else was with him.

  Galvan stooped—Fuck, that was painful—and picked up a fist-sized rock. He ambled down the hill, wondering what condition his throwing arm was in these days. He still held Cali’s high school record for outfield assists in a season—far as he knew, anyhow. Been a while since he’d checked up on it. He’d once thrown a guy out at first base on a one-hopper to shallow center. Coach benched the sorry son of a bitch for that one.

  Galvan was paces from the truck now. Nothing. Nobody. He thought he heard a whisper, froze.

  Nothing. Nobody.

  Fuck it.

  “Hello? Anybody home?”

  The sounds of scrambling: feet finding purchase against the dusty ground, bodies banging into the metal of the truck. And then a haggard, sun-parched man staggered into view, leaning on the little boy for support.

  Two more followed. One had a shotgun slung across his shoulder. A machete dangled from the other’s hand.

  Three more came after that.

  Unarmed.

  Unarmed.

  Machete.

  The six of them ambled into a loose phalanx, sizing Galvan up. He clenched the rock behind his back, returned the favor.

  They looked like death. Flies buzzed their heads, sensing it. It didn’t take long, out here—a few hours without water, and your skin started sticking to your skeleton. Brain function slowed to a crawl; the liver and kidneys stopped showing up for work. Whenever Galvan made a run, he packed double water. Had probably saved a dozen lives that way.

  No such luck this time.

  The boy seemed to be faring better than the men. Could have been they’d given him the last of the water, but these guys didn
’t strike Galvan as Children Are the Future types. More likely, the kid was the only member of the septet who hadn’t prepped for the dawn border run by downing a quart of tequila.

  “You gentlemen having some engine trouble?” Galvan inquired.

  The moment he said it, the arm squeezing the rock started to tingle, from the fingertips on up, as if he’d just punched something hard and ungiving. He remembered Britannica’s sermon about the past and the future, demons and tempura or whatever the fuck. And suddenly, somehow, Galvan understood that his arm was on pins and needles because of a punch he hadn’t yet thrown.

  A punch coming soon.

  Theater near you, and all that shit.

  Talk about having the drop.

  “Got any water?” the gunman asked, eyeing the canteen slung over Galvan’s shoulder. His English was heavily accented, his voice sludgy with disuse. Either the gringo quarter of Galvan’s genes had won the battle for dominance, or this sorry bastard was optimistic enough to think he oughta practice the mother tongue of his new country.

  “Only a little.”

  Dude raised his weapon, showed Galvan the twin black holes. Beckoned with two fingers, Bruce Lee style.

  “Give it here.”

  “Easy, chief. You got it. Wasn’t thirsty anyway.”

  Galvan raised his right hand, palm open in a gesture of submission, then used it to lift the canteen off his shoulder by its string. He walked the rest of the way down the hill, dangling it before the man.

  It swayed slightly with his steps, like a hypnotist’s pendant.

  You are getting very sleepy, Galvan thought inanely.

  The guy lowered his gun a few degrees and reached, mouth open, hand fluttering with weakness, want.

  Galvan dropped the canteen, grabbed the shotgun by the barrel, and yanked. The gunman stumbled forward with it, off guard and off balance. Never saw the rock come smashing down and turn the right side of his face into the wrong side. He keeled into the billowing dust.

  Galvan sidestepped the falling body, grabbed the canteen, flipped the gun around, and trained it on the others.

  Two slugs.

  Five men.

  The math was a bitch.

  Galvan took a step back, and then another. Gaining the high ground.

  Topologically, if not morally.

  The machete men exchanged a look and charged, their blades held high. Galvan clocked the approach vectors, the speed, decided he only had time to drop one.

  At least that would leave him with a slug. And besides, if he dropped both, two more guys would pick up the machetes. Hand to hand, he could take a blade.

  Always find that silver lining.

  Galvan spun and squeezed off at the closer man. The slug only traveled ten feet before it found his chest, lifted him off his feet, deposited his body inches from his compadres with a battle cry still frozen in his throat. Sure enough, one bent to pry the machete from his fist.

  And then the other guy was on Galvan, both hands wrapped around his blade, eyes crazed. But there was no strength left in him—just a burst of adrenaline and the wasted shell through which it coursed. Dude was no samurai, either. He swung wildly, left to right; Galvan ducked the knife and slammed the shotgun’s butt into his stomach, and the guy crumpled. A second blow snapped his head back. The machete tumbled to the ground.

  Galvan picked it up, the hilt still slippery with warm sweat. He brandished his weapons and resumed his backward, uphill retreat, gaze sweeping across the men still capable of standing. That old Yellowman song, “Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt,” played in his mind, Galvan’s brain a fucking jukebox even at the direst of times.

  So far, so good. Twenty feet between them, everybody playing it cool. Then Galvan and the boy locked eyes.

  Looking at his face was like watching water come to a boil. A silent moment passed, and then the kid loosed a wild, inchoate cry and charged straight at Galvan. The men broke ranks and followed, as if this was the signal they’d been waiting for.

  Galvan turned tail, dropped his head, and sprinted. Reached the hilltop in twenty hard-pounding seconds, then turned to gauge the pursuit.

  The kid was out in front. He found Galvan’s eyes again, and this time he had words.

  “Take me! Take me with you! Please!”

  Galvan paused, despite himself.

  A rock whizzed past his head, so close he felt the wind. The men had overtaken the boy. A machete glinted in the sunlight.

  “I’m sorry,” Galvan whispered.

  And he ran.

  It was a long time before he chanced another look behind him. There was nothing left to see by then, no sign of them at all. Just Galvan and the desert. The hot pain of the baling wire. The weight of the heart.

  And the faintest trace of the boy’s high, desperate plea, drifting through the air.

  CHAPTER 11

  What the fuck was that?” demanded Cantwell, the two of them back in her car, regrouping in front of the air vents.

  Nichols took a deep breath before responding and tried to center himself. He’d tried that count-to-ten-when-you’re-mad shit a couple years back, but most of the time, he was angrier by the time double digits rolled around, having thought of several more reasons the person on the receiving end of his ire deserved it.

  That person was usually a deputy. None of them were half as easy on the eyes as Cantwell.

  Nichols felt his jaw unclench.

  “That was you acting like some hotheaded frat boy and Seth eating our lunch. That’s what that was,” he told her with all the calm he could muster. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me he had a restraining order?”

  “Because it’s bullshit.” Cantwell fisted the wheel in frustration, looked over her shoulder at him. “Don’t tell me you bought that lamb-of-God routine. The man is dripping with blood.”

  “Maybe so,” Nichols replied, suddenly and thoroughly exhausted—My kingdom for a Frappuccino. “But you know what I’ve got? Nothing. Less than nothing. A girl who’s late coming home, and some wild speculation about a preacher a hundred and fifty miles away who took legal action so you’d stop harassing him. None of that’s gonna look very good on a write-up sheet, doc.”

  “Well, he’s not as smart as he thinks. We’re bound to find something. Come on, let’s investigate.” She stepped out of the car and slammed the door.

  Nichols gazed across the barren acres and heaved a sigh.

  “MOM? MOM?” SHERRY banged on the door, jiggled the knob, frisked herself again for a key she’d already determined was gone.

  The panic sat in her throat, waiting.

  “Maybe she went to the store or something,” suggested Eric, coming up behind her.

  Sherry shook her head. “That’s her car, in the driveway.”

  “Are you ready to call the police now?”

  They’d argued about it on the way here, Eric with his phone drawn, ready to summon the full force of the law, send one brigade of cop cars screaming toward that godforsaken ranch and a second here, to safeguard Melinda. Sherry had refused. Ruthie didn’t trust the cops, and so neither did she. For the hundredth time in the past hour, Sherry cursed herself for not having Ruthie’s number memorized. It was speed-dial number six on the house phone. Melinda had never gotten around to erasing it. Had nothing to replace it with.

  Fat lot of good that did Sherry.

  “For the last time,” she told Eric, “the cops won’t help us. They work for him.”

  Eric’s eyes narrowed. “Right. I forgot.” He shook his head and stalked across the porch, tonguing the gap where his tooth had been.

  Sherry whirled to confront him. “What is it you find so hard to believe about that?”

  Before he could answer—and he didn’t look eager to, at all—she turned away and banged on the door again, the panic edging its way up her esophagus. She
could nearly taste it now: metallic, like blood, but sharper.

  “Mom! Are you in there? Open the door!”

  Maybe she’d swallowed a sleeping pill, was snoring on the couch right now. It’d been years since Melinda had taken one, but who knew what she had stashed in her dresser drawer or the recesses of her mind? Sherry had thought her mother was done drinking until the day a few months ago when she’d come home from school to find Melinda sitting on this very porch, working her way through a fifth of cheap bourbon. God had told her it was okay now, Melinda had informed Sherry. That He was pleased with her progress, and she’d earned a drink.

  He buy it for you, too? Sherry had asked.

  “Mom! Wake up!”

  Eric dropped his hands onto his hips and walked back over. “I can break in, if you want,” he said, as if apologizing.

  Sherry swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Do it.”

  Eric glanced over both shoulders, then lifted his leg and side-kicked the living room window. It shattered easily. Obediently. He bent forward, removed the jagged shards clinging to the frame, then straightened and beckoned her inside with a mock-courtly gesture.

  “After you, my lady.”

  She high-stepped the sill and was enveloped by the darkness, the odor of the house. It hit her every time she entered: a trace of rancidity she could never pinpoint, or convince her mother existed. Just one more reason the place had never felt like home.

  Eric followed her inside, and for an instant Sherry’s panic subsided, replaced by embarrassment at the sorry state of the place. Surely, Eric lived in palatial splendor, his house all modern furniture and sloping planes of natural light.

  Then Sherry screamed.

  Her mother’s bare feet.

  Her mother’s naked legs.

  Melinda lay in the hallway, the top half of her body hidden behind the wall.

  She wasn’t moving.

  The panic was everywhere now: burning in Sherry’s stomach, shooting through her muscles, spangling her vision.

  She ran toward her mother, turned the corner, and fell to her knees, loosing an animal howl.