Life or Death (31 page)

They left that evening and drove until after midnight. Miguel slept on the rear seat, hugging a battered bear that he carried with him everywhere. He wasn’t very big for his age and his thumb went automatically to his mouth when his eyelids began to droop.

They drove with the windows open and talked about the future. Belita told him stories about her childhood, dropping details like breadcrumbs, wanting him to follow the trail and ask her questions. At other times they didn’t need to speak. She leaned her head on his shoulder or brushed her fingers against his thigh.

‘Is this what you want?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’

‘You love me.’

‘Yes.’

‘If you lead me on, or let me down, or run away…’

‘I won’t.’

‘And we’ll be married?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow.’

A song came on the radio.

‘I’m not listening to country music,’ she said. ‘And I’m not getting married in the Elvis Presley chapel.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘OK.’

41

In the light of the morning, Desiree pours herself a bowl of Grape-Nuts and slices a banana on the top. She has to call her parents and tell them that she won’t be coming over tomorrow. Saturday is normally when she visits, sitting down to a home-cooked meal before watching her father referee a football game from his armchair, yelling at the screen and throwing imaginary penalty flags.

Steeling herself, she makes the call. Her mother picks up and recites her phone number before asking, ‘How can I help you?’ in a posh accent that sounds like an affectation. Her mother is also inclined to order food in the same accent as the waitress or waiter who is serving and doesn’t understand how this might be construed as being patronizing or demeaning to the server.

‘It’s me,’ says Desiree.

‘Hello, dear, we were just talking about you, weren’t we Harold? It’s Desiree. Yes, DESIREE, she’s on the phone.’

Her father is deaf without his hearing aid and Desiree suspects that he leaves it turned off on purpose so that he doesn’t have to listen to her mother.

‘I just bought a ham,’
her mother says.
‘I was gonna bake it the way you like – with the mustard and honey glaze.’

‘I can’t make it home,’ says Desiree. ‘I have to work.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame … Desiree won’t be coming, Harold. SHE HAS TO WORK.’

‘But we’re having baked ham,’
her father yells in the background, as though everybody else is deaf.

‘She knows, Harold, I just told her.’

‘Has she found herself a boyfriend?’
he asks.

‘He wants to know if you’ve found a nice man,’
says her mother.

‘Tell him I got married and had twins. Timon and Pumbaa. Pumbaa farts a lot, but he’s very sweet.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t joke about it,’
her mother says.

From the background, her father yells,
‘Tell her it’s okay if she’s a lesbian. We don’t mind.’

‘She’s not a lesbian,’
scolds her mother.

‘I’m just saying that if she is a lesbian, we won’t mind,’
says her father.

‘Don’t tell her that!’

Soon they’re arguing.

‘I have to go,’ says Desiree. ‘Sorry about tomorrow.’

She hangs up and collects her things. Leaving the apartment, she descends the outer stairs and waves to her landlord Mr Sackville, who is twitching his curtains. Weekend traffic is light as she drives into the northern suburbs of Houston.

Half an hour later she reaches Tomball and parks outside a neat blue and white bungalow with an emerald-green lawn and garden shrubs pruned to look naked and cold. Nobody answers the front-door chime. Desiree can hear the sound of children squealing and laughing in the rear garden. She unlatches the side gate and walks along a path around the house.

Balloons and streamers decorate a trellis above an outside patio. Children and grandchildren are running between the trees, chasing a dog. Women are chatting around a table, beating eggs for French toast and making batter for pancakes. The few men present have convened around the barbecue, that great leveller of social class and status, where a man is judged on how often he turns a steak rather than how much he earns or what car he drives.

Former Dreyfus County pathologist Herman Willford, now retired, sits on a folding director’s chair, cradling a plastic plate on his lap. His trousers are belted high on his waist and a cardigan buttoned across his chest. He looks at the children, flinching at every squeal like the noise sets his teeth on edge.

A matronly woman approaches Desiree, wiping her hands on an apron. She looks at the badge.

‘This is a family gathering.’

‘It’s important. I wouldn’t bother him otherwise.’

The woman sighs, but Herman looks almost relieved to be given a leave of absence. He takes Desiree into the house and offers her a libation. She declines and he makes small talk, complaining about being old and impatient and wanting everyone to leave.

‘That’s the problem with family,’ he says, his eyes sharp beneath busy eyebrows. ‘You can’t retire from them.’

Desiree has brought crime-scene photographs and maps with her. She spreads them on a coffee table in the living room. The old pathologist examines them almost lovingly, as though remembering a time when he felt more youthful and useful.

‘You’re asking me about where the fatal shots were fired from?’

‘I’m trying to understand the sequence.’

‘Vernon and Billy Caine were killed by police-issue weapons. Vernon was shot in the neck and Billy through the heart.’

‘What about Audie Palmer?’

‘It was close range.’

‘How close?’

‘Three, maybe four feet away.’ The old pathologist picks up a photograph. ‘From the angle of the shot, I’d say he was shot from the front.’

‘Did you find the bullet?’

‘There were entry and exit wounds, but the shell wasn’t recovered.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘There were seventy shots fired that day – not every shell was retrieved.’

‘Can you tell me which officer shot him?

‘Not with any certainty.’

‘Why not?’

He chuckles. ‘I try not to perform autopsies on people who survive.’

‘Why was he found so far away from the others?’

‘According to the police statements he was trying to escape.’

‘He was shot from four feet away.’

He shrugs.

‘And his hands were burned, how do you explain that?’

‘A gas tank ruptured and burst into flames.’

‘Why just his hands?’

The pathologist sighs. ‘Listen here, Special Agent, what difference does it make who fired the shot or how his hands got burned? He lived. My job was to tell the coroner how those people died.’

‘The woman was never identified, don’t you find that strange?’

‘No.’

‘Really?’

‘Take a trip down to any county morgue and you’ll find unclaimed bodies.’

‘How many are unidentified?’

‘You’d be surprised. In Brooks County they found a hundred and twenty-nine bodies last year. Sixty-eight are unidentified – most likely illegal immigrants who died in the desert. Sometimes they only find the bones. That woman was burned beyond recognition. We couldn’t even reconstruct her face because the intense heat caused so many fractures. There was no conspiracy, Special Agent. We just couldn’t give that poor woman a name.’

Desiree notices Willford’s daughter peering at her from the cracked door, as though ready to intervene to protect him. Collecting the photographs, she thanks the pathologist and apologises for interrupting his brunch.

Outside a child screams and tears follow. Willford sighs. ‘They say grandchildren are a blessing but mine are holy terrors. It’s like being locked in an insane asylum full of midgets.’ He glances at Desiree. ‘No offence meant, ma’am.’

42

Audie watches Sandy Valdez through the large glass windows into the fitness centre where she’s running on a treadmill, her hair bouncing on her shoulders.

Some time later she emerges, showered, wearing white golfing shorts and an expensive-looking sleeveless top that fits loose, yet shows off her breasts. Her tanned legs stretch from sockless sneakers. She picks up a coffee to go. Window-shops. Tries on a shirt.

Audie glances up from a newspaper, watching her move through the brightly lit atrium and ascend on the escalator. They’re under a clear dome of the shopping mall where water streams down a glass wall into a pool that’s supposed to represent a rainforest. She waves to a friend on the down escalator. They signal each other. Phone. Coffee. Catch-up. Later.

In another shop, Sandy chooses a skirt and blouse and goes into the changing room. She emerges a few minutes later and goes back to the rack, looking for a different size.

Audie has survived without luck for so long that he hardly recognises when it arrives. Sandy has left her gym bag in the changing room. Slipping inside the cubicle, he unzips the bag and takes her cell phone.

An assistant walks past. ‘Can I help you?’

‘My wife needs her phone,’ he says, motioning to Sandy, who is studying a label. At that moment she turns and starts walking toward the changing room. Another shopper has attracted the assistant’s attention. Audie lowers his head and passes within a foot of Sandy, expecting a shout of alarm or someone yelling for the police. Fifteen … twenty … thirty feet … he’s outside the shop … on the escalator … across the concourse.

Minutes later he’s sitting behind the wheel of the Camry, scrolling through Sandy’s text messages until he finds one from the boy. He hits the reply option and types:

Change of plan. We want you home. I’ll pick you up from school in fifteen minutes. Mom xx.

He presses ‘send’ and waits. The phone vibrates with a new message:

What’s up?

I’ll explain later. Meet you in the parking lot.

Audie searches the contacts list again and punches in a new number. A woman answers. Bright. Breezy.

‘Oak Ridge High School.’

‘This is Sheriff Ryan Valdez,’ says Audie, lengthening his vowels.

‘How can I help you, Sheriff?’

‘My son Max is a junior. He needs to come home. I’m picking him up in a few minutes.’

‘Did he lodge a permission slip?’

‘No. That’s why I’m calling.’

‘Your wife told us there was a security issue.’

‘That’s why it’s important we pick him up. I’m calling on my wife’s cell phone.’

The secretary checks the number.
‘Very good. I’ll get Max out of class.’

Audie hangs up and drops the phone in his lap. Pausing at the next stoplight, he reaches behind him and pulls the sawn-off shotgun from under his rucksack on the seat. He has three shells. Rolling them in his palm, he feels the coolness of the curved metal edges.

Pulling into a parking spot near the school gates, he lets the engine idle and watches the main doors. The sky is the purest blue, not cobalt or vapour-laden or discoloured by smog.

His cell phone chimes. Max texts:
Where are you?

Walk to the exit.

You have to sign something.

Tell them I’ll do it later. We have to hurry.

Moments later he sees Max push through the heavy glass doors and jog down the steps. He’s wearing a baseball cap low over his ears and is moving with gangly teenage awkwardness, searching for his mother’s car.

Audie triggers the hazard lights. Max moves closer. He crouches to look through the tinted glass. The window glides down.

‘Get in the car.’

The boy blinks at him. His eyes drift down to the shotgun on Audie’s lap. For a fleeting moment he seems to consider running.

‘I have your mom,’ says Audie. ‘How else could I set this up?’

Max hesitates. Audie shows him Sandy’s phone. ‘Get in the car, I’ll take you to her.’

The boy looks over his shoulder. Uncertain. Scared. He climbs into the passenger seat. Audie slides the shotgun onto the floor next to his left hand and pulls away from the kerb. The doors centrally lock. Max tries the handle.

‘I want to talk to Mom.’

‘Soon.’

They’re driving north along the I-45, keeping to the centre lane. Audie checks the mirrors, occasionally slowing or accelerating, making sure they’re not being followed.

‘Where is she?’

Audie doesn’t answer.

‘What have you done to her?’

‘She’s fine.’

Audie moves to the outer lane. ‘Give me your cell.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

Max hands it over. Audie winds down the window. He tosses Sandy’s and then Max’s phones onto the hard shoulder of the freeway where the devices shatter and the pieces bounce and skip across the asphalt.

‘Hey! That was my cell!’ cries Max, looking out the back window.

‘I’ll buy you another one.’

Max looks at him murderously. ‘You’re not taking me to Mom, are you?’

Silence.

Max pulls at the door handle and begins yelling. He hammers on the window, screaming at passing vehicles. The drivers ignore him, locked in their own little worlds. He lunges for the steering wheel. The Camry slews across two lanes and almost swipes the safety rail. Vehicles swerve out of the way. Horns blare. Max is still gripping the wheel. Audie elbows him in the face and the boy falls back into his seat, holding his nose, blood running through his fingers.

‘You could’ve killed us,’ yells Audie.

‘You’re gonna kill me anyway,’ Max hiccups.

‘What?’

‘You’re gonna kill me.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Revenge.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

Max lowers his hands. ‘What do you call this?’

Audie’s heart is still racing. ‘I’m sorry I hit you. You frightened me.’ He pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to Max. The teenager holds it on his nose.

‘Tilt your head back,’ says Audie.

‘I know what to do,’ Max replies angrily. They drive in silence. Audie checks the mirrors again, wondering if the near-accident was caught on any camera or reported by another driver.