Life or Death (37 page)

Out of bed, Audie goes to the kitchen and looks out the window. He can see the burnished tufts of grass, clinging to the dunes, and feel the wind still pummelling the house, beating against the shutters. Mornings like this one, raw and untouched, seem like a victory over the night.

A toilet flushes and he hears the tambourine. Max leans barefoot against the doorframe, his hair tousled and his face creased from the pillow.

‘You want some breakfast?’ asks Audie. ‘We got instant coffee, but no milk.’

‘I don’t drink coffee.’

‘Good to know.’

Audie stirs powdered eggs into a bowl and continues talking. ‘Did you sleep OK? How was the mattress? I can get you another blanket.’

Max doesn’t answer.

‘We don’t have to talk,’ Audie says. ‘I’m used to having one-sided conversations.’ He tips the eggs into a hot skillet. ‘I’m sorry I don’t have any bread, but I found some crackers.’ He glances out the open shutter. ‘I know I promised to take you fishing, but there’s still a lot of wind. Storm hasn’t quite blown through. I listened to the news on the radio. There’s another late-season storm off Cuba. They’re saying it might turn into a hurricane, but they don’t expect it to head northwest any time soon.’

‘I don’t want to go fishing. I want to go home,’ says Max.

Audie sets down a plate in front of him. They eat in silence. When the meal is finished, Audie washes and dries the plates. Max hasn’t moved.

‘You were going to tell me today.’

‘That’s true.’

Audie glances around the room as though trying to calculate the dimensions. He goes to his bag, takes out his notebook and shows Max the same photograph.

‘Remember I told you I was married?’

The teenager nods.

‘It took me a long while to find this. The photographer at the wedding chapel lost his job for being a drunk and left Las Vegas. He didn’t leave a forwarding address. Then he went travelling in Europe for a few years. He thought of tossing his old digital files, but he kept a few disks in a storage cage.’

Max frowns, but something, somewhere, seems to register. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

‘That’s you,’ says Audie, pointing to the boy in the photograph.

‘What?’

‘You were only three. And that woman who’s holding your hand is your mom.’

Max shakes his head. ‘That’s not Sandy.’

‘Her name is Belita Ciera Vega and she’s from El Salvador.’

Another silence, longer this time.

‘Your full name is Miguel Ciera Vega,’ says Audie. ‘You were born at San Diego Hospital on August 4, 2000. I’ve seen your birth certificate.’

‘My birthday is February 7,’ says Max, growing upset. ‘I’m American.’

‘I didn’t say you weren’t.’

‘I’m
not
illegal. I got a mother and a father.’

‘I know you do.’

‘But you’re saying I’m adopted.’

‘I’m saying this is your mother.’

‘This is bullshit,’ yells Max. ‘I’ve never been to Las Vegas or San Diego. I was born in Houston.’

‘Let me explain—’

‘No, you’re telling lies!’

‘You had a favourite toy when you were little – do you remember? It had a purple bowtie and black button eyes and you called it Boo Boo, like Yogi’s little friend.’

Max hesitates. ‘How do you know that?’

‘It only had one ear,’ says Audie. ‘You sucked the other one off, just like you sucked your thumb.’ Max remains silent. ‘We were on our way from California to Texas. We stopped off to get married in Las Vegas and then drove through Arizona and New Mexico. We visited a whole lot of places. Do you remember visiting Carlsbad Cavern? There were stalactites and stalagmites. You said it looked like pink ice.’

Max shakes his head as though trying to rid himself of an idea.

Audie starts at the beginning, trying to tell the story in the same words that Belita used – describing the earthquake and the loss of her husband, her parents and her sister. He recounts the exodus and the trek across the desert and the death of her brother and the journey to California. Audie’s own eyes begin to fill with tears, but he doesn’t stop because he’s frightened the language will leave him, the words of love and loss.

‘She was pregnant with you,’ he says. ‘You were born in San Diego, but I didn’t meet you until later. By then I’d fallen in love with Belita. It felt so easy, like forgetting yourself and thinking only of someone else. We ran away together – escaping from a bad man. We were coming to Texas to start a new life. She was going to have another baby. Our baby. A brother or sister for you…’

As he talks Audie can see himself reflected in the boy’s eyes and begins to wonder if he’s making a mistake. He is reframing Max’s history, tearing down everything the teenager has ever known or trusted or believed in.

‘You’re wrong,’ Max whispers. ‘You’re lying.’ The statement is full of cold certainty and hatred and Audie feels a terrible vertigo, as though he were being swept into a gigantic maelstrom that can only cause destruction.

During all his years in prison, Audie had pictured Miguel growing up, riding his first bike, losing his first tooth, heading off to school, learning to read and write and draw and a thousand other everyday rituals. He had imagined taking him to a ball game and hearing the clean sharp crack of wood and feeling the surge of the crowd as the ball climbed into the heavens and fell into the forest of upraised arms. He imagined meeting his first girlfriend, buying him his first beer, taking him to his first rock concert. He thought of them travelling to El Salvador together and looking for Belita’s extended family and walking along the beach that she walked upon as a child. He wanted to climb the towers, ride the rapids, stare at the sunsets, read the same books, watch the same movies, break the same bread and sleep under the same roof.

It was bullshit. Ruined. Too much time had passed.

Max will not thank him for having saved his life – he will blame him for having wrecked it.

53

The media conference starts badly when reporters, photographers and camera crews are kept waiting in the rain because the school won’t let them into the auditorium until Senator Dowling arrives. The Senator apologises to the damp faces and begins to make an education announcement, but the reporters want to ask about the kidnapping of a Dreyfus County Sheriff’s son.

‘I know the sheriff in question,’ the Senator says. ‘He’s an old friend and I want to reassure Ryan Valdez and his family that we will do everything in our power to get his boy back to him.’

Senator Dowling returns to his prepared speech, but another reporter yells a question. ‘Why wasn’t Audie Palmer charged with murder one when you were prosecuting him as the district attorney in Dreyfus County?’

Dowling rubs his mouth with the flat of his hand and the microphone picks up the scratching of his whiskers against his palm.

‘Excuse me, but I’m not about to revisit history and conduct a post-mortem on every case I ever prosecuted.’

‘Did Audie Palmer bribe state officials to face lesser charges?’

‘That’s a ridiculous lie!’ The Senator stabs his finger at the questioner, his face reddening. ‘I didn’t make that decision. I didn’t sentence Audie Palmer. And I am not going to justify every action I took as a DA. My record speaks for itself.’

An aide steps close and whispers something in his ear. Dowling nods and his mouth flexes uncertainly before he speaks again, adopting a softer tone, full of candour and integrity.

‘Y’all need to understand something. For you it’s just another story, but for this family it is their son. Before you start pointing fingers at people, you should spare a thought for that poor boy out there in the clutches of a killer, and for his family waiting and praying for news. There will be plenty of time to review this case when the boy is home, God willing, safe and well. And as an elected official, I am going to do everything in my power to make that happen.’

Ignoring further questions, he walks away from the rostrum and is hustled through a side door into a corridor where he launches into an expletive-riven tirade about ‘fucking journalists, blood-sucking leeches and pariahs’.

The target of his anger changes when he sees Victor Pilkington huddled beneath an umbrella outside the main doors. He tells his minions to ‘fuck off’ and drags Pilkington down the steps to a waiting limousine. A chauffeur tries to follow them both with a second umbrella and Dowling tells him to ‘take a walk’.

He pushes Pilkington into the car.

‘You said this was under control.’

‘In essence,’ says Victor.

‘In essence?’

‘We had a minor setback.’

‘He kidnapped the fucking boy! If that’s your idea of minor, you’re looking through the wrong end of the fucking telescope. We don’t have any leverage against him.’

‘The police are doing everything they can.’

‘That’s so fucking reassuring. What if he talks?’

‘Nobody will believe him.’

‘Christ!’

‘Relax.’

‘Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve had Clayton Rudd on the phone, bleating about needing protection. Said he had some negro in his office asking him questions about Audie Palmer. And now I’ve got reporters asking me about why I didn’t call for the death penalty when I had the chance. I’m not carrying the can for this.’

‘Nobody has to carry the can.’

‘One man. One solitary fucking individual.’

‘Can I just say, I—’

‘No! Shut the fuck up! I don’t care how much money you spent on my campaign, Victor. I’ll give it all back. I don’t want to see you again. I don’t want to hear from you. You find this fuck and then we’re finished.’

54

Moss parks the pickup in a grove of pine trees eighty yards from the shack and follows a path through the waist-high grass until he reaches the porch. The wind has dropped and the rain has stopped, but the sky is still the colour of a soggy cigarette. He wipes the palms of his hands on his pants legs before pulling open the screen door, propping it with his foot. He knocks. The inner door opens suddenly. Two eyes peer from the dark interior like pale clouds, shifting shape as the light catches in them. Momentarily startled, Moss stumbles backward and the screen door slams shut.

‘You again! You’re just itching to get shot.’ Theo McAllister is holding a rifle in both hands. He’s wearing a woollen hat with strands of grey hair poking from the edges. ‘What you want?’

‘I have another question.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘It’s about the boy.’

Theo hesitates and his eyes narrow. ‘How do you know about the boy?’

‘Same way you do.’

‘Did the sheriff send you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What does he want?’

‘Your continuing cooperation.’

Moss has no idea what they’re talking about – but he’s seeing how far he can take it before Theo realises that he’s fishing without bait.

The old man studies him, scratching an insect bite on his neck. ‘Well you’d better come inside.’

Moss follows Theo down a dark hallway that smells of cooking oil and coffee grounds. The living room is washed in the blue light of a TV screen. An Asian woman sits in an armchair, watching a comedy with canned laughter. She’s half the old man’s age, dressed in denim shorts and a singlet.

‘Is the sheriff offering more money?’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘I got a new wife to look after. Lost my first one three years ago. Got this one from Asia, but she’s still American, you know what I’m saying – made sure of that.’

The kitchen floor is filthy, the linoleum lifting in places, newspaper yellowing underneath.

‘You tell the sheriff I haven’t told a single solitary soul about the boy. Not one. I kept my side of the bargain.’

‘You got paid.’

‘Not enough.’

‘How much more do you want?’

Theo scratches his neck again and ponders a figure. ‘Two thousand.’

‘That’s steep.’

‘I’m not threatening, mind you. Don’t go giving him that impression. It’s just a request. I don’t want to appear ungrateful.’

‘So I’m clear – you want the sheriff to give you more money to keep quiet about the boy.’

‘Yeah.’

Theo walks to the sink and turns on the tap, getting himself a drink of water in a jam jar. It dribbles down his stubble and lands on the buttons of his checked shirt. He refills the jar and offers it to Moss.

‘No thanks,’ says Moss. ‘Where did you find the boy?’

Theo empties the jar. ‘Yonder.’ He points through the tattered curtains. ‘Little lost thing – filthy as could be – no more’n three or four, wearing a cowboy hat and this plastic silver gun in a holster. It’s a wonder he didn’t perish out there. He could have fell into a stream, or broke a leg, or got run over by a car. He was just a slip of a thing. Muddy. Wet. I looked at him and said, “Where did you come from, little hero?” but he didn’t say a word.’

Moss watches the man’s face change as he tells it. ‘Was he hurt?’

‘Not that I could see.’

Theo puts a thumb to his nostril and hawks on the other one, rattling the sink.

‘Where did he come from?’

He taps the side of his nose. ‘I got my suspicions, which I keep to myself.’

Moss nods. ‘Show me where you found the boy.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m interested.’

Theo takes Moss outside and they walk along the fence line, through a gate hanging off one remaining hinge. They push through high weeds and brambles.

‘I used to keep my dogs out here. I bred ’em for huntin’. That boy could have been eaten if they were hungry enough, but he was sitting in there amongst ’em like he belonged to a litter. Filthy. Didn’t say a word. Figured he must have been out there all night.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I took him home and gave him something to eat. He had cuts and bruises all over his legs. I kept thinking his mama was gonna come along any minute and knock on the door, but she never did. So I turned on the TV news and listened. I figured that if someone had lost their little boy they’d call the police or send out a search party. You know what I mean?’

Moss nods. ‘So what did you do?’

‘I had the sheriff come to see me about the robbery and the shooting. He was only a deputy back then.’