Stinger Part 2

"There's part of it," Stevie said, and pointed.

Jessie looked. On the ground about forty feet away, in the midst of chopped-down cactus, was a piece of something sticking up from the sand. Jessie walked toward it, with Stevie right behind. The fragment was the size of a manhole cover, a strange hue of dark, wet-looking blue green. Its edges were smoking, and Jessie felt the heat coming off it before she got within fifteen feet. In the air there was a sweet odor that reminded her of the smell of burning plastic, but the stuff had a metallic sheen. Just to the right was another chunk of the material, this one shaped like a tube, and more smaller pieces lay nearby, smoke rising from all of them. She said, "Stay here" to Stevie and approached the first fragment a little closer, but its heat was intense and she had to stop again. Its surface was covered with small markings arrayed in a circular pattern, a series of j.a.panese-like symbols and short wavy lines.

"It's hot," Stevie said, standing right beside her mother. So much for obedience, Jessie thought, but this was not the time for discipline. She took her child's hand. Whatever had pa.s.sed this way and thrown pieces off in its pa.s.sage was unlike anything Jessie had ever seen before, and she could still feel the static electricity that had crackled through her hair. She glanced at her wrist.w.a.tch: the digits had all returned to zeros, flas.h.i.+ng erratically. In the blue sky, the jet contrails all aimed toward the southwest. The sun was beginning to beat down on her unprotected skull, and she searched for her cap. It was a red speck about seventy yards on the other side of Cobre Road, blown there by the helicopters' rotors. Too far to walk when they should be going in the opposite direction, toward the Lucas place. They had their canteens, thank G.o.d, and at least the sun was still low. There was no need to stand around gawking; they had to get moving.

"Let's go," Jessie said. Stevie resisted her for just a couple of seconds, still looking at the manhole-sized piece of whatever it was, and then allowed herself to be tugged along. Jessie went back to the truck to get her satchel, which contained her wallet and driver's license as well as a few veterinary instruments. Stevie stood gazing up at the contrails. "The planes sure are high," she said, more to herself than to her mother. "I'll bet they're a hundred miles-"

She heard something that stopped her voice.

Music, she thought. But not music. Now it was gone. She listened carefully, heard only the noise of steam from the broken engine.

Then there it was again, and Stevie thought she knew what the sound was but she couldn't exactly remember. Music, but not music. Not like the kind Ray listened to. Gone again.

Now slowly, softly returning.

"We've got a ways to go," Jessie told her. The child nodded absently. "You ready?"

Stevie knew what it was: it hit her quick and clear. On the front porch of the Galvin house, before Jenny had moved away, hung a pretty thing that sounded like a lot of little bells ringing when the wind stirred it. Wind chimes, she remembered Jenny's mother saying when Stevie had asked what it was. That was the music she was hearing, but no wind was blowing and there weren't any wind chimes around, anyway.

"Stevie?" Jessie asked. The little girl was just staring at nothing. "What is it?"

"Can you hear that, Mama?"

"Hear what?" Nothing but the d.a.m.ned engine spouting.

"That," Stevie insisted. The sound was fading in and out again, but it seemed to be coming from a certain direction. "Hear it?"

"No," Jessie's voice was careful. Did she hit her head? Jessie wondered. Oh Lord, if she's got a concussion...!

Stevie took a few steps toward the blue-green smoking thing out in the cactus. The wind-chimes noise immediately weakened to a whisper. Not that way, she thought, and stopped.

"Stevie? You okay, honey?"

"Yes ma'am." She looked around, walked in another direction. Still the sound was very faint. Not that way, either.

Jessie was getting spooked. "It's too hot to play games. We've got to go. Come on, now."

Stevie walked toward her mother. Stopped abruptly. Took another step, then two more. Jessie approached her, took off the child's cap, and ran her fingers through the hair. There was no knot, no sign of a bruise on the forehead either. Stevie's eyes were a little s.h.i.+ny and her cheeks were flushed, but Jessie figured that was just from the heat and excitement. She hoped. There was no sign of injury that she could see. Stevie was staring past her. "What is it?" Jessie asked. "What do you hear?"

"The music," she explained patiently. She had figured out where it was coming from, though she knew also that such a thing couldn't be. "It's singing," she said, as the clear strong notes swept over her again. She pointed. "From there."

Jessie saw where she was pointing to. The pickup truck. Its torn-up engine, the hood still raised. She guessed the noise of steam and bubbling fluids from gashed cables might be construed as a weird kind of music, yes, but...

"It's singing," Stevie repeated.

Jessie knelt down, checking her daughter's eyes. They were not bloodshot, the pupils looked to be fine. Checked her pulse. A little fast, but otherwise okay. "Do you feel all right?"

That was her mama's doctor voice, Stevie thought. She nodded. The wind-chimes sound was coming from the truck; she was certain of it. But why couldn't her mother hear? The fragile music pulled at her, and she wanted to walk the rest of the way to the truck and keep searching until she found where the wind chimes were hidden, but her mother had hold of her hand and was pulling her away. With each step, the music faded just a little more.

"No! I want to stay!" Stevie protested.

"Stop this foolishness, now. We've got to get to the Lucas place before it gets really hot out here. Stop dragging your feet!" Jessie was trembling. The events of the past few minutes were catching up to her. Whatever that thing had been, it could've easily smashed them to atoms. Stevie'd had flights of fantasy before, but this was certainly neither the time nor the place. "Stop dragging!" she ordered, and finally the little girl was walking under her own power.

Ten more steps, and the wind-chimes music was a whisper. Five more, a sigh. Another five, a memory.

But it had penetrated deep in Stevie's mind, and she could not let it go. They walked away, following the dirt road to the Lucas place. Stevie kept looking back at the pickup truck until it was a dusty dot, and only when it was out of sight did she remember that they were on their way to see Sweetpea.

5 Bordertown

"Day of reckonin'!" Vance said as the patrol car sped east on Cobre Road. A belch rose from his gut like thunder. "Yes sir, day of reckonin's comin' right soon!" Celeste Preston was going to be out on her rear end before long. Miss High-and-Mighty was going to wish she could get a job swabbing spittoons at the Bob Wire Club, if he had anything to say about it.

The car was moving past the remnants of the mine. Back in March, a couple of kids had climbed over the fence, gone down into the crater, and gotten themselves blown to flyspecks when they found some undetonated dynamite left in drill holes in the rock. In the mine's final weeks, the blasting had been as constant as doom's clockwork, and Vance figured more live sticks were probably down there, but n.o.body was dumb enough to go dig them out. What was the use, anyway?

He reached to the dash and lifted the radio's microphone. "Hey there, Danny boy! Come on back to me, hear?"

The speaker crackled as Danny Chaffin responded. "Yes, sir?"

"Get on the horn and call around to... uh, let's see here a minute." Vance flipped down the visor, took the county map that was clipped to it, and unfolded it on the seat beside him. He let the car have its own mind for a few seconds and it weaved toward the right shoulder, scaring the sense out of an armadillo. "Call around to Rimrock and Presidio airstrips. Ask 'em if they're flyin' any choppers this mornin'. Prissy Preston's in an uproar 'cause her hair got mussed."

"Ten-four."

"Hold on," Vance added. "Might as well go out of the county too. Call up to Midland and Big Spring airports. h.e.l.l, call Webb Air Force Base too. That oughta do it."

"Yes sir."

"I'm gonna take a swing through Bordertown and then I'll be on in. Any more calls?"

"No sir. Quiet as a wh.o.r.e in church."

"You got Whale Tail on your mind there, boy? Better quit drillin' that thang 'fore you fall in!" Vance laughed. The idea of Danny getting it on with Sue "Whale Tail" Mullinax tickled him giddy. Whale Tail was about twice the kid's size; she was a waitress at the Brandin' Iron Cafe on Celeste Street, and he knew about ten guys who'd dipped their wicks into her flame. So why not the boy too?

Danny didn't answer. Vance knew talking about Whale Tail like that got his goat, because Danny Chaffin was a moon-eyed kid, wet as oceans behind the ears, and didn't realize Whale Tail was stringing him along. He'd learn. "Check ya later, Danny boy," Vance said, and returned the mike to its cradle. Rocking Chair Ridge was coming up on the left, and along Cobre Road the houses and buildings of Inferno s.h.i.+mmered in the harsh light.

It was too early for trouble in Bordertown, Vance knew. But then again, you never could tell what might set off those Mexicans. "Hispanics," Vance muttered, and shook his head. They had brown skin, black eyes and hair, they lived on tortillas and enchiladas, and they jabbered south-of-the-border lingo; to Vance, that made them Mexicans, no matter where they'd been born or what fancy name you called them. Mexicans, pure and simple.

Nestled in its slot underneath the dashboard was a Remington pump shotgun, and beneath the pa.s.senger seat was a Louisville Slugger. That ole baseball bat was just made to bash wetback skulls, Vance mused. Especially the skull of one smart-a.s.s punk who thought he called the shots over there. Sooner or later, he knew, Mr. Louisville was going to meet Rick Jurado, and then- boom! Jurado was going to be the first wetback in outer s.p.a.ce.

He drove past Preston Park to Republica Road, turned right at Xavier Mendoza's Texaco station, and headed across the Snake River bridge onto the dusty streets of Bordertown. He decided to drive over to the Jurado house, on Second Street, maybe sit in front and see if anything needed correcting. Because after all, Vance told himself, correcting was the sheriff's job. By this time next year he'd no longer be a sheriff, so he might as well do as much correcting as he could. He winced at the thought of Celeste Preston ordering him around like a shoes.h.i.+ne boy, and he put his foot down on the accelerator. He stopped the car in front of a brown clapboard house on Second Street. Parked at the curb was the boy's banged-up black '78 Camaro, and along the street were other junkers that even Mack Cade wouldn't take. Laundry drooped on backyard lines and chickens pecked around some of the gra.s.sless yards. The land and houses belonged to a citizens' committee of Mexican-Americans, and the nominal rent went back into the town's fund, but Vance was the law here as well as across the bridge. The houses, most of which dated from the early fifties, were clapboard and stucco structures that all looked to be in need of painting or repair, but the Bordertown fund couldn't keep up with the work. It was a shantytown, the narrow streets sifted with yellow dust and the hulks of old cars, was.h.i.+ng machines and other junk standing around like the perpetual monuments of poverty. The majority of Bordertown's thousand or so inhabitants had labored at the copper mine, and when that shut down the skilled ones had gone elsewhere. The others held on desperately to what little they had. Two weeks ago, a couple of empty houses at the end of Third Street had caught fire, but the Inferno Volunteer Fire Department had kept the blaze from spreading. Sc.r.a.ps of gasoline-soaked rags had been found in the ashes. Just last weekend, Vance had broken up a fight between a dozen Renegades and Rattlesnakes in Preston Park. Things were heating up again, the same as last summer, but this time Vance meant to bottle up the trouble before any citizens of Inferno got hurt. He watched a red bantam rooster strutting across the street in front of his car. He hit the horn, and the rooster jumped up in the air and lost three feathers. "Little b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Vance said, reaching into his breast pocket for his pack of Luckies.

But before he got a cigarette out, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He looked to his right, at the Jurado house, and he saw the boy standing in the doorway. They stared at each other. Time ticked past. Then Vance's hand moved as if it had a wit of its own, and he pressed the horn again. The wail echoed along Second Street, stirring up the neighborhood dogs to a frenzy of barks and wails.

The boy didn't move. He was wearing black jeans and a blue-striped short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt, and he was holding the screen door open with one arm. The other hung at his side, the fist clenched. Vance hit the horn once more, let it moan for about six long seconds. Now the dogs were really raising h.e.l.l. A man peered from a doorway three houses up. Two children emerged onto the porch of another house and stood watching until a woman urged them back inside. As the noise died away, Vance heard the sound of shouted, Spanish cursing-all that lingo sounded like cursing to him-from a house across the street. And then the boy let the screen door shut as he came down the sagging porch steps to the curb. Come on, li'l rooster! Vance thought. Come on, just start some trouble!

The boy stopped right in front of the patrol car.

He stood about five-nine, his brown arms muscular, his jet-black hair combed back from his forehead. Against the dark bronze of his face his eyes were ebony-except they were the eyes of an old man who has seen too much, not the eyes of an eighteen-year-old. They held a cold rage-like that of a wild animal catching a hunter's scent. Around both wrists he wore black leather bracelets studded with small squares of metal; his belt was also made of studded leather. He stared through the winds.h.i.+eld at Sheriff Vance, and neither of them moved.

Finally, the boy walked slowly around the car and stood several feet from Vance's open window.

"You got a problem, man?" he asked, his voice a mixture of Mexico's stately cadence and west Texas's earthy snarl.

"I'm on patrol," Vance answered.

"You patrollin' in front of my house? On my street?"

Smiling thinly, Vance took off his sungla.s.ses. His eyes were deep-set, light brown, and seemed too small for his face. "I wanted to drive over and see you, Ricky. Wanted to say good mornin'."

"Buenos dias. Anythin' else? I'm gettin' ready for school."

Vance nodded. "Graduatin' senior, huh? Prob'ly got your future all lined up, right?"

"I'll make out okay."

"I'll bet you will. Prob'ly wind up sellin' drugs on the street, is more like it. Good thing you're a real tough hombre, Ricky. You might even learn to enjoy prison life."

"If I get there first," Rick said, "I'll make sure the f.a.gs know you're on your way."

Vance's smile fractured. "What's that supposed to mean, smart-a.s.s?"

The boy shrugged, looking along Second Street at nothing in particular. "You're gonna take a fall, man. Sooner or later, the state cops are gonna latch Cade, and you'll be next. 'Cept you'll be the one holdin' his s.h.i.+tbag, and he'll be long gone 'cross the border." He stared at Vance. "Cade doesn't need a number two. Aren't you smart enough to figure that out yet?"

Vance sat very still. His heart was beating hard, and rough memories were being stirred at the back of his brain. He couldn't stomach Rick Jurado-not only because Jurado was the leader of the Rattlesnakes, but on a deeper, more instinctive level. When Vance was a kid living in El Paso with his mother, he'd had to walk home from grammar school across a dusty h.e.l.lhole called Cortez Park. His mother worked at a laundry in the afternoons, and their house was only four blocks from school, but for him it was a nerve-twisting journey across a brutal no-man's-land. The Mexican kids hung out in Cortez Park, and there was a big eighth-grader named Luis who had the same black, fathomless eyes as Rick Jurado. Eddie Vance had been fat and slow, and the Mexican kids could run like panthers; the awful day came when they'd surrounded him, chattering and hollering, and when he'd started crying that only made it worse. They'd thrown him down and scattered his books while other gringo kids watched but were too scared to interfere; and the one named Luis had pulled his pants down, right off his struggling b.u.t.t and legs, and then they'd held him while Luis stripped off Eddie's Fruit-of-the-Looms. The underpants had been wrapped around Vance's face like a feedbag, and as the half-naked fat boy ran home the Mexican kids had screamed with laughter and jeered, "Burro! Burro! Burro! "

From then on, Eddie Vance had walked more than a mile out of his way to avoid crossing Cortez Park, and in his mind he'd murdered that Mexican boy named Luis a thousand times. And now here was Luis again, only this time his name was Rick Jurado. This time he was older, he spoke English better, and he was no doubt a lot smarter-but, though Vance was approaching his fifty-fourth birthday, the fat little boy inside him would've recognized those cunning eyes anywhere. It was Luis all right, just wearing a different face.

And the truth was that Vance had never met a Mexican who didn't remind him, in some way, of those jeering kids in Cortez Park almost forty years ago.

"What're you starin' at, man?" Rick challenged. "Have I got two heads?"

The sheriff's trance snapped. Rage flooded through him. "I'd just as soon get out of this car and break your neck, you little s.h.i.+t-a.s.s wetback."

"You won't." But the boy's body had tensed for either flight or fight. Take it easy! Vance warned himself. He wasn't ready for this kind of trouble, not right here in the middle of Bordertown. He abruptly put his sungla.s.ses back on and worked his knuckles. "Some of your boys have been driftin' into Inferno after dark. That won't do, Ricky."

"Last I heard, it was a free country."

"It's free for Americans." Though he knew Jurado had been born at the Inferno Clinic on Celeste Street, Vance knew also that the boy's father and mother had been illegals. "You let your gang punks go over-"

"The Rattlers isn't a gang, man. It's a club."

"Yeah, right. You let your club punks go over the bridge after dark and there'll be trouble. I won't stand for it. I don't want any Rattler across the bridge at night. Do I make myself-"

"Bull s.h.i.+t," Rick interrupted. He gestured angrily toward Inferno. "What about the 'Gades, man? Do they own the f.u.c.kin' town?"

"No. But your boys are askin' for a fight, lettin' themselves be seen where they shouldn't be. I want it to stop."

"It'll stop," Rick said. "When the 'Gades stop makin' raids over here, breakin' out people's windows and spray-paintin' their cars. They raise h.e.l.l on my streets, and we're not even supposed to cross the bridge without gettin' spanked! What about that fire? How come Lockett's not in jail?"

"Because there's no proof he or any of the Renegades set it. All we've got are a few bits of burned-up rags."

"Man, you know they set it!" Rick shouted. "They could've burned down the whole town!" He shook his head disgustedly. "You're a chickens.h.i.+t, Vance! Big sheriff, huh? Well, you listen up! My men are watchin' the streets at night, and I swear to G.o.d we'll cut the b.a.l.l.s off any 'Gade we catch!

Comprende? "

Anger reddened Vance's cheeks. He was looking into the face of Luis again, and standing on the battlefield of Cortez Park. Deep down, his stomach was squeezed with a fat kid's fear. "I don't think I like your tone of voice, boy! I'll take care of the Renegades! You just keep your punks on this side of the bridge after dark, you got it?"

Rick Jurado suddenly walked a few feet away, bent down, and picked something up. Vance saw it was the red rooster. The Mexican boy approached the car, held the rooster over the winds.h.i.+eld, and gave a quick, strong squeeze with his hands. The rooster squawked and flapped, and a grayish-white blob fell from its rear end onto the winds.h.i.+eld and oozed down the gla.s.s.

"There's my answer," the boy said defiantly. "Chickens.h.i.+t for a chickens.h.i.+t."

Vance was out of the car before the white line reached the hood. Rick took two strides back, dropped the rooster, and tensed himself to meet the onrus.h.i.+ng storm. The rooster let out a strangled crowing as it darted for the cover of a yucca bush.

Even as he knew he was touching a match to dynamite, Vance reached out to grab the boy's collar; but Rick was way too fast for him, and easily dodged aside. Vance clutched at empty air, and again the vision of Luis and Cortez Park whirled around him. He bellowed with fury, drawing his fist back to strike at his tormentor.

But before the blow could fall, a screen door slammed and a boy's voice called out in Spanish, "Hey, Ricardo! You need some help?" The voice was followed immediately by a sharp crack! that froze the sheriff's fist in midair.

He looked across the street, where a rail-thin Mexican kid wearing chinos, combat boots, and a black T-s.h.i.+rt stood on the front steps of a rundown house. "You need some help, man?" he asked again, this time in English, and then he reared his right hand back and quickly snapped it forward in a smooth, blurred motion.

The bullwhip he was holding popped like a firecracker going off, its tip flicking up a cigarette b.u.t.t from the gutter. Shreds of tobacco whirled.

The moment stretched. Rick Jurado watched Vance's face, could see the rage and cowardice fighting on it; then he saw Vance blink, and he knew which had won. The sheriff's fist opened. His arm came down to his side, and he clasped it like a broken wing.

"No, Zarra," Rick said, his voice calm now. "Everythin's steady, man."

"Jus' checkin'." Carlos "Zarra" Alhambra wrapped the bullwhip around his right arm and sat on the porch steps, his gangly legs stretched out before him.

Vance saw two more Mexican boys walking in his direction along Second Street. Down where the street dead-ended in a tangle of boulders and sagebrush, another boy stood at the curb, watching the sheriff. In his hand was a tire iron.

"You got anythin' else to say?" Rick prodded.

Vance sensed the many eyes on him from the windows of the crummy houses. He knew there was no way to win here; all Bordertown was a big Cortez Park. Vance glanced uneasily at the punk with the bullwhip, knowing that Zarra Alhambra could snap out a lizard's eyeb.a.l.l.s with that d.a.m.ned thing. He pointed a thick finger into Rick's face. "I'm warnin' you! No Rattlers in Inferno after dark, you hear?"

"Eh?" Rick cupped a hand behind his ear.

Across the street, Zarra laughed. "You remember!" Vance said, and then he got into the patrol car. "

You remember, smart-a.s.s! " he shouted once the door was shut. The streak down his winds.h.i.+eld infuriated him, and he switched on the wipers. The streak became a smear. His face burned as their laughter reached him. He put the car in reverse and backed rapidly along Second Street to Republica Road, swerved the car around, and roared over the bridge into Inferno.

"Big lawman!" Zarra hooted. He stood up. "I shoulda popped his fat b.u.t.t, huh?"

"Not this time." Rick's heartbeat was slowing down now; it had been racing during his confrontation with Vance, but he hadn't dared show even a shadow of fear. "Next time you can pop him real good. You can bust his b.a.l.l.s."

"Alllll right! Wreckage, man!" Zarra thrust his left fist up in a power salute, the symbol of the Rattlesnakes.

"Wreckage." Rick returned the salute halfheartedly. He saw Chico Magellas and Petey Gomez approaching, jaunty and strutting as if they walked on a street of gold instead of cracked concrete, on their way to the corner to catch the school bus. "Later," he told Zarra, and he went back up the steps into the brown house.