'You're never at a loss, are you?'
'I've misfired a time or two.'
'But you're always right there and ready to help someone drown.'
'With a smile and good cheer.'
'We'll have this done in another day, so let's not stumble-fuck over each other. Then you can get on with your miserable existence as a free man.'
'I couldn't have said it better myself.'
John Lourdes returned to his notebook. He took up the last wallet from the derby.
'I think you misunderstood me,' said Rawbone.
'Did I?'
'I only meant you've a clear mind, and it's carried you well.'
Even before the sun, came the heat. It was going to be that kind of day. The shadows fell away behind them as the sun rose over the rim of the world and bore light down upon their road.
The last wallet belonged to the man who'd spoken to John Lourdes at the roadhouse. His name was James Merrill. In a side pouch was a tiny print of him in uniform standing before a harbored warship with other members of his squad.
'The one from the roadhouse,' said John Lourdes, 'must have served in Cuba during the Spanish-American War.'
Rawbone leaned back to try and get a look. He asked for the photo. He held it against the steering wheel. The dun-colored print was badly beaten at the edges and deeply faded. It was a moment caught bare. Soldiers laughing and at the ready. Serve a cause, change the world. It was not worth spit now. That's what death had to say about it all. There is only the ever selfish present to consider. Yet even so—
He handed back the photo. 'That warship is the China,' said the father, 'and that's not Cuba, but Manila harbor.'
His gaze returned to the road. It was an impossible leap for the son to imagine the father anywhere people embark upon a cause. Yet how else could he have known so quickly?
He went back to the wallet. In another pocket he found a cache of business cards all neatly printed and fairly new. What was written there was sobering to a fault.
They were driving in a region where the earth had been thrust up through the faults of time and the ragged line of rocks the road divided looked as if they had been shaped by a hostile blade saw. The son turned the business cards over and over in his hand.
'There's something here that falls short.'
Rawbone glanced at John Lourdes, who handed him the business card. The father held it up and read:
JAMES MERRILL
STANDARD OIL COMPANY
MEXICO
THIRTEEN
HE SOCORRO MISSION was on the El Camino de Tierra Adentro just southeast of the ford where the ferry crossed the Rio Grande. Constructed on a sandy incline, the church was a simple structure with a stepped parapet above the front door on which sat the bell tower.
It was late afternoon when the truck labored up to the low mud brick wall that flanked the nave and from where they could view the ferry. The church was quiet. A few gulls sat atop the bell tower with its cross. There was no shade save for one manzanita alongside the adobe wall. The men rested there in the stifling heat and studied the ferry.
It was docked on the Texas side. There was a customs shack on each shoreline. On this side of the river, the shack stood within a small grotto of trees. The one on the opposing shore stood bare in a landscape that looked like the unfinished country of God's hand. It was still as a painting down there.
'Keep the truck company,' said Rawbone. 'I'll go to the river to get the feel of things. See what all we have to deal with.'
John Lourdes walked to the truck and removed his shoulder holster and set it on the cab seat. He couldn't help but keep looking at the mission. From the moment they'd driven up to this lonely spot he felt as if voices from the other world were talking to him.
