beer and drank.
'Mr. Lourdes, why are you doing it?'
John Lourdes took to looking out the window. 'You've earned it. And I'm staying.'
'That's not what I asked. And you know it, Mr. Lourdes.'
How does he explain without explaining himself? Or a deaf girl who in a few simple phrases spoke to a pure forgiveness. How does he open up about the woman that man across the room abandoned, for whom there was no grievance so great that she could not forgive, because the eternal, not the ephemeral, was her preeminent star? And how does he explain that place inside him where the common assassin who sat amongst the dead listening to a lullaby and the rogue who kidnapped alligators to keep them from freezing in the Texas cold held out in the absence of everything, refusing to die?
'Mr. Lourdes ... why are you doing it?'
Turning, John Lourdes, his face and voice resolute, answered, 'As long as you live, don't ever ask me that. Now ... take the letter and leave.'
The father looked down at the envelope. He had been fundamentally emptied, having now in his hands exactly what was necessary, but nothing else. The son was right. He had hurt him in a way the father never imagined.
'As you say, Mr. Lourdes.'
ONCE ALONE, JOHN Lourdes leveled his focus on the force of dark tides he was about to confront. He left the room to make sure the truck was right, with enough gasoline and extra parts for an escape. After nightfall he drove in the rain to the mayor's house and waited amongst the dripping trees. When Sister Alicia went from the kitchen to a smokehouse by that rusting truck, he made a stealthy approach. Coming upon the unsuspecting woman, he put a hand to her mouth to keep hush. He had a note for her and Teresa and made her swear they tell no one. They must believe and wait.
Sleep was impossible. He went from one black scenario to another, planning out a strategy for survival, and all the while the shadow of the father was with him in thought, word and deed.
There was no dawn, only rain. There was no sun, only a gravel sky. There was no dusk, only a spreading mist.
The truck was parked in an alley behind the Southern. John Lourdes set his carryall on the cab floor, his shotgun and rifle within reach. He kicked the engine over and tossed his cigarette, then shifted into gear and started up the alley through a runny fog toward the street. His mind was at gunsight level when the man who was his father stepped from a last doorway.
Rawbone stood before the truck in silhouette. John Lourdes braked and draped his arms over the wheel. The father came around to the driver's side of the cab and in a quiet voice said, 'Mr. Lourdes, I know who I am ... and I know who you are. I am asking ... save a seat in the truck for me.'
The muscles along the son's cheeks made a sudden and unexpected flinch. He knew, without exception, this moment would never be again. It would flee every chance, escape any wish, if he did not grasp it now. Without a word John Lourdes slid across the seat. The father tossed his worldly goods on the cab floor and climbed in behind the wheel and drove.
THIRTY'-FOUR
HE ROAD THROUGH the oil fields was grouted in mud, the derricks mere speculations in the mist. The Agua Negra compound was quiet, save for a handful of station guards. Authorization was already in hand for independent contractors to pick up the makings of an icehouse. But in this case there were no bills of lading, no paper trail of signatures, no receipts that shipment had been received in good order. The process was faceless, the loading of the truck a tired repetition.
The father asked John Lourdes how this night was supposed to play out. John Lourdes said he had already forewarned the women with the note telling them to be ready for tonight and leaving and that their survival depended on it. Once there, he would warn the mayor, get him out. He would then deliver the weapons and hope to flee Tampico with his own life.
'You were right,' added the son.
'About?'
'Exactly what worried justice Knox. Me. My character where it concerned ... the practical application of strategy.'
Rawbone was now staring into the lifeline of his own child. 'The world is a tricky place, Mr. Lourdes. It's mostly gestures and gratuities. So I'd wait in judgment on myself.'
