Night before last, in a Kansas trailer park, Luis and Elroy had held a kind of memorial.
While the Guide retired inside the rented Winnebago, they had lit a barbecue fire and got drunker than hell, cooking up brisket and talking about C.C.
Elroy took Luis down to the creek, where they shot the bow-and-arrow set Elroy stole in Oklahoma City.
Then they realized they’d have to find the arrows, so they tromped around in the dark and collected a few until they heard a rattlesnake and ran like shit back to the picnic table. They laughed about it afterward, their hearts pounding, and Elroy felt good for the first time since C.C. died.
But they couldn’t keep up their spirits. The Guide was always close by, always giving orders. He looked at them like they were heavy, worthless packages he didn’t really want to deliver-the same way he’d looked at C.C., bleeding to death in front of that sporting goods store.
Nobody leaves the group.
Walking to Target, Luis had told Elroy, “We can make it the rest of the way, ese.”
“You mean without him?”
“Fuck him,” Luis said. “We steal a car, head north our own damn selves. What do you say?”
Elroy understood why Luis hated the Guide. The Guide was a flesh smuggler, same as Stirman. Probably killed more Mexicans in his life than he’d killed flies. Be like asking Elroy to trust a Klansman.
But Elroy was doubtful. He wanted a new identity, money to start a life, all those things the Guide had promised. He didn’t trust the Guide or Stirman worth a shit, but Elroy had to get to Canada-for C.C.’s sake, as well as his own.
Here at the Exxon station, this was the moment to decide. As soon as the tank was full, as soon as Luis came out of the store, they could either go up the block to the motel, or they could get on the highway.
Elroy wanted to find a good woman to marry. He wanted to buy a decent house, join an old-fashioned gospel church.
Not that he believed his soul could be saved. He knew better than that. Since the day he drove his fist through that racist foreman’s nose out in the oil fields of West Texas, Elroy had accepted the fact his temper would damn him to hell.
But he wanted to get a job, have some kids. Maybe if he raised a couple of children right, that would count for something. He could have his own van with Cheerios and juice boxes in the back. He could take his kids into woods, somewhere up north where the wilderness went on forever, and teach them to shoot a bow. They’d buy an endless supply of arrows, so they’d never have to go looking for them, just shoot them into the sky and watch them disappear.
Elroy didn’t hear the police car pulling up behind him until the doors opened.
A cop’s voice on the bullhorn: “Driver of the Sienna van. Put both hands slowly on top of your head. Do it now.”
Elroy turned.
The policeman yelled, “Do not turn around. Put your hands on your head. Do it now!”
There were two of them, shielded by their car doors, guns drawn and pointed at him. No way could Elroy reach the gun tucked in his jeans, under his shirt.
He started to raise his hands, but he kept hold of the pump nozzle, still squeezing so it came out of the tank gushing. Gasoline sprayed up the side of the van, toward the cops.
That bought him a half second. They weren’t expecting it.
Elroy dropped the nozzle and ducked around the front of the van. He hoped the cops knew better than to shoot at high-octane fuel. One of them fired anyway. The shot sparked off the fuel door. Elroy crouched against the front bumper, breathing heavy. He pulled his gun.
He weighed the odds of running, and didn’t like them much. He saw Luis come out of the convenience store, a plastic grocery bag under one arm and a gun in the other.
Before Elroy could say anything, Luis let loose a full clip at the police car.
Then Luis jerked back. The glass behind him spiderwebbed. A hole ripped through his grocery bag, then another-cherry Coke and jelly beans dribbling down his shirt.
Elroy thought about his imaginary children, shooting arrows into the sky. He thought about Floresville State, the death sentence that was waiting for him.
Maybe Luis had nailed at least one of the cops. Maybe there would only be one left.
He raised his gun and charged around the side of the van, straight into crossfire from the second and third police cars, which had just pulled up.
Elroy didn’t have time to marvel at his bad luck.
He smelled gasoline turning to flame, and the world erupted like a full blast of Texas summer sun.
The Guide pulled out of the motel in a stolen Honda Accord. He could see the black smoke boiling, a couple of blocks away.
The dragnet was already going up, but he eased past the scene at the gas station long enough to get the idea what had happened. The cops stopped him. His Nebraska driver’s license was valid. They didn’t bother checking his registration. He didn’t look like anyone they wanted.
He got on the highway and headed in no particular direction-just away.
Eventually, the police would check motel records. They would get an ID on Elroy and Luis and wonder about the third man who’d checked in with them-who didn’t quite match Will Stirman’s description. They would start wondering where Stirman had gone.
“We’re even,” the Guide told Will over the phone. “I’m gonna disappear for a while.”
“You promised me a week,” Will reminded him. “I need a full week.”
Nothing on the line but the hum of the highway.
Will felt his old friend’s disapproval. Will should have left the country already. He’d had plenty of time. It shouldn’t take him a week to tie up his loose ends.
“You sure you’re thinking straight, Will?” the Guide asked.
Will had trained this bastard. He had saved his life once on the border.
“You sent them out on purpose, didn’t you?” Will asked. “You knew they couldn’t handle anything alone. You knew something like this would happen.”
“We’re even,” the Guide repeated. “And Will? That emergency account I set up? Don’t try to withdraw any cash, you hear? I emptied it.”
The line went dead, and Will shattered the phone against the warehouse’s brick wall.
He threw the iron bolt on the storage room door. Inside, Erainya Manos was sitting cross-legged on an old mattress, her hands no longer tied behind her back. She was eating chicken soup out of a can.
Pablo sat by the window, thumbing a Sports Illustrated, his gun and portable radio on the table next to him. The news was just coming on: “Breaking story in Omaha, a possible connection to the Floresville Five-”
Will turned it off.
“Hey,” Pablo complained.
“You heard enough news about yourself.”
“What’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem?” Will repeated. “Who told you to untie her hands?”
“She’s got to eat.”
“Then spoon-feed her.”
“Fuck that.”
Will went over to Erainya Manos and slapped the soup can out of her hands.
She didn’t even blink. She gave him a look of pure black hate. She held up her spoon, like she was inviting him to slap that away, too.
“Your memory any better today?” he asked.
“I don’t have your goddamn money. You’re wasting your time.”
If she’d shown any weakness, Will couldn’t have held back from hitting her. Her anger saved her. That, and the doubt that had started to creep into his gut, the feeling that maybe he’d read things wrong. Perhaps very wrong.
“Put down the fucking magazine,” he told Pablo. “Pick up your gun and keep it on her.”
