“Come again?”
“Those hills,” he said, jerking his chin toward the window, indicating some rocky dunes a short distance away. “You need to get them out of the way, right? You could use explosives.”
Bull stroked his long mustache, following his gaze. The method wasn’t particularly revolutionary on a job this scale, so perhaps the option wasn’t viable. Dylan knew there were environmental sanctions and cost issues to consider.
He just liked the idea of blowing shit up.
“Hmmph,” Bull said, looking away from the window. “I need diggers. Graders. Guys who will shovel until their backs ache and their hands bleed.”
Dylan turned his palms faceup. They were already calloused from handling a basketball so much, but he wasn’t so naive as to think working at a construction site wouldn’t affect his playing in a negative way.
“I can do that,” he said, liking the idea of blood on his hands.
9
Dylan left the construction site with a spring in his step. The day was turning out better than he’d hoped. His experiments had gone well, he hadn’t gotten caught, and the interaction between him and Bull Ryan was an unexpected bonus.
He was actually looking forward to starting his new job. Shay wouldn’t approve, because she wanted him to focus on his grades and excel in sports, but the basketball season was wrapping up and the last few months of high school would be a breeze. Seniors couldn’t concentrate for shit this time of year, and most teachers planned accordingly.
Before he reached Shay’s car, the day took an abrupt turn for the worse. Garrett Snell’s cruiser was inching down the dirt road, driving slowly to avoid kicking up dust. For a guy who never seemed to do any actual police work, Garrett managed to be everywhere at once.
“Motherfucker,” Dylan said under his breath, quickening his pace. If he could get to the car, he might have a chance to stash his pack. Unfortunately, the deputy had already spotted him. He sped up, flashing his siren and jerking to a stop behind Shay’s car.
Swearing, Dylan shrugged out of his backpack and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. Garrett moved at a deceptively lazy pace, but he was out of his car with time to spare, standing in Dylan’s way and blocking his exit route.
“Why do you always hassle me?” he asked, exasperated.
Garrett stared at him, his black eyes flat. “Because you deserve it. Now drop the backpack and put your hands on the hood of the car.”
Dylan’s stomach pitched. “I didn’t even do anything! You have no right-”
“I have every right,” Garrett claimed. “Folks said they heard gunshots.”
“Bullshit,” he muttered under his breath. But Dylan wasn’t stupid, so he cooperated, letting his backpack fall to the ground and placing his hands on the hood of the car. It was blazing hot.
“Spread your legs.”
Dylan gritted his teeth and did as he was told. It wasn’t the first time the deputy had patted him down, and he was pretty sure Garrett enjoyed it. Not because he liked boys, but because he liked humiliating him. His touch was swift and impersonal, brushing along the undersides of his arms and around his waist. When he dropped down to check Dylan’s ankles, and moved up to the baggy crotch of his pants, Dylan couldn’t take it anymore.
“Does your wife know you love balls?”
Garrett grunted at the insult and continued frisking him. Dylan thought he was going to get away with the comment until Garrett brought his knee up and rammed him forcefully between the legs.
The pain was instantaneous, debilitating, excruciating. Dylan fell forward against the hood, letting out a pathetic, strangled sound. Agony spread through his lower abdomen, making him nauseous. He slid down the wheel well and collapsed in the dirt, curling up in the fetal position with his hand cradled between his legs. He was only vaguely aware of Garrett unzipping his backpack and rifling through its contents.
“Does your sister know what you’ve been up to?”
Dylan retched and spat on the dirt, ridding the bad taste from his mouth. “Fuck you,” he moaned.
“You’re going to blow your pecker off.”
That prediction brought another round of nausea. He struggled not to vomit, not to cry. Bits of dirt and gravel cut into the side of his face, but it was a minor discomfort compared to the ache in his groin.
Instead of arresting him, or confiscating the stuff in his backpack, Garrett tossed it on the hood of Shay’s car. “Don’t come around here anymore.”
Tears seeped out of his eyes. “Have to,” he said from between clenched teeth. “I’ve got a job now.”
Dylan felt Garrett’s beady little eyes on him, relishing his pain, assessing his weaknesses. “Bull hired you? To do what, suck dicks?”
“No,” he panted. “He said you took care of that for him.”
He braced his body for another blow, waiting for Garrett to kick him in the stomach, or make him eat gravel. Nothing happened. Dylan knew he had a dirty mouth, and his inability to control it caused him no end of trouble. When he thought he could open his eyes without losing his lunch, he squinted up at Garrett in trepidation.
The deputy wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring out past the construction site, toward Cahuilla Ridge. Where Shay had gone with the new sheriff. “Give your sister my regards,” he said, and left him there, lying in the dirt.
Luke had been acting weird ever since they crossed the border into Los Coyotes. He was aloof with Clay and indifferent toward the elders. After the tour, he’d asked a few questions about trucks and custom bed liners, of all things, a few more about the new casino.
“When did you leave Pala?” she asked, forming the words as soon as they popped into her mind. They had a thirty minute drive before they reached the trailhead to the tenajas, so she might as well make conversation.
“A long time ago.”
“How old were you?” she persisted.
“Three.”
“So you moved to Vegas with your family?”
“My mother and I went.”
“What happened to your father?”
“What happened to yours?” he returned.
She rested her head back against the seat, feeling weary. “He’s a truck driver.”
“Tenaja Falls has roads.”
“Not ones he travels.”
His hands relaxed on the steering wheel. “My dad stayed in Pala. They’re divorced.”
She could only guess he associated the reservation with whatever had gone wrong between his parents. It wasn’t difficult to look around Los Coyotes, or Tenaja Falls, for that matter, and see only life’s failures, hard luck and harder times. “You didn’t come back to visit?”
“Every summer.”
“How was it?”
“Not too good,” he said, surprising her with honesty.
“What was he like?”
“Strict.” After a short pause, he added, “Rigid.”
“Hmm,” she said, studying the way he held himself, ramrod-straight, and the military precision of his uniform. “I can’t imagine that.”
He leaned back in his seat, distancing himself from the comparison. “He also drank a lot. And he put me to work on his property. I guess he thought he’d make a man out of me.”
“Did he?”
For a moment, she thought he was going to admit that being a man had nothing to do with physical labor.
