A week later, in the shadow of the beautiful mission church of San Xavier del Bac, the trail led her across tracts of hardened dunes, mesas, and buttes, the oranges and grays of the saguaro.
She saw in bruises and blood, heard in screams and cries, smelled Jimmy’s cologne so opened the window to drown it.
She aimed the sedan over land laced with silver she had learned of in school, the rowdy frontier life, the miners and farmers and the Salt River. She checked into a small hotel in the town of San Carlos, opposite the Chase Bank. For three days she sat by the window, the sun deadened by the faded awning. She gritted her teeth, slept in fits in the old armchair, sometimes saw Jimmy’s face so real she rubbed at her eyes till only colors remained. She checked in with Norma, said she was busy when Norma read between her small talk and demanded to know what was going on with her.
And then, in the vacancy of a Tuesday morning, as she stepped from the misted bathroom, her radio blasted. She sprinted down the stairs and out onto the street.
Saint made it there clear ahead of the local cops, spoke to a shaken teller who told much the same story she was used to, only this time he had followed the kid out front, watched him climb into an aging Chevy and head in the direction of the Apache Trail not five minutes before.
She climbed into her sedan and gunned the engine, climbed through the gears, and opened the window to the lore of the Superstitious Mountains. Saint gripped the wheel tight as the road twisted and climbed drop-offs so steep her stomach flipped.
Her radio crackled as she passed a steamboat on Canyon Lake, but she tuned it out, her eyes locked on the trail. Through Tortilla Flat and the spirit of outlaws, the smooth of the road ended at Fish Creek Hill, and she bumped away, slowing little despite the sheer falls, the barriers missing.
And then, ten miles from anywhere at all, she pulled off the track and parked in the dirt behind the pickup.
He stood in the sunlight, the world unfolding in front, his back to her, but she stayed far enough from him.
“The road drops a thousand feet up ahead. A couple switchbacks,” he said, and then turned. And for the first time in so long, Saint looked into the handsome face of the boy she had given everything for.
He looked taller, tanned, his hair touching gold. And when he smiled it took all she had not to return it. Absolutely all.
“Hey, Saint.”
She drew her gun steady, her mind on her training. “Hey, kid.”
He stared at the barrel, the smile replaced by such sadness she almost broke again. “I like it when you call me kid. It makes me feel like there’s still time.”
“There is.”
“I’m getting closer,” he said. “Eloise Strike. I think she might be my Grace. The name, and the look in her eyes. Her father listens to Johnny Cash.”
“Just like Callie Montrose’s father. And a hundred million more,” she said, feeling the cold of her words, but still he smiled.
In the distance, green hills erupted through the orange face of rock formations, the sky a blast so clear she almost could not breathe in the awe.
“You see those families at the lake, Saint?”
“Sure.”
“Kids with treasure maps, looking for Dutch gold. I notice smiles. Maybe I didn’t see them before. I need to see her smile. Just once. And then I’ll get on, I’ll keep my head low, and I won’t trouble anyone again. I just need to see the smile I used to hear. Because if she can manage that, just once for me, then I’ll know, right.”
“I have to bring you in, Patch.”
He stared past her. “I didn’t take more than they’ll miss. These charities, Saint. That don’t have enough. They won’t find her if they don’t have enough.”
“Doesn’t work that way, kid.”
The sun gilded him.
“I saw you a couple miles back…this road,” he said, and scratched his head, his shirt riding up, the stomach muscles lean. He wore a blue eye patch.
She did all she could not to see the child, how they had run together the day he taught her to track whitetail tracks. Her badge burned hot.
He took a step toward her.
“Please,” she said.
He saw her face then, closer. “Jesus.” He spoke with such care, such worry.
She found she could not lie to him. “I told Jimmy I aborted his baby.”
He looked at her, the bruising and swelling so stubborn, no matter how she numbed it with ice, like her skin was too fragile.
“And he did this to you?” She saw that dark in him, raised a hand to call him back.
“I deserved it. The apportionment of dues. It’s what keeps our world in check.”
“Saint—”
His hand rested gently on the back of her neck. She felt nothing but warmth.
She stepped into him and closed her eyes, and for the first time since felt close to something, to home.
They stood there together, and she let him hold her, and she thought of what she had done and sobbed into his chest. Above them a red-tailed hawk circled, and as it called she pushed him back.
“You have to turn around and put your hands behind your back.” Her voice held.
“The track gets bad. You can’t drive it fast, not if you give a damn about your life. You deserve everything good, Saint.”
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
“I can’t do that.”
“She’s dead.”
He watched her.
“Tooms killed her. He told me. He buried her in Thurley State Park. Won’t say more than that.”
“You’re lying.”
Her tears fell. “You know that I’m not. They’ll add it to his sentence. He’s dead anyway.”
He shook his head. “Liar.”
“Please, Patch.”
“I can’t leave her again. I won’t.”
“Please,” she said under her breath. “If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else. Someone who doesn’t see you. Just the things you’ve done and might do again.”
“You’re strong enough. You do what you’ve got to do.”
He smiled again, this time it was less, and in his face she saw so much that he had lost. She thought of Misty and the kids in their class, kids that had gone on to college, to jobs, to family and everything he deserved.
She whispered, “Please God don’t make me do this.”
And then he turned, and he broke for the car.
Saint held her breath.
And pulled the trigger.