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“Nice place you’ve got,” Garrett said in the late afternoon. “How long have you owned it?”
“A damn long time,” Red said. And why is that your business?
Earlier, Red had started a fire from cedar stumps in the fire pit behind his trailer, and now the three of them were sitting in tattered lawn chairs, drinking Keystone Light tallboys and enjoying the cool afternoon as the sun began to drop lower in the sky.
“You can’t hardly buy land out here anymore,” Billy Don said. “People from Austin and San Antonio buying up parcels left and right and driving up the prices.”
“And the property taxes,” Red added. “Don’t forget the damn property taxes.”
“It’s the gover’ment stealing, is what that is,” Billy Don said.
“That’s what they do,” Red said. “Steal your money and then waste it.”
“Seems like everybody around here has an ag exemption ’cept Red,” Billy Don said.
“What’s an ag exemption?” Garrett asked.
“It’s where you get a big ol’ tax break if you’re a rancher or farmer,” Billy Don said.
“Except a lot of people just pretend to be ranchers to get the exemption,” Red said. “They get a few goats and say, ‘Hey, I’m a rancher!’”
“You can get an exemption nowadays for keeping beehives on your place,” Billy Don said. “Is that crazy or what?”
“Meanwhile, suckers like me pay through the ass,” Red said.
“How many acres do you have?” Garrett asked.
Billy Don laughed. “Okay, we’ll give you a break, since you ain’t from around here, but in Texas, you don’t ask that question. It’s like asking a man how many head of cattle he owns.”
“Off limits?” Garrett asked, obviously amused.
“Pretty much. Might as well ask a man what size bra his wife wears.”
Garrett had insisted on buying the beer when they’d passed through Blanco, and he’d even asked what brand Red and Billy Don preferred. Of course, he was using money Red and Billy Don had given him after working for the day.
“Speaking of which, either of you guys married?” Garrett asked.
“Nope,” Billy Don said, “but there was a time we was married to the same woman at the same time.”
“Wait a sec. Is that legal down here?” Garrett asked.
“Hell no, but we didn’t know we was both married to her,” Billy Don said. “We figured that out later. Long story, but if you want me to—”
“He don’t need to hear all that,” Red said.
“Whatever,” Billy Don said. Then, to Garrett, in a lower voice, he added, “I’ll tell ya later.”
“They should do a documentary about the two of you,” Garrett said, entertained at this new tidbit of information.
Was he as easygoing as he seemed? Red figured it could be an act. But so far, despite Red’s shrewd yet subtle questioning throughout the day, Garrett hadn’t given any indication that he knew anything about the loose animals or the dead guy at the zoo. Red decided it was time to be a little more direct.
“So you’re not a fan of zoos, or what?” Red asked.
“Huh?” Garrett asked.
“I was thinking about that animal you saw crossing the highway, and you said you hoped something got loose from the zoo,” Red said. “I was just wondering why you said that.”
“Oh,” Garrett said. “I guess I just thought it would be kind of funny, you know?”
Red didn’t really see the humor in it, but he played along. “Yeah, I guess so. Like some big ol’ African cow running around. People driving on the highway would be like, what the hell is that damn thing?”
“Exactly. That would be hilarious. As long as nobody got hurt,” Garrett said.
Red was coming to grips with the fact that Garrett was probably nothing but a hitchhiker. There was nothing mysterious about him. He didn’t turn the animal loose. He didn’t kill anyone.
“They got cows in Africa?” Billy Don asked.
“Of course they got cows, but different than the ones we got around here,” Red said. “That’s why somebody would wonder what it was when they saw it.”
“I think there’s a breed of African cattle called Watusi,” Garrett said.
“I thought that was a kind of music,” Billy Don said.
“You mean a dance?” Garrett said.
“Okay, I guess,” Billy Don said.
“It’s both,” Garrett said.
“It’s music and a dance?” Billy Don asked.
“No, it’s a kind of cattle and a dance,” Garrett said.
“But not music?” Billy Don asked.
“Y’all are driving me nuts,” Red said.
“You were already halfway there,” Billy Don said.
Red was about ready to go inside and get something to eat, but first he took out his phone and slowly typed a text to Billy Don.
You know he can’t stay here tonight right?
Let Billy Don figure out what to do with him. Give him a ride to town, or something. Or let him hike back to the highway. But right before Red sent the text, Billy Don turned to Garrett and said, “You said you was gonna tell us why you left Michigan.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess I did.”
“We could use a good story to liven things up around here,” Billy Don said.
“If I tell you, can we keep it between us?” Garrett said. “Does that sound fair?”
Billy Don said, “I can keep a secret.”
Red said, “Pfffttt.”
“I can, too!” Billy Don said.
“I can’t think of a single time you kept a secret,” Red said.
“Well, if I did, how would you know, because I wouldn’t of told you.”
“Just forget it,” Red said, shaking his head. He looked at Garrett. “Go right ahead.”
Garrett took a long drink of beer, stared at the fire for a moment, and said, “I was born and raised in Quincy, a tiny little town in the southern part of Michigan. Spent my whole life there. But I left because everybody thought I murdered my father.”
Albert reached the city limits of Roswell, New Mexico, before five o’clock, and he was ravenous, since he hadn’t eaten since last night. He knew he had to get food, and then supplies, and later a place to sleep, and that he would have to interact with people to accomplish those things.
Driving north on Main Street, he saw plenty of places to eat—places where he could pop in, eat quick, and move on. He chose a Denny’s, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because bacon and eggs sounded good right now. Comfort food. Maybe some pancakes, too.
He went inside, keeping his lightly shaded sunglasses on. It was early for dinner, so half the tables were open and the hostess seated him right away. She said his server would be with him in just a minute and gave him a big smile. A reassuring smile. The kind of smile that makes a fugitive forget his troubles for just a few seconds and feel like a normal human being again.
Then she walked away and Albert felt a deep funk settle in again. How depressing to be in this situation. His world was in turmoil and it would never return to normal, or what had been normal for him in the past nineteen years.
He glanced at the menu for about ten seconds, made a decision, then put it on the tabletop.
When he left Denny’s, he would need to buy a phone somewhere. He’d left his Samsung at home, obviously, because the quickest way to get caught would’ve been to bring it with him. But he couldn’t continue without a phone. Not because he wanted to contact anyone—that was out of the question, at least for now—but because he wanted an easy way to keep up with the news.
What did the cops know by now?
What did they theorize?
Were they confused?
What were they telling the public?
Had they asked everyone to keep an eye out for a neon-green Ford Fiesta?
The waitress was a slender woman in her fifties. She took his order—the Lumberjack Slam—without any small talk and went about her business. A few minutes later, she brought his iced tea and said, “Your order’ll be right out.”
“Thanks.”
She lingered. “Do you by chance have photophobia?”
“Pardon?”
“I was just wondering about the sunglasses. My son has something called photophobia, and that means you’re sensitive to light. He gets headaches from it all the time.”
Albert said, “No, but they’re prescription and I forgot my other glasses in the car.”
“I think I have a touch of that condition myself,” said an eavesdropping older man in a booth across the aisle.
“Oh, Horace, you do not,” said the woman with him.
They both had a thick Midwestern accent.
“I get headaches, Annie!” the man insisted.
“So you’re saying you have that condition? Photo-whatchacallit?”
“Photophobia,” the waitress said.
“Yeah, that,” Annie said. “You’re saying you have that?”
“No, you’re right,” Horace said. “My headaches aren’t from light, they’re from sound.” He winked at the waitress.
“You’re talking about my voice, aren’t you?” Annie asked.
“I never said that.”
“But that’s what you’re implying.”
It was playful banter, and Albert thought it sounded particularly comical because of their accents.
As the couple continued with their back-and-forth, the waitress said quietly to Albert, “Sorry about that. I’ll go get your food.”
“Thanks.”
After she left, Albert tried to sit quietly, but after a moment, he could feel eyes on the side of his head. If Albert had a phone, he would look at it, or even just pretend to look at it, to avoid any further interaction. These people were nice enough, but Albert needed to maintain a low profile. He grabbed a dessert menu and studied it.
“You from this area?” Horace asked.
Albert didn’t respond. Pretended he didn’t hear.
“You from this area?” Horace asked even louder.
“Just passing through,” Albert said, turning his head a quarter of the way toward the couple. His body English plainly said he didn’t want to talk, but he wasn’t downright rude about it. That would be memorable, and he didn’t want to be memorable.
“Oh, yeah? Where from?”
Just great, Albert thought.
“Louisiana,” he said, and he wasn’t sure why. It just came out.
“Which part?” the woman said. “We’ve been through Louisiana plenty of times.”
“New Orleans,” Albert said. He had never even passed through New Orleans.
“We love New Orleans!” the woman said, as if loving New Orleans was some kind of novelty that would help them create a lasting emotional bond. “What’s your favorite restaurant?”
This was getting worse and worse.
“There’s a little place near my house that serves the best po’ boys, but I can’t remember the name, because they just opened up,” Albert said, and he quickly added, “Where are you from?”
Maybe the best way to avoid answering questions was to ask questions of his own.
“Madison, Wisconsin,” Annie said proudly.
“I’m Horace Norris,” the man said. “And yes, I’ve heard all the jokes about my name. This is my wife Annie.”
“Hello!” Annie said, adding a small wave.
“You’re probably wondering what we’re doing down here,” Horace said. “The truth is, we’ve been nomads for several years now.”
Albert could tell Horace desperately wanted him to ask why he had used the term “nomads.”
“How are you, uh, nomads?” Albert asked.
Horace pointed past Albert to the window. “See that Winnebago on the far side of the lot?”
Albert looked.
“That’s ours!” Annie said.
“She’s a beaut, huh?” Horace said.
“Sure is,” Albert said.
“Our little home away from home,” Annie said.
“Big home away from home,” Horace said.
“Just the right size,” Annie said.
“Yeah, but you aren’t the one driving it,” Horace said.
“I’d drive if you’d let me!” Annie said, and she rolled her eyes at Albert.
“You should come take a look at her when we’re done eating,” Horace said. “You wouldn’t believe all the features. Features out the wazoo.”
“Horace!” Annie said. “That word!”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, Annie,” Horace said.
Right then, Albert made a new rule about getting food. Drive-throughs only.