fifteen

Dirt and gravel crunched under the tires as Grant slowed the hearse to a stop. Ghost Town Road had given up on tarmac half a mile back. Now it was only the width of the road that stopped it becoming a dirt track. Even minor roads in America seemed to be as wide as the M1.

Grant turned the engine off. The hot metal didn’t tick as it cooled because it didn’t cool. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky and baked everything it touched. The roof of the hearse was as hot as the hood. The leather seat burned into Grant’s back. The Terlingua Trading Company forecourt shimmered in the late afternoon heat, a long, low storefront with a covered walkway out front and the Starlight Theatre restaurant and saloon at one side. A bleached square block of a building stood guard across the forecourt, a historical remnant of days gone by. The words terlingua jail were carved into the lintel above the door.

The medical center hardly warranted a mention—an unnamed afterthought at the far end of the Trading Company premises. A small green cross was the only sign that it had anything to do with doctors and medicines.

Doc Cruz’s hideaway. In plain sight but almost invisible.

Grant studied the storefront but didn’t get out. His heart was pounding. Over the years he’d faced angry men, pissed-off women, and armed insurgents, but this was proving to be the hardest thing he’d ever done. One hand stroked the soft velvet of the stethoscope case. He took a deep breath. He’d come a long way to do this. After a few minutes to gather himself, he grabbed the case and got out of the hearse.

“Have a seat. This won’t take long.”

The gray-haired Mexican looked younger than Grant had expected. Lined and weathered but with a youthful face. Maybe it was the grin lines around his mouth or the crow’s feet that crinkled when he smiled. The Mexican didn’t wave Grant to a seat because both hands were busy applying a dressing to a woman’s arm. On the floor next to her chair a small child clung to her legs, fear and doubt filling his eyes.

Grant moved slow and gentle. He lowered himself onto a faded wooden chair near the door. The boy’s eyes followed Grant’s every move. Grant had seen it before on the council estates of Bradford. Children who had witnessed domestic abuse were as much victims as their mothers. The doctor used soft hands to fasten the bandage over cooling cream and cling film. A burns dressing. Either from scalding water or being held against a hot stove. Bullies were universal. Apart from the derelict jail across the forecourt, Terlingua didn’t look like it had much in the way of law enforcement. In Texas Grant doubted if Mexican women were high on the priority list.

The doctor soothed. The boy relaxed. Words were exchanged in Spanish. The woman took money from her purse, but the doctor pushed it away. The boy cowered until gentle words coaxed him out of his shell—gentle words and a jar of sweets the doctor took from his desk. The woman thanked him profusely. Even without an interpreter, there was no mistaking that. The boy took a sweet. The woman smiled through her pain. Eduardo Cruz walked her to the door and out onto the porch.

Grant waited nervously on the chair. He hadn’t felt this uncomfortable since his last visit to the headmaster’s office at Moor Grange School for Boys. Just after he’d cracked one bully’s skull and broken the other’s nose. This felt worse. This felt like shame.

When Eduardo Cruz came back in, his demeanor had changed. He looked at the stranger with careful eyes. Worry creased his brow. The smile had gone.

“I wondered how long it would be before you came for me.”

Grant felt as if he were being admonished. He had no excuses. “I’m sorry.”

Cruz looked out through the window. “Stealing a hearse is as low as you can get.”

Apology turned to confusion.

“What?”

Cruz’s shoulders sagged. “Please tell me you left Hunter alone. He has nothing to do with this.”

Then Grant understood. He tried to wave Cruz’s concerns away. “Hunter Athey told me where to find you. He loaned me the hearse.”

Cruz was cautious with his response. “Why would he do that?”

“Because Sarah couldn’t lend me her car again.”

“Hunter and Sarah know you are here?”

“Yes.”

The doctor’s façade began to crumble. Being strong in the face of his enemies. His hands were shaking as relief flooded his body. The aftermath of an adrenaline dump that was as much induced by fear as the fight or flight instinct. He waved a hand towards the hearse.

“I thought Macready was being symbolic. Bringing me back in a coffin.”

“I’m not here from Macready.”

“Then why are you here?”

This was going to be the hard part. Getting started. Grant felt the words stick in his throat. A pulse thumped at the side of his head. He tried to take a deep breath but his nose felt blocked. He picked the velvet case up from the chair next to him and cradled it in his lap. He paused for a moment, then clicked it open and held the stethoscope out to Pilar Cruz’s father.