forty-five

They didn’t talk on the drive back to Absolution. Grant concentrated on keeping the pickup on the road with only one hand. Sarah concentrated on resting her throat, still sore from the hanging that almost cost the waitress her life. That’s what they told themselves, but the silence spoke volumes. Tense and spiky and full of hidden meaning.

The sun rode high in a hard blue sky. The storm was past. The fallout was still evident. For practically the first time since Grant had arrived on the Sunset Limited, the Texas wastelands showed color other than desert sand and pale blue sky. Green blossomed everywhere. Not exactly the garden of England greenery, but considering the scorched earth he’d experienced the last few days it was a riot of color. Strange plants had sprung up along the roadside. Flowers bloomed. Even the cacti looked bright and green instead of sad and lonely.

The river level had dropped as quickly as it had risen, the water already soaking into the parched landscape. The pickup negotiated the watercourse with ease. The tires had no problem climbing out of the other side. Grant was surprised to find that the dust trail was back in his wake. Not another car following him this time but simply the shadow that followed everything in the desert wastes. It felt good. Like an old friend coming back to join him.

Absolution lay ahead. Grant wasn’t sure if he deserved it. The town was just a row of uneven rooftops breaking the smooth lines of the horizon. Smoke hung over portions of the town—straggly wisps that pinpointed the aftermath of the gun battle and Macready’s compound. The entire street would be a crime scene. Sheriff Al Purwin would have his hands full sorting that mess out. He’d need lots of help from outside agencies. No doubt Avenue D was a hive of activity. Cornejo’s MPs would be able to provide initial scene preservation, but the investigation would need a leg up from nearby towns. There would be lots of questions and lots of paperwork. Grant wasn’t feeling up to that just yet.

He crossed the railroad tracks and paused at the junction with First Street. Left towards town or right towards Sixto’s. He glanced at the fuel gauge. Nearly empty. He couldn’t return Sabata’s pickup with a dry tank. He turned right, away from the inevitable questioning, and headed towards the gas station and the diner.

Grant’s dust trail hadn’t gone unnoticed. By the time he pulled onto the forecourt, the reception committee was waiting.

The bullet-riddled sign at the roadside still read

ABSOLUTION, TEXAS Est. 1882
Pop. 203—Elev. 4040
Welcome/Bienvenidos

But the welcome was friendlier than last time. John Cornejo and Doc Cruz stood in Sixto’s doorway. Old Pedro wagged his tail in the fenced scrap yard, apparently recovered from his drug-induced rest. An insect zapped itself on the bug catcher, sparking purple light above the door. Dust swirled around the pickup. Grant turned the engine off and got out. He nodded at Cornejo.

“Can you debug the windshield while you’re at it?”

The ex-marine crossed the forecourt and stood beside the gas pump.

“I thought you’d show up here.”

Grant indicated the filler cap.

“Running on empty.”

Cornejo looked at Grant’s battered face and the makeshift dressing that was oozing blood down his arm.

“You certainly are.”

“Know where I can find a good doctor?”

The tone was light to cover the seriousness of the situation. Typical cop-speak that transferred to all the emergency services and the military. Gallows humor. Bury your feelings deep. Doc Cruz wasn’t in the military. He wasn’t a cop. He was a country doctor who had just treated injuries no man should ever have to see. Combat was a brutal activity. A cut arm and scarred face were small potatoes.

Cruz walked straight past Grant and helped Sarah out of the pickup.

“Oh, my child.”

He examined her neck but she waved him away. The doctor looked hurt by the rebuff, so Sarah put her arms around him and squeezed. He hugged her in return. Sarah fought back the tears and smiled.

“I’m okay.”

Doc Cruz shook his head. “No, you’re not. But you will be.”

He gave her another hug, then turned towards Grant. “You saved the girl.”

Grant couldn’t hide the gravity of his thoughts. They were written all over his face. Hard eyes fought to overcome the emotion.

“This time.”

Doc Cruz rested a hand on Grant’s injured arm. “Both times. Consider yourself absolved.”

Grant let out a sigh. “There is no absolution. Only acceptance. Then you move on.”

“Then move on in peace.”

Cornejo joined them but kept quiet. He understood that this was a private moment, but there were things that needed resolving. Grant shrugged it off and glanced at the ex-marine. Cornejo raised his eyebrows.

“Macready?”

Grant’s face hardened. He looked across the pickup at Sarah, and she stared back. Neither hard nor soft; nonjudgmental. Almost. She gave the gentlest of nods. Grant jerked his head towards the cargo bed. Cornejo walked to the back of the pickup and dropped the flap. A crumpled tarpaulin was humped up in one corner. Cornejo gripped the edge and pulled it to one side.

Tripp Macready blinked into the sunlight. His neck was unbroken, but his nose was not. One eye was swollen shut. Summary justice in the field. Grant flicked open his badge wallet. Cornejo barely glanced at the Boston PD shield.

“Did you read him his rights?”

Grant smiled.

“I haven’t quite got my head around the Miranda warning, so I gave him the Yorkshire version. I think he understands his rights.”

Doc Cruz stretched Macready out on the load bed and began to do what he did best. Look after people. It was what Pilar Cruz had done too. Now that the stethoscope had been returned, Grant felt he could move on. Cornejo brought him down to earth.

“When you’ve finished galloping around the country, you going to do some real police work back in Boston?”

Sarah turned away and took a deep breath. Grant saw the movement and knew what it meant. Rolling stones gather no moss. He cradled his arm and looked at Cornejo.

“I’m not fit to travel. Need to rest up a bit first.”

Cornejo nodded and turned away. Grant went to Sarah and grimaced in pain. Looking for the sympathy vote. He lowered his voice.

“I could do with a coffee, though.”

Sarah didn’t smile. “Diner’s closed.”

Grant held her gaze with his. “But I know the owner.”

Resistance crumbled. The faintest of smiles feathered her lips. “Latte?”

Grant nodded. “Two sugars. No lid.”

the end