Ryan Valdez doesn’t usually drive the cruiser home. He prefers taking the pickup because it’s less conspicuous, albeit down-market for the Woodlands where most of his neighbors are driving BMWs or Mercedes or luxury SUVs.
Sandy says he looks like a redneck when he drives the pickup.
“Maybe I am a redneck.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll never fit in.”
Fitting in is important to Sandy, and Valdez sometimes feels that his wife is more embarrassed by his uniform than the car he drives. It’s not that their neighbors don’t respect the police and feel they perform a vital function, but that doesn’t mean they want to socialize with a county sheriff. It is one degree too close—like dining with your proctologist.
Valdez had taken almost a year to get membership in the country club, and that was only after his uncle, Victor Pilkington, pulled some strings. Before then, Ryan and Sandy had hosted barbecues and wine appreciation nights and Sandy had started a book club, but it didn’t open doors or lead to invitations. Living in Woodlands was like being back in high school, but instead of nerds, jocks, band geeks, and cheerleaders, now there were socialites, empty nesters, country clubbers, Republicans (patriots), and Democrats (socialists). Valdez didn’t know where he fitted in.
Pulling into the drive, he waits for the garage doors to open and glances at the glorious erection of shingles and brick that cost him more than a million dollars. The tall arched windows are reflecting the afternoon sun and shadows spill across the lawn like pools of oil.
Walking through the house, he calls out and thinks nobody’s home. He gets a beer from the icebox and steps onto the patio. That’s when he notices the boy doing laps, crawling down the pool with an easy stroke. Max turns onto his back and stares skyward as he backstrokes, water rolling off his shoulders. When he reaches the far end, he stops. Stands.
“Hi.”
Max doesn’t answer.
“Where’s your mom?”
He shrugs.
Valdez tries to think of another question. When did talking to Max become so difficult? The teenager pulls himself out of the water and wraps a towel around his midriff, tying it like a sarong. The late sun is casting a yellow glow across the lawn. Max takes a seat on a lounger and sips on a luridly colored can.
“Did she mention dinner?” asks Valdez.
“Nope.”
“I’ll fix something.”
“I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“Toby’s. We’re doing a biology project.”
“Why can’t Toby come here?”
“He’s got the stuff.”
“Do I even know Toby?”
“I don’t know, Dad. Do you know Toby? I’ll have to ask him.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what I mean.”
Max shrugs as though he doesn’t have a clue. Something snaps inside Valdez and he grabs a fistful of the boy’s hair, wrenching him upright. His vision has narrowed and he seems to be looking at the world through a stained-glass window.
“You think you can talk to me like that. I put a roof over your head. I put food in your stomach. I pay for that phone you carry and the clothes you wear and that computer in your room. You treat me with respect or I’ll drown you in that fucking pool. Do you understand me?”
Max nods, holding back his tears.
Valdez pushes him away, immediately embarrassed and wanting to apologize, but the teenager is already walking to the cabana where he closes the door and he turns on the shower. Cursing himself, Valdez hurls his can of beer halfway across the lawn, where it bounces and foams at the mouth. The boy goaded him. He had no goddamn right! Now he’s going to tell his mother and cause even more problems. She’ll take Max’s side like she always does. If only the kid would just ease up. Show some more respect. There’s no common ground anymore. They don’t watch Astros games together or play Xbox or tease Sandy about her cooking.
An earlier image of Max is summoned from his memories—a little boy dressed in a cowboy hat, holding the sheriff’s hand. They were best friends. They were father and son. They were partners in crime. They were close. His anger drains away. It’s not Max’s fault. He’s fifteen. It’s what teenagers do—rebel against their parents, test the boundaries. Valdez had a fractious relationship with his own father when he was about the same age, and his old man didn’t brook any backchat or smart-ass comments.
According to Sandy it’s a stage kids go through. Hormones. Adolescence. Peer pressure. Girls. Why doesn’t Max just masturbate four times a day like every other teenage boy? Better still, Valdez could take him to a brothel—one of the cleaner places—and put the kid out of his misery. Sandy was always saying he should do more father-son stuff. He smiles to himself. She’d throw a fit if he got Max laid.
He hears a sliding door open and turns. Sandy steps onto the patio and puts her arms around him. Her hair is tousled and she smells of something sexy and sweaty.
“Where you been?” he asks.
“At the gym.”
Somewhere above them he hears a hawk cry out, or possibly an osprey. He raises his chin and shields his eyes, but can only make out the silhouette.
“I tried to call you today. You didn’t have your cell turned on,” he says.
“I put it down last night and couldn’t find it.”
Max emerges from the cabana and crosses the lawn. He kisses Sandy on the cheek. She rearranges his wet hair. How was school? Any homework? Toby’s? No problem. Don’t be home late.
Later Valdez sits at the kitchen bench and watches Sandy prepare a meal. Her hair is cut short, curled at the ends, blond, and her blue-green eyes have a mysterious quality that causes men to stare at her longer than they should. How did he ever convince her to marry him? He hopes it was love. He hopes it still is.
“I thought I might take Max away camping next weekend.”
“You know he’s not a big fan of the outdoors.”
“Remember that holiday we took to Yosemite? Max must have been about seven. He loved that trip.”
Sandy kisses the top of his head. “You have to stop trying so hard.”
Valdez looks out the patio doors to where two ducks have landed in the pool. He doesn’t want to stop trying. If he could just reset the clock and go back to when Max was happy to kick a ball or play catch…
“Give him time,” says Sandy. “He doesn’t like who he is right now.”
“Who do you think he is?”
“He’s our son.”
When the meal is finished they sit side by side in the porch swing. Sandy holds one brown knee in the crook of her arm and paints her toenails with a tiny brush held between her thumb and forefinger.
“How was work?” she asks.
“Quiet.”
“You gonna tell me about why you went all the way to Live Oak County?”
“I was checking up on someone.”
“Who?”
“A prisoner was due to be released. He escaped a day early.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That’s not the important thing.”
Sandy puts her leg down. Turns to face him, waiting for an explanation.
“Remember the armored truck robbery—the guy who survived?”
“The one you shot?”
“Yeah. I tried to keep him locked up but the parole board decided to set him loose. If he hadn’t escaped, he would have been out anyway. I went up to the prison to talk to the chief warden, but Palmer had gone over the wire.”
Sandy sits up straighter, her eyes narrowing. “Is he dangerous?”
“He’s probably in Mexico by now.”
Valdez gives her a squeeze and she sinks back against him, holding his forearm between her breasts and resting her head on his shoulder. He’s going to let the matter rest, but reaches for his phone and scrolls through the images.
“That’s what Palmer looks like,” he says, showing Sandy a recent photograph.
Her eyes widen. “I saw him!”
“What?”
“Today. Outside the house,” she stammers. “He was jogging. He said he just moved in around the corner. I thought it must be the Whitakers’ old place.”
Valdez is on his feet, walking through the house, peering through the curtains, his thoughts fizzing. He checks the locks on the windows and doors.
“Did you see a vehicle?”
Sandy shakes her head.
“What else did he say?”
“He said he was a widower…doing some sort of audit. Why did he come here?”
“Where’s that gun I bought you?”
“Upstairs.”
“Get it for me.”
“Now you’re scaring me.”
Valdez punches a number into his phone. He’s through to a dispatcher. He relays the information, putting out a BOLO on Audie Palmer and asking for extra patrol cars in the neighborhood.
“But you said he’d be in Mexico by now,” says Sandy. “Why would he come here?”
Valdez has collected her gun and fitted the magazine. “From now on you carry this everywhere.”
“I’m not gonna carry a gun.”
“Do as you’re told.”
He grabs his keys.
“Where are you going?”
“To get Max.”