Chapter Twenty-Two

The room feels warm, too close, full of trapped-in air. Whicher leans forward at the desk in the downstairs office. He takes off his jacket, swings it onto the back of the chair. Notices the envelope sticking out from a pocket.

It's the list from Scruggs—from the boss at the Laredo switching yard.

He thinks of Johnson. The chances of the sheriff disinterring the bodies were close to zero. He takes out the list, leans back in the chair. Scans the names, all of them meaningless. It's longer than the original list, set out with shift patterns, times, number codes he doesn't recognize. Payroll numbers, maybe.

A name stands out.

Jose Talamantes. Same family name as Agent Raul Talamantes at Carrizo Springs Border Patrol.

He turns to the file cabinet. Finds the number for INS, Eagle Pass, picks up the phone. He dials, checks his watch—six-thirty. The phone's ringing, nobody answers.

He sifts through his notes, finds the name of the Mexican police guy, the name and number Carrasco gave him. Alvares—Alejandro Alvares.

The phone's still ringing. Nobody there. Whicher replaces the receiver.

In the corridor is the sound of footsteps. He stands, looks out the door.

Benita Alvarenga is approaching. “They're done upstairs.”

“What's going on?”

“Sheriff says we can keep Lindy Page on hindering an inquest. Class B misdemeanor.”

He stands in the door frame. “She call a lawyer?”

“Doesn't have one, can't afford one. The court can appoint tomorrow.”

“They talk about exhuming the Hispanic victims?”

“Doctor Schulz is against it. Sheriff wants to talk to the county attorney. Lassiter's stirring it up.”

Whicher bites his lip. “He said he'd do it, if it was up to him. How about Scruggs?”

“I think he would. They're unidentified, unlawfully killed. The law says we have to find out.” She meets his eye, doesn't say more.

“They done with us?”

She nods. “Scruggs has to be in court in Laredo tomorrow. They said we can go. Pick it up again in the morning.”

A burnished disc of sun hangs above the feeder road into Eagle Pass. Whicher steers down the loop, skirting town to the east.

Dust is blowing over deserted lots, commercial units, car dealers—he slows as the road narrows, traffic starting to build.

He counts off the blocks, reading names off the street panels. People out in doorways, hanging on the sidewalks, around upturned crates piled with bottles and cans.

Eric would be waiting downtown. The Southern Surety Bank. What to tell him? That his wife had a bank account, she could be paying insurance, any number of things. And yet it wouldn't lie down.

He thinks of the date; February, a year back—they'd both been overseas. The ground war just starting in Iraq. He reaches the street, pulls to the curb by a block-unit, cement rendered, blacked out windows. He shuts off the motor, locks the truck. Heads for the door.

Inside is a dim room, A/C cranking out cold air. Eric's sitting at a bar counter, long hair pushed back off his face.

He's clean-shaved, wearing a laundered work shirt. Fatigue pants, hi-top boots.

He swivels on the stool. “Hey, man. What you drinking?” He signals the barkeep.

Whicher takes out a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds. “Lone Star.” He slips out two. Lights them both.

The bartender brings a frosted bottle.

“They got a terrace up on the roof,” Eric says. “You rather sit out?” He lays a bill on the counter. Slides off the stool.

Whicher takes the bottle, follows to a side door at the end of the room.

Outside is a worn steel staircase. They climb to a roof-top terrace, walls topped with scrolls of pre-cast cement.

They grab a table, sit facing out over the river.

At the corner of the terrace, a group of Hispanics sit drinking beneath a faded parasol.

Eric clinks the bottle against Whicher's. “Come on, you going to sink that? Having one of my better days.”

“It work like that?”

Eric takes a pull on the cigarette, more light in his eye. “I don't know how it works.”

Out across town, the noise of traffic drifts. Cars wait in line on the international bridge.

People are streaming back to Piedras Negras, day workers headed home. The marshal sips his beer, stares at the flat horizon over the city. Sky flecked with cloud. An amber light.

“What you looking at, man?”

Whicher shrugs. “The river. The border. The country, the whole thing.”

“Come again?”

“Another life.”

“You ever go over?” Eric looks at him. “To Piedras Negras.”

A screech of train brakes is on the evening wind, mournful, sharp.

“You want to?”

Whicher looks at his friend.

“I could take you over. If that's what you want?”