Red Lightning (20 page)

Kay starts gasping. She needs air. Even I can see that. I look around the room, as if seeking out extra oxygen, something that can inflate her lungs. Libby presses her hands more firmly onto Kay, holding her in this suffering, and I put my hands on Kay's arm and do as well.

Then there is quiet. I get up and open a window. Because all spirits should be able to fly out, free. Or to let in and out the air. I stare from Kay's body to the window, just wondering if perhaps I can see a wisp depart. There is nothing except two sisters in the startled silence.

*

Libby picks up the phone, and I bolt outside to pace back and forth.
A few leaves sing their way down to the earth. It's breezy out and smells like it's rained somewhere far off and that the wind is blowing me that gift, of water-soaked air, although, underneath, I still smell the fire.

I look toward the old house, a square of purple. I start walking there, slowly, letting memories of Kay float around. The good ones, the bad ones. Doing puzzles at the table at night. Startling me with a yell. Standing over the stove. Head resting on the kitchen table, sleeping.

Slade's truck is not outside near the ditch. Only the red cooler I left there yesterday, so I continue on to the house. The door is unlocked, and I open it slowly and peek in. I haven't been inside this place for ten years. Never thought I'd return. I pause in the doorway and then step into the kitchen. It smells like mouse piss and dust, is cobwebbed and filthy, but I can see that at one time, Libby made the effort. The cupboards had been painted a bright yellow, curtains had been hung. I turn to the right and swing open the door to the bedroom Libby and I shared, separated by a sheet, which is still hanging
down the middle. Now there's nothing in either half, but I remember how it was—hers half tidy and mine a mess.

I wander into the small main room and sit on the old couch, dust flying around me. Here is where Kay would sit, doing puzzles. Or having a drink. Here was where Libby and I would sit to watch TV. To do homework. Here is where I'd kiss boys I'd snuck into the house. Where the various dogs we had would crawl into our laps. Here was my life. Outside, the afternoon is turning to evening as clouds boil up. I doze, wish I could cry, doze again. I wake to the clouds closer, purplish, green, darker. Dark is coming, and I should get back to Kay's, or Libby's. I stand and look around one last time. “Goodbye, Kay.”

At that moment, there is a flash of red. Then another. I jump up and stand at the door to see a police car pulling up. A man emerges from the driver side. My heart starts pounding, thick and heavy.

“That you, Tess?”

“I'm so sorry about the fire.”

“What?” He walks over to me, shines a light above my head to cast enough light on my face. “You
are
Tess, right? You don't look like you used to—”

I'm not used to meeting an officer's eyes. I force myself to stay calm, to look, and I see it's Miguel, a friend in high school, a friend of Libby's. He shakes my hand, but then his hand goes back to his waist, resting on the shadow of what I assume to be a holster. “Where's Amber?”

“What?”

“Amber is missing.”

“Well, she's probably off crying. Kay just died.”

He shakes his head no. “I'm sorry for that. But Ed took Amber home, and went to feed the animals, and one of the heifers was out, so it took him a bit, and then he came back to the house and she was gone—”

I close my eyes, tight, and see the afterimage of the flashlight glow biting into the dark. I'm trying to squint into my brain, to peer there, to see if there are any answers or clues. I open them back up. “Honest to god, Miguel, I have no idea.”

“Here's the thing, Tess. There were signs of a fight. Knocked-over chairs—”

I look beyond him at the moon. “So? Couldn't that just be a temper tantrum? Am I the only person around here that ever experiences those?”

“Maybe she did just run off. Upset. That's what I think.” He pauses, looks around. “I remember this place,” he murmurs quietly. “But Tess, your sister seems to think it's something else. Gut instinct, she says. We'd sure like to find her. You don't know anything?”

I pause. How to explain Slade? The fire? Alejandra? And the group of immigrants and Ed's role in getting them? Ed asked me not to, Libby asked me not to. It could bring all sorts of trouble. “She's not here.”

He sighs, glances past me into the house. “I'm going to go in and do a search. Then I'll be heading back to Libby's house. Do you want a lift? Back to their house?”

No: the last thing I want to be is in a car with an officer. “I'll walk back to Kay's house, where I have the truck. There's no one here, but you should check.”

He glances past me and raises his flashlight, stepping inside, but then turns to look briefly at me. He knows enough about what went on here; he knows it wasn't good; he knows I got pregnant, had a baby, and left and he has watched Libby raise Amber on her own; and likely he knows about my line of work. “Help your sister out, Tess. Let's find Amber.”

I look into the darkening fields. “I can do that,” and with that, I start jogging back to the home where my mother just died.

*

At the old farmhouse, I paw through the drawers. Sure enough
, there are little bundles of cash in Kay's usual places—in her shoes, in her dresser. I check the other usual places—under the mattress, in the laundry room—but there's nothing. It looks like a coupla hundred dollars. Just in case.

Amber's probably cuddled up with one of her cows, right? Or she's just getting some damn space—probably Ed and Libby don't give her enough
room
. She's probably riding her bike down some country road. They don't understand how a person can flip out, be irresponsible, lose touch with the need to stay grounded and predictable. Probably Amber has that gene. From me. And it's just now taking hold.

I drive back to Libby's, and I'm surprised, when I pull in, to find four sheriff cars, lights going, so bright in the dark of the night. Libby comes running up to me. Ringo follows her and jumps up on me, scared or excited, scraping me with his claws all the way down my leg.

“You don't have her? You haven't seen her? She's not at the old house?” She's grabbing my shoulders, shaking. “She used to go there sometimes, too. She's not there? Are you sure?”

“No.” My voice feels thick and foggy. “She's not there. What about at . . . Ed's old house? With Alejandra?”

“Oh, god.” Libby is wildeyed. “What did you do? Who is Slade? Who did you
bring here
? He's got her. You need to
find her
!”

“Libby! Stop!” I paw away her hands, which are flying around my shoulders, trying to shake me, slap me. “Stop! I didn't do anything. She probably ran off to cry somewhere, you know? Her grandmother just died!”

Libby grabs my arms tight and pulls me to her. Her voice is blurhiss. “Alejandra and Lupe and everyone are gone. Gone! Ed drove over there first, figuring that Amber had walked over there for some
reason. And the place is deserted. Where would they go?” She pauses, looks at me. “Tess, tell me. You always bring trouble. Damn you! I know you're involved in this somehow. Is there some
jefe
around here? If you— If you—” She shoves me, hard, and I go flying backward, falling on my ass. “Oh my god, I'm going to kill you,” she's screaming. Now she's kicking me, and Ed is running over, holding her tight, and then there are cops, everywhere, holding her and looking at me, waiting for an answer.

The wind is coming up. Fast, hard, spraying dirt in our faces. The temperature is falling, fast, and spits of tiny hail shutter down from the sky. Everyone ducks, looks for coats, finds shelter. I stand in the storm.

Ed leads Libby away, and they are huddled together, talking, Ed trying to calm her. I can see their decision: They didn't want to tell the truth, the whole truth, which is that there are illegals missing on their property, that Ed has been involved. Now they will. Too much is at stake. I see them nod, hold each other's hands, walk toward the officers.

“No, wait,” I holler. I jog up to them and pant. “Don't tell them. Not yet. Just wait a half an hour.” I jump in Kay's truck and peel out before anyone can stop me, and the rearview mirror tells me that the officers aren't following. The roads are dark and empty and cold.

Please, Amber, where are you?

THINK, TESS, THINK

Go toward the danger.

If you can't stay clear, entirely clear, go
toward
the danger. Meet it headon.

That's the advice I gave her, and given the choice, that's the advice she'll follow. It's the advice I will follow too.

Chapter Seventeen

The reservoir is the only holdingplace for water around here, and
therefore all life gravitates toward it, pulled to the magnetic draw of water. Deer. Birds. Groves of trees. Families. Men seeking something to do for the day. In the expanse of shoreline and tamarisk and sandstone outcroppings, it's not easy to find anyone, but I know Slade's rule of thumb: Always head west. If anything ever happens, he always advised, go one bar or one street or one town or one valley west. The direction west offered up the most hope, so we set it to the center of our compass.

The east side is the state campground anyway, and it's where the water is released in the stilling pond and then the Arkansas River starts up again. Here on the west side, where the river runs thick and salty in the reservoir, the landscape is wild. I'm driving so fast on the two-rut dirt road that the truck is bucking all over the place, bouncing my skull into my neckbones, bouncing the headlights around in the dark. It's the stout buffalo grass, thick in bunches, that sends the truck jolting so wildly. I can only see what the headlights reveal, but I know I'm passing the campgrounds, pullouts, a sandy beach, a rocky area,
another beach. The howling wind is picking up, and a short burst of snow-hail spits from the sky. I see one vehicle, but when I pull up to look over, I see it's a foggedup teenager car. I blink back the sting in my eyes, because, oh, god, it suddenly feels like the whole world is a huge expanse of space that seems to go on and on, and in which you'd find no one if she weren't waving her arms or whistling.

Finally, a glint. My headlights catch the chrome of something, and I pull slowly forward. Hallelujah. It's Slade's black truck with the topper. He's driven over a gully of rocks, where the sandstone has cleaved off, into a low-lying area—to hide and be hidden. I doubt Kay's truck will make it. Not enough clearance, not enough power to get me out of it. I turn off the ignition and jump out of the truck and start running and then pull myself up short. Always assess a situation before approach.

I slow, walk quietly, carefully. There are the sandstone cliffs up ahead. I showed them to Slade, once, this being the secret spot only locals know about, where there are old Indian writings and marks left by the conquistadors, too. Coronado, in fact. I stop to get a good read on the situation, and at the same time the moon reveals itself, and so I can see the outline of the bursts of sandstone cliffs, rocky and jangly. Up ahead, the tamarack and cottonwoods and weeds and salt grass are thick, and the air smells of it. Musky from the dry rot of fall, dense with the Arkansas River that enters the reservoir here, the water that started so clean up in the mountains and has ended up so thick by the time it reaches here. I trip over tumbleweeds and have to weave through the kochia, and my feet sink into the silty clay soil. It's sticky and tacky, as if it's trying to bur me to it. To my left, toward the reservoir, the soil spreads out flat and is burned with the pattern of thick cracks that crisscross and form little maps.

A pheasant explodes out of the grass, a flash in the moonlight, startling me back into movement. I approach Slade's truck. The campfire
is nearly out; the truck, both the cab and the back, are empty. I whistle, the sound of a canyon wren:
cui-da-do
. Whistle. No answer. Whistle. But not even a whistle carries through this much noise.

There are no footprints left and just the smallest light and crackle from the fire. There's a single shoe, old and dusty, but that could be from anyone at any time. I look around, listen. Nothing. I approach and unhinge the latch and climb quietly into the back of the truck. There's Slade's empty sleeping bag, the wool blankets, his peagreen jacket. There's a paper bag fallen over with some oranges rolling out. I dig around for his headlamp and click it on, and a cloud of breath hangs in the air at the edge of the light. I gotta think. Gotta make a list:

Slade: hired by Lobo for transport.

Me: the transport.

Mota
and
coca
burned in the fire.

But only one dead body.

Oh, god, I see it now.

Lobo heard there was only one Mexican national found. He assumes the others survived. Therefore, they have the
coca y mota
. He thinks I staged it. He thinks I started a fire, ran with the drugs. This is Lobo's logic. Lobo thinks: No one in their fucking right mind would leave so much money in the mountains.

The yelp of a woman pierces the air. I lie back fast, click off the headlamp, pull the sleeping bag over me. Did they see my truck? No, they're coming from the opposite direction, from the direction of the place where the river enters the reservoir. I pull myself up so I can look out the window. It's hard to see, although there are headlamps illuminating a group. Alejandra. A limping woman: Lupe. The group of men. Being pushed by a man I can't see.