Dreaming in Dangle

By James Lannan

The Otis brothers story picks up where it left off in the final chapter of the novel entitled They Stole My Car. Robert, the elder, trades punches with Vera the Vamps thug husband at the Vulture Bar in Mercy Valley; while Henry, the younger, and his wife, Holly (as yet unsure whether her husband has regained sanity), head north across Mexican desert toward their home in Dangle, Wyoming. Holly will soon learn that she is pregnant but be unable to determine with certainty which brother fathered her child. She cant stand the sight of Robert, and her trust in Henry is sorely tested after he begins work on the night shift at a treatment center where a sixteen-year-old delinquent convinces him that reality is composed of dreams.

Could be the young ladys right, but even in dream world, Henry must confront his brother who, meanwhile, has embarked upon shady real estate schemes designed to cheat a longtime friend out of a sizeable inheritance. Vera comes to Dangle; Robert moves her into his apartment; the estranged husband shows up unannounced, in the mood to butt heads again. But thats Roberts nightmare, not Henrys. Younger brother only wishes his sibling would forsake paternal claim on the baby. Hollys desire is to a greater degree terminal. In her world, there will be no peace until Robert ceases to exist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514402221

James Lannan

This book is James Lannan’s third published novel. Although he maintains an address in Wyoming, for much of the year, he roams about unfamiliar territory and listens often to strangers’ tales.

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Copyright © 2015 by James Lannan.

Author photo by Chloe Prentoulis

Design by Mark Anthony Bao

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/25/2015

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To sweet repose

1

T HEY FIRST CAME to blows at The Vulture Bar in Mercy Valley. Over the entrance to the tavern hung a sign that read El Sopilote. The original owner hadn’t bothered to consult a dictionary before nailing up his sign and went to his grave unaware that the word he wanted was spelled with a Z , not an S .

Whatever the spelling of its name, the interior of the only tavern in Mercy Valley extended seventy feet from front door to rear exit, located behind a pool table. A dented countertop and attendant short-backed stools ran along its right side; booths sufficiently large to seat four patrons marched down the dim den on the left. Above a mirror behind the counter was mounted a diamondback rattler skin of prodigious length. Liquor bottles stood on a shelf back there, and their doppelgangers lurked behind smoke-filmed glass. Black-and-white snapshots of bygone ranching and hunting scenes—scruffy cowboys branding calves, breaking broncs and herding cattle across desert landscape; armed slayers of javelina, puma, and white-tail deer posed with dead prey at their feet—crowded the stucco wall above the booths. A jukebox with a transparent hood and yellowed keys the size of casino dice was wedged into a corner of the saloon just inside the front door.

Harvey Laffer swung the door wide as he entered. His broad-shouldered frame appeared as dark against blinding outside light as the toro bravo head jutting from paneling above the header.

Robert Otis looked up from a side-pocket shot on the five ball as the man strode forward. Even before Harvey’s features became defined, Robert identified the miner by his lopsided gait, which he had first glimpsed through the bars of a jail cell. Standing outside the cell at the time, Robert had been asking after the whereabouts of Henry, his brother; and since then, he hadn’t got much sleep. Answers to his inquiry took him into Mexican territory, and following two days of misery, he’d returned from the border crossing without his sibling. There was no telling how many whiskeys he’d drunk since reaching for a pool cue.

As Laffer pulled up between square-edged posts that framed access to the bar’s gaming nook, his features achieved clarity. Unblinking eyes confronted Robert from beneath the frayed bill of a cap that advertised earth-moving equipment. The man’s stiff dark hair was whitewalled around his ears; black prickly whiskers shadowed his hard jaw and block chin. He was wearing a plaid cotton shirt with cuffs buttoned at his wrists. Blue denims encased meaty thighs; his feet were shod in lace-up work boots.

Robert leaned back from felt-upholstered slate and slid the butt end of his pool stick to rest between his loafers.

His playing partner spoke first. You’ve met the mayor, she said, as if oblivious of the pendulous atmosphere Harvey brought with him. She was dressed in a yellow halter top with spaghetti shoulder straps and shiny black slacks that hung loosely on her narrow hips. Gilded metal hoops waggled from earlobes at every twitch of her ash-blonde head. Multiple rings adorned her fingers; high-heeled sandals added a couple of inches to her average stature.

Just something Robert had mentioned about himself to Debra while she cleaned his clock. Woman could shoot some stick, no doubt about it. He’d secretly dubbed her Vera the Vamp before she’d broken the first rack.

Mayor, Harvey scoffed. His deep voice subtended muffled clatter from the bar’s swamp cooler. What dumbass town you the mayor of?

Oh, that’s impressive, Debra commented.

Harvey ignored her. Robert found the miner’s disregard of the vamp’s scorn ironic. There’d be no strain between him and Laffer if Debra didn’t play her husband for a chump. A second irony occurred to Robert, or an extension of the first. More than one of Vera’s chumps occupied the room.

Your brother back from Mexico? Harvey prodded in lieu of admitting the crux of their problem.

My guess he’ll be along directly, Robert answered, though he had no idea of Henry’s whereabouts at the moment and had shirked all concern for the weenie’s doings since he’d accepted Debra’s gambit.

I’ll wait, Harvey stated.

Robert nodded. He was half in the bag, but the miner’s challenge steadied him some. He thought about bending to the pool table to realign his shot.

Lemme buy you a drink, he said instead. When the man gave no sign one way or the other, he signaled Ray.

The bartender called back at him from behind the counter. What’ll it be?

Shot o’ whiskey.

Ray poured scotch, which was what Robert was drinking, and brought the glass over.

I’m going to cave his head in, Harvey said, reaching for the drink.

Two problems with that, Robert answered. First off, your beef’s with your missus, not with my simple-minded sibling. He heard the vamp expel indignant breath but kept his eyes on Harvey.

You insulting my wife? Laffer rumbled.

Whatever. With a flick of his wrist, Robert dismissed both wife and asinine question. Second, any run at Henry goes through me.

The man tried to act as though he couldn’t believe what he’d heard, but he was about as good at dissemblance as a house cat. Robert shrugged for the fuck of it.

Harvey tossed back the drink, upended the glass, and slammed it squarely on the pool table. Dramatic gesture accomplished, he commenced to do what he’d come for. Not that he’d known what he’d come for when he’d walked through the door.

Debra barely got out of the way as Laffer gimped around the pool table and threw a fist the size of a croquet ball at Robert’s head. Since the roundhouse was telegraphed from the hip, it only knocked the pool cue from the out-of-towner’s hand. Harvey’s wayward shot unbalanced him, and while he stumbled to regain his feet, Robert landed a sharp jab on his nose. Laffer’s head snapped back, and three more punches pitched him onto the pool table. Ray hustled from around his counter while Robert decided whether to let up or let fly some more. Agitation that contorted the proprietor’s normally tidy visage belied the placating gesture he made with his hands.

Harvey lifted his head off the table and made to sit up. Blood ran out his nostrils onto his upper lip.

Don’t stain the felt, Ray cried.

Robert turned palms outward to demonstrate peaceful intent.

Enough, Ray told him. I want you outta my saloon.

Up to him, Robert said with a nod toward the man hunched on the pool table.

Harvey slowly regained his feet, and Robert stepped back to give him room. Harvey swiped his sleeve across his nose and mouth, shook his head to clear it.

Missed your chance, Debra intoned in a singsong voice, a warning, it turned out, that her husband did better after catching a second wind.

He drove his shoulder into Robert’s chest and slammed him against the back wall of the bar. His fists went to work on both sides of the mayor’s rib cage. Otis, nearly a head taller than Harvey, struck him repeatedly on his temples and ears.

Whereas Ray shouted at them while they went at it, neither combatant paid him any mind. Now and again, Debra shrieked as the fight’s momentum spun the men in tight circles around the pool table and pitched them into the bar’s wider layout. Robert found himself at one point wedged into a booth with Harvey’s knee on his stomach. The miner pounded on his shoulders and chest and then on his forearms when he raised them to protect his head. The irate husband presented only a bristled crown for a target; he’d lost his hat and was throwing punches without looking where they landed. Robert thrashed desperately to escape the trap he was in and gasped when he sprained his wrist on Laffer’s collarbone. The canted edge of the booth table cut across his armpit as he levered himself upright and broke free of Harvey’s arms. Subsequent jabs to Laffer’s forehead stung his knuckles. He landed a couple of rabbit punches while Harvey kicked him in the shins. Robert backpedaled flailing and slipped sideways as Harvey drove him in the direction of another booth. Laffer’s legs were cut from under him by the bench he rammed into, and he careened face-first against the wall with arms waving. Several picture frames flew off their hooks, and glass shattered on the hardwood floor.

While attempting to force himself between the scrappers, Ray was thrown forcibly into the bar counter. A couple of stools toppled over. The bartender slapped his forearms on the counter to break his fall and then sought refuge behind the barrier.

Not much longer after that, Robert’s arms began to droop, and his legs went wobbly. He wheezed heavily as Harvey continued the onslaught. When Robert felt the chrome shelf of the jukebox dig into the small of his back, he feared he was done for.

But the storm ended before his lights went out. In a sudden respite from the hail of blows landing on his body, he looked up and saw Debra had propped her skinny ass on the edge of the pool table at the other end of the room. Then he saw that Harvey was crumpled on the floor at his feet, clutching his gimp hip with both hands. His eyes were pinched shut, and he ground his teeth. A prolonged whimper issued from his throat. Ray crouched nearby, a sawed-off baseball bat clasped in his fist.

Now it’s damn sure over, Ray declared.

The door to Robert’s right swung toward him. Sheriff Tom walked into the tavern.

With George Washington’s body type and LBJ’s ears, the lawman stood six feet two in a gray uniform that included sporty blue pocket flaps, a silver star pinned over his left breast, wide-brimmed cowboy hat, square-toed boots, and a 9mm pistol holstered on his belt. Arms akimbo, he read the brawl’s denouement with a blank expression on his jowly face.

How was Mexico? he inquired of Otis.

Robert wasn’t sure whether booze, combat, or spent adrenaline accounted for the whine in his ears. Hot, grubby, and insane, he answered, hearing his voice from afar.

Locate the fugitive?

I did.

Bring him back?

Prefers his wife’s company to mine.

Imagine that.

Harvey rolled onto his back and straightened his wounded leg gingerly. He stared at the ceiling for a while.

You wanna state your business? Sheriff Tom said.

Minding my own business, Robert answered.

Any reason for you to hang around?

Only reason I can think of, somebody stole my car.

Same complaint your brother registered at the office.

Strange. I know for a fact he drove his Bronco into Mexico.

Sounds about right.

Am I misunderstanding something?

Matter of perspective. You ready to be on your way?

Kicking me out of town, are you?

Sheriff Tom pivoted toward the door. Robert pushed off the jukebox.

Who’s going to make me whole? Ray complained loudly.

Your move, Sheriff Tom said without looking back.

Robert removed his wallet from his hip pocket. He fished out a few bills and set them on the jukebox. A tenner slipped off the short stack and shilly-shallied to the floor. Lead on, he told the lawman.

Before he could get out the door, Debra’s hand fell on his sprained left wrist. He hadn’t noticed her approach and winced at her touch.

Take me with, Bob, Debra said. You won’t be sorry.

He looked at the woman. She removed her hand from his wrist and smiled as though she thought he’d surely acquiesce to her offer.

Bob’s my dad’s name, he said. I’m Robert.

You won’t be sorry, Robert.

Guess not, but I can’t afford to be merciful any longer. Terrible pun, he thought, as he walked away from Vera the Vamp.

After the two left the bar, Ray shifted the bat to his left hand and ran his other one over the tight waves of brown hair that covered his scalp. His upper body filled out nicely a green polo shirt, and tan cords fit snugly his slim waist.

Lunched you, Debra goaded her husband.

Still lying supine on the floor, Harvey lodged a gripe with the barkeep. What’s with the cheap shot, Ray?

I was aiming at your nuts.

Wanna try again? Debra proposed. They’re in my purse.

Harvey cranked his head to one side in order to bring his wife into view. She moved around behind him. Your date left without you, he noted.

Didn’t get a chance to show off my best stuff, came back at him from his blind side.

Hafta be standing on your head to exhibit that piece of refinement.

Piss on you.

Yank me up, Ray. Quick, yank me up, or I swear you’ll be mopping up her mess.

Ray stepped over to the jukebox to retrieve Robert’s cash deposit. He bent at the waist to pick up the fallen ten spot.

I need a drink, Debra declared. Would you be a dear and mix me a gin and tonic?

Forget it, Ray told her, straightening. You’re 86ed.

No way, the woman cried in an injured voice, which Ray had heard on several previous occasions. What the hell did I do?

Incited a public disturbance.

You gotta be kidding. I don’t believe you’re cutting me off.

Way I look at it, lady, refusing you service is an act of civic responsibility.

Are you really such a dickhead?

Like I said, you’re outta here.

Harvey? Debra said, appealing to the man on the floor.

Her husband rolled onto his hands and knees, pulled a pained face as he gathered his forces, and wrestled his bulk upright. Ray quickly stuffed the bills into a trouser pocket, switched the bat back to his right hand, and sank into a crouch. Harvey regarded him with a slight upturn at one corner of his lips. The smear of blood on the lower half of his face robbed the expression of mirth.

Man took you down a peg, Ray opined. Don’t blame me.

Laffer’s lips parted, revealing pink teeth. He then clarified his attitude. How the story’s gonna be told, ain’t it. Man kicked my ass. Harvey chuckled. There was dignified resignation in the sound he made.

Harvey’s laugh puzzled Ray, and at the same time, he experienced a medium degree of amazement. He’d never expected to witness the brawler so readily accept defeat. History was being made in The Vulture that day. What came next was anybody’s guess.

For now, Harvey turned his back on the bartender and limped to the door. Outside, scorching heat engulfed him. Ray was visited by the brief uncanny notion that he watched a condemned saint calmly accept his fate.

Then Debra, as was her special talent, put things back in natural order.

Fucking men, she grumbled and followed her husband out.

2

T HE SHERRIF DROVE Robert over to his room at Mercy Inn and advised him on a prudent course of action.

Grab your belongings while I wait in the car.

Abstaining from comment, Otis slipped out of the lawman’s black-and-white wagon and surveyed motel property. Twenty or so aluminum screen doors, a few sagging ajar from their frames, were spaced evenly in three sections of faded yellow wall that bordered a weedy gravel yard whose open side faced the highway that bisected Mercy Valley. Air-conditioning units with paint peeling off their sheet metal housings stuck out of windows next to the screen doors. To Robert’s tired eyes, the single-story inn appeared summarily dreary, which effect he despaired of rationalizing with the brutal glare that bore upon it. He grudgingly allowed that when darkness fell, the motel might assume more agreeable character, but he was determined to be long gone before that improbable transformation took place.

In a brief review of recent events, he recalled that earlier in the afternoon, he’d been prepared to await Henry’s return from across the border. Since then, he’d discovered his car was stolen. He’d gone to the sheriff’s office to report the theft, but the door to the office was locked when he got there and the sheriff wasn’t in. He’d wandered into El Sopilote, hoping to speak with someone who could recommend a solution to his dilemma. Meeting up with Vera the Vamp and her willing dupe had only exacerbated his problems.

The game those two played thwarted his comprehension still. Whether it existed by mutual consent and, if so, to what degree, or whether anybody but he discerned their game was more puzzle than he cared to solve during his short walk to the door of his room.

Other bewilderments weighed upon his faculties. From long range, Henry and his wife, Holly, fomented additional distress. To his way of thinking, they owed him at least a modicum of gratitude for his contribution to their Mexican adventure. Fat chance, though, he’d receive his due. They’d rejected his appeals for redress and sent him packing. Now he wondered why he should spend another second thinking about them, let alone worrying about their welfare.

Determined to rid his mind of concern for the pair, he mounted the concrete slab that fronted the door to his room and fumbled for his key. As his hand left his pocket, a woman with dark hair knotted at the base of her skull exited the inn’s registration office four stoops down. Her appearance coincided with his prejudiced appraisal of the motel. A one-piece sleeveless shift of nondescript color rendered her shapeless. A world-weary aura sagged about her person. Robert supposed the woman saw in Sheriff Tom’s arrival a means to temporarily ameliorate the tedium of her days.

I expected there’d be trouble, she said.

Robert detected a slight Mexican accent. Whatever gave you that idea? he mumbled.

That other guy wanted me to lie for him.

So it wasn’t the sight of Harvey’s blood on Robert’s shirt in particular that occasioned the old lady’s pronouncement. This other guy named Henry Otis?

Got a registration slip with his name on it. She swung her head in the direction of the man seated in the Jeep. You wanna see my records, Sheriff?

Robert abandoned interest in the exchange at that point, leaving his driver to calculate the worth of old news delivered by an inconsequential witness.

His room had two double beds with pale-green spreads covering a pair of slumped mattresses and four flat pillows. Between them, a gooseneck lamp rested on a shared bed stand. The room’s TV occupied the top surface of a combination desk and chest of drawers. Worn carpet ended at the edge of a shallow linoleum recess located below a sink and mirror. There was a smaller mirror above another sink, in the bathroom to his left.

He kicked out of his loafers, stripped off his clothes, and left them in a pile on the floor. Freezing water jetted from the showerhead and took several minutes to turn lukewarm. While lathering a washcloth, Robert inventoried his wounds.

Worst damage had been done his ribs; they were tender to the touch and discoloring: by tomorrow, his bruised torso would have assumed the guise of a mottled purple-and-yellow vest. Swelling over his left cheekbone and a bump three inches below his left knee prompted sympathetic probing. Shoulder muscles and biceps felt achy stiff.

Lucky for him, the fight had ended when it did. If he’d gone down, which he’d been on the brink of doing in the tussle’s final moments, Harvey would have stomped him flat. Still, it shamed Robert to recall the bartender’s interference. He wouldn’t blame Harvey for wanting a piece of him yet, which he was willing to oblige should they meet again on even terms. Even terms meaning both rested and sober. Such was not going to happen, though, because Mercy Valley for Robert was a closed book.

Robert located two towels wedged into a ring rack beside the shower stall, dropped one on the floor to wipe his feet on, and used the other to dry off with. The limp terrycloth provided by motel management barely served its purpose. He sidled out of the steamy closet into the bedroom area and gave the mirror above the second sink a swipe. Following a peek at his sunburned face and auburn stubble, his close-set eyes were drawn askance.

With one boot flung across a knee and hands folded in his lap, Sheriff Tom sat in the only chair available to him.

You’re trying my patience, Mr. Mayor.

Robert rotated away from the mirror and wrapped the towel around his waist. Arid desert air evaporated moisture left on his skin by the sodden towel.

Way I hear it, patience is your foremost asset.

Who you been talkin’ to?

Ray’s appraisal, in so many words.

What words he use?

We chatted about your vigilance at the border. I surmised patience on the basis of scarce drug-traffic hereabouts.

That so?

Again, I defer to Ray’s judgment. He called your preoccupation with nonexistent drug dealers human foible.

Don’t press your luck, son.

Robert whipped off the towel, deposited it in the sink, and proceeded unabashed to his suitcase. He lifted the case off the floor and unfolded it on the bed farthest from the door. From his travel store, he selected a pair of briefs, cuffed shorts, a blue-and-white striped golf shirt, ankle-length cotton socks, and blue espadrilles. As he dressed, a condescending ramble rolled easily off his tongue.

I don’t presume to know your job, Sheriff, but I do wonder what you’d arrest me for. Participation in a bar fight? Fine. No disputing the charge, though one might question whether I was provoked. One might also reasonably assume involvement of other parties in the fracas. How many other parties? Well, I suggest three at a minimum, among whom one has mentioned property damage, for which, by the way, I have magnanimously assumed responsibility for, though I would not be averse to reimbursement should further investigation prove such to be in order. I might also point out that said party claiming property damage also joined the dustup. Moreover, who else among contenders has a right to claim damages? One of the combatants suffered painful injury to his hip. Another demonstrates before you now swollen knuckles, a cut on his armpit, and multiple contusions over his entire body. And let’s not forget a certain female who was present also during the altercation. What pain and suffering might she claim, assuming her right to make a claim? Given these considerations, it might be expedient to let matters stand as they be.

Robert had finished dressing. He sat on the bed, facing his listener; lifted a foot to his knee; and flopped his hands over his shin.

Sheriff Tom had abided patiently the mayor’s brief. Now he seemed ready to state his view on what he’d heard and internalized.

I could arrest you for noise pollution, he said.

Understood, Robert answered. You got me dead to rights on that score.

They followed a dirt road into the desert. Palo verde crowded the track, their topmost shoots reaching higher than the roof of the sheriff’s conveyance. Multiple clusters of yucca cactus spread over bone-dry undulating earth. Here and there rose stems of century plants; and about them, jumping cactus, finger and barrel cactus, and scarred saguaros dotted the terrain. Robert would not have described the desert fauna as flourishing. To him, the word flourishing signified a landscape green and lush. About him, he observed ground that begrudged life-forms growing on it what small sustenance it surrendered them.

Why would anyone want to live in this bad dream? he muttered as he and his driver bumped along.

Sheriff Tom took a few seconds to answer. The result of his abridged musings left something to be desired. This place ain’t for pussies.

Robert went on, disregarding the innuendo. Doesn’t have to be a dead-end detour. Fire up the bulldozers. Form a planning board, initiate tax incentives, engage a marketing firm, build a shopping mall. Pretty soon, you turn desolation into habitable real estate. He didn’t know whether he was being serious.

Maybe you should relocate. Move to Mercy and run for town council.

This berg even bother to hold elections? Seems nobody around here gives a damn.

Some folks downplay their concerns.

Ever been to Las Vegas? I’m not suggesting gambling necessarily. I’m thinking more in terms of retirement homes. Why not offer members of the affluent class relief from urban trauma?

Uh-huh, Sheriff Tom said, tuning Robert out. He steered through a couple of dusty curves and around a stone outcrop. The red sports car came into view.

Robert was not wholly prepared to behold his poor car banished to desert wasteland. He groaned inwardly when reminded of the abuse his month-old ride had been submitted to. Chasing after his loony brother across Mexican back roads, at the behest of a resentful sister-in-law, had worn prestigious sheen off the high-end racer. The car was covered in dust, scratched, dented, and demeaned. Robert cringed at the thought of what its engine must sound like after yet another foray across ditches and ruts that its stiff suspension system wasn’t designed to negotiate. He wanted to be outraged, but the sight before his eyes gutted the impulse.

As the sheriff pulled to a stop, a man sitting Indian fashion on the ground beside the car unwound his legs and stood. Barely five feet in height, complexion wrinkled and deeply baked, skinny to the point of emaciation, he appeared both forsaken and forlorn. His white hair was bound in a ponytail that raveled with frayed ends of a beaded band drawn tightly across his forehead. A multicolored shirt with sleeves rolled to bony elbows, a vest embroidered with a pair of long-stemmed roses, cracked leather trousers, and Mexican sandals completed his attire. Despite the colorful nature of his costume, Robert had no trouble imagining the codger running around naked half the time.

Don’t guess you plan to arrest him.

What for? Sheriff Tom answered.

Jacked my car.

All’s well that ends well.

Robert’s eyes smarted from the sun. He wished he hadn’t left his sunglasses in the car. Out of curiosity, what’s his name?

Siegfried Dapler.

Catchy.

Sheriff Tom cut his engine and rotated slightly toward the passenger. Gearhead, through and through. Quite a talent before he went transcendental. Peyote, acid, mushrooms, and who knows what other substances stir-fried his gray cells. He takes himself for some sort of medicine man now, regular last of the Mohicans. Calls himself Sits-in-Shade and believes motor vehicles are catalysts for world order. Park ’em in their divinely assigned stalls, and the cosmos turns copacetic. Something like that. You’d have to ask Siegfried how he determined where to park your car, but evidently, it belongs over by that clump of prickly pear.

Another case of human foible, I expect.

Sheriff Tom gave no sign of offense.

You got religion, Sheriff?

Matter of fact, I hear a voice from the beyond right now. Tells me you best be headed back where you came from.

Robert popped open the passenger door. He made it half a dozen paces in the direction of his vehicle before Sits-in-Shade flung his bony frame across the hood. Robert rocked his head back and sighed toward heaven. Seemed nothing got accomplished in this asylum without a spate of melodrama.

Get off the car, Siegfried, Sheriff Tom ordered once he stood in proximity to the man’s sandals.

Robert joined him. If it were up to him, he’d have dragged the wacko off his vehicle and flung him into the nearby clump of prickly pear. Frustration had begun to congest his guts. He’d had enough of relentless heat, unpaved road, and mindless hassle.

Get off the car, the sheriff repeated.

You’re gonna move it, Siegfried protested.

I’m not going to move a damn thing except your sorry ass if you don’t do as I say.

It’s wrong to move the car, said Siegfried.

The sheriff made to grab him but stopped when Robert held up his hand. Otis couldn’t tell whether apathy or pity motivated the gesture.

What you got in mind? Sheriff Tom asked.

I have a question.

The man lying on the car hood marked him with interest. Sheriff Tom waited patiently. Robert forgot what he planned to say.

So ask, urged Sheriff Tom.

What?

Said you had a question.

Robert’s mind snapped back from the void. Why wrong? he brooded aloud.

Siegfried sat up. The red car belongs here and nowhere else.

I see, Robert said.

Everything has its proper place, Siegfried continued. When parts are where they’re supposed to be, the engine purrs.

Robert concentrated for a bit. What you say has merit, he concluded. But you’re wrong about this particular car. You see, it’s my car, so I know best where it belongs. It’s supposed to be in Wyoming, and that’s where I plan to install it.

His neck muscles tightened involuntarily when Siegfried bounced his chest off the car hood. Shadow man, accompanied the slap his bare arms made when they struck metal. Everywhere you go, wicked darkness follows.

Laughter rumbled from Robert’s breast and burned his throat. While Otis bent at the waist, the sheriff seized Siegfried by his pant legs and pulled him off the car. The skinny little shit’s fingernails raked the paint. Otis, laughing at higher pitch, opened the driver-side door and dropped into the bucket seat behind the wheel. He knew it was irrational to laugh just now but couldn’t help himself. Brother Henry; wife, Holly; Siegfried Dapler were joined in alliance against him. The very unfunniness of the proposition stitched his innards.

His motor sounded as out of tune when started as he’d feared it would. He ran the wipers to clear dust from the windshield and was tickled by the scratches uncovered by the blades. The sheriff hung by with his hand pinched tightly on one of Siegfried’s arms while Otis backed into a two-point turn. He lowered the window before taking off. When you see my brother, he told Sheriff Tom, tell him I didn’t care to hang around.

Before Robert arrived at the Mercy Valley highway, he thought of other hilarities awaiting him in the far north. Business was off on the home front and ready cash drying up. His former spouse was sharpening her claws for alimony war. Well-heeled political backers had become disenchanted with their young mayor and were fixing to leave him to dangle. Another terrible pun, Robert admitted. If he didn’t find a place to flop soon, he was going to laugh his head clean off.

3

H ER HUSBAND DROVE the white Bronco along a rutted back road in northern Mexico. She sat next to him in the passenger seat.

For three days, Holly had ridden with Robert in his fancy sports car, and her resentment for the elder Otis brother had grown with each passing mile. When they finally caught up with Henry, he’d been raving mad, and she still wasn’t convinced he’d recovered sanity.

Now they followed a dirt track that wound about rock and cactus beneath a relentless sun. Their clothes were filthy, their throats parched. They hadn’t eaten a decent meal or taken genuine rest for a long while.

The road forked, and Henry veered right. No written postings appeared anywhere. Even if they did come upon a mileage sign, it would have been useless without a map, and they didn’t have a map.

Her husband examined the landscape with a puzzled look on his face. Probably, he compared what he saw to what he recalled of the terrain when he was headed south. The trip north was different in ways landmarks couldn’t account for. The land hadn’t changed; it was Henry who had changed. Or so Holly hoped.

No bones, he said.

What sort of bones are you looking for? Holly kept her voice calm and steady.

I saw human skeletons in the rearview mirror.

But they’re gone now, right?

He glanced at her. Don’t worry, Holly. We’re in the clear so long as I don’t perform any more miracles.

Holly’s shoulder muscles tensed. I wish you wouldn’t talk that way, she said and studied her husband’s profile while her stomach churned. His complexion was burned scarlet, his ear wings blistered; wicked scratches marred his cheeks. His hair stuck up like hackles on a startled dog.

You think I’m crazy.

That all depends.

All I know is I made things happen.

Henry—

Yeah, I performed a miracle anytime I wanted. Great, huh? I possessed the greatest gift imaginable. Only, not so great, after all. Because, thing was, I couldn’t control what I wanted. People suffered and died because of me.

Please stop.

Henry quit talking, but his silence made her no less anxious. Somehow, someway, she had to get him home. They had a long way to go, and she was on her last legs. Would Henry continue on course, or would he go off on another tear? So far, he seemed as grateful as she was that they were together again.

Scanning the way ahead, she caught a glimpse of blacktop. A yelp broke unbidden from her breast.

There’s the highway, Henry affirmed. Everything’s falling into place. All we had to do was return the holy cross to its proper place. Just like Sits-in-Shade said.

Holly decided to let him utter any nonsense he pleased so long as he continued steering homeward.

They stopped at an intersection where the dirt road met macadam. Neither knew which way to turn.

I think we go east, Henry said.

Just so we don’t run into Robert, Holly answered.

Yeah, let’s go east, her husband answered. If we’re lucky, he went west.

An hour later, they approached an outcrop of buildings. A sign on the outskirts of the municipality read Eje. They had no idea what the palindrome signified.

The town was larger than the one Holly recalled passing through with Robert two days ago. More paved streets, more cars, modern buildings at its center. The other town, as she recollected, was smaller and caked with yellow dust.

Might be a good idea to stop and devise a plan, Holly said.

They parked on a side street near an open market. They sat in the Bronco, sweltering, even with the air-conditioning cranked full blast. Henry cracked a window. Aromas of roasted meat and fresh tortillas entered the car.

In the nearest restaurant, they sat at a table with a beer logo stenciled on its white gloss surface and ordered bottles of water from an adolescent waitress in ponytails and bright-red lipstick. The girl asked if they’d come for the menu. She spoke accented English, but evidently, the word menu had a different meaning in Mexico because what they got instead of a card listing the bill of fare was a four-course meal. It began with bowls of noodle soup heavily doused with lime juice. White rice mixed with onion, garlic, tomato, and hot peppers followed. For the main course, they were given a choice between breaded beef fillet and fried chicken breast. Yellow gelatin for dessert. While they ate, Henry ordered a liter bottle of Coca-Cola. By the end of the meal, their eyelids drooped. The waitress approached and asked if they wanted anything else. Henry heaved a contented sigh and said what he wanted was a siesta. The girl pointed to a hotel across the street. She brought the check. The meal turned out to be surprisingly cheap.

Their cover story, a tale determined by surroundings, occurred to Holly on the sidewalk. We should go shopping, she said.

Henry squinted at her.

We’ll buy Mexican crafts and load them in the backseat where the border agents can see them.

Might work, her husband said.

Unbelievable you weren’t arrested when you crossed.

Raven led me clear of the cops.

Holly pretended not to hear.

He traipsed behind her among market stalls as if sleepwalking. Along one narrow aisle, the blunt end of an awning rib speared him in the forehead. Brassy music blared from cracked speakers at every turn. Holly couldn’t believe the noise. People this side of the border must suffer from scarred eardrums, she figured. They didn’t seem to though; whereas she found it necessary to bend forward to hear vendors state prices of their wares, the Mexicans had no trouble communicating at normal volume.

She knew she was expected to haggle over the cost of her purchases but didn’t bother. She selected goods more or less at random. Bright colors, exotic smells of spices and sweets, garish jewelry, glazed pottery, knick-knacks unavailable north of the border delivered Holly’s awareness wistful blows.

She bought two woven plastic bags, one for her to carry and one for Henry, and filled them with bowls and cups, straw table mats, animal figurines, large serving platters depicting village scenes.