How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
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He left Alpine before dawn, driving north to Fort Stockton through miles and miles of flat ranchland and pump jacks. At Interstate 10, he turned east, toward San Antonio, the morning sun blinding. He made it as far as Kerrville. Checked into a hotel, drove two blocks to a liquor store, and debated: whiskey or beer? What the hell? Tomorrow was Sunday. Stock up. He even bought cigarettes and a lighter.
After filling the hotel room's tiny refrigerator with sodas and beer, Mendocino took a long chug of Forty Creek Canadian Whiskey straight from the bottle. Closed his eyes. Ahh. Smooth. He poured straight whiskey over a small amount of ice in a big, insulated Yeti tumbler, took one more chug from the bottle for good measure, donned swim trunks, and went to the pool.
The Texas sun sizzled in an empty sky.
The hotel swimming pool was crowded. Toddlers in life jackets and floaties splashed with their parents, older siblings playing Marco Polo. Women perched like hens around the pool visiting, sunning, and keeping at least one constant eye on their chicks. A man tried to teach his son to dog paddle, coaxing the boy. "Cup your hands and pull them to you." The little boy flounced, flailing his arms.
At the deep end, teenage boys preened, showing off their diving prowess, hoping to impress young, suntanned girls in bikinis who had their heads together, giggling, pretending not to enjoy the boys' attention, squealing when they got splashed by a cannonball dive.
Mendocino found an unoccupied chaise lounge, spread his hotel-furnished beach towel across it, took off his T-shirt, and got in the water, enjoying it. Then he stretched out on his chair, hiding from the merrymakers behind his sunglasses, sucking on his tumbler of liquid memory block. He'd forgotten how good Forty Creek tasted.
He savored the sun on his skin. He hadn't felt its warmth in so long. Maybe here he could rest. He couldn't sleep after he left Tillie, his mind whirling with visions of her and Watson. Seeing Sartain. He didn't know which thought was the most intolerable.
When he took off his shirt and got in the water, he hadn't thought about the scars on his chest and back or the slash across the side of his face. Behind the dark glasses, his gaze moved from one person to another. Had they gawked at him? Had they whispered to the nearest person, 'Man, what happened to him?' Yeah, you know they did. They couldn't help but notice.
He drained the last drops from the tumbler. He couldn't remember feeling so—what was the word? Empty. What happened to him? He used to swim. Canoe. Camp. Climb. Run. He'd let himself go to hell, cowering from the world in his RV. It was a tin can. Bullets would go right through it. Those motion detectors. What a joke. They wouldn't protect him.
He needed to leave. He never intended to stay in this country anyway.
His eyes protected by dark glasses, Mendocino stared, wide-eyed into an empty sky, seeing Tillie's profile. Beautiful Tillie. He let his guard down there. And Bobby-fucking-Watson. He hadn't seen that coming. He closed his eyes, the rowdy laughter slowly fading.
***
When he opened his eyes, Mendocino was alone in the dark, the low rumble of interstate traffic in the distance. He sat up. It was misting. Lightning in the east. He surveyed the pool area. No people. Just the still water of the swimming pool, glowing blue, illuminated by underwater lights where June bugs congregated.
Shoving his sunglasses on top of his head, he swallowed. His mouth felt, well, the way he remembered it feeling after a drunk. Cotton-mouthed. He reached for the tumbler. Empty. Felt around for his T-shirt and sandals, put them on, and shuffled across the courtyard, bumping into tables and chairs. He plodded down a long corridor and across the lobby. No one was there but the night clerk and his back was turned. No people in the elevator. Was it really late? Or is it really early? He wasn't sure.
In his room, Mendocino reached for the whiskey bottle still in its brown paper sack. He lifted it. "Hair of the dog." He drained it, chunking the empty bottle and sack into the trashcan with a loud Klunk!
He brushed his teeth and crawled under covers.
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