“Can I see you in the morning?”
“Henri is taking me to breakfast.”
I felt cold and wet and used up, the moldy stink of the jail still on my skin. I looked at the yellow legal tablet on the counter. “What are the first names of the Vickers family again?”
“Darrel and Rueben.”
“They’re criminals?”
“Criminals get charged with crimes. The Vickerses don’t. Get it?”
I looked again at the first canvas she had shown me. The children’s faces seemed to reach across time, begging for help, a kind word, or just an explanation. I could not take my eyes off the painting.
She studied my face. “You all right?”
“Sure,” I said.
“No, you’re not. You’re a strange one.”
“I’ve never had high regard for normalcy.”
“Give me a few minutes.”
“What for?”
“I’ll drive you to wherever you’re staying.”
Chapter Five
SUNDAY NIGHT I told Spud and Cotton who our attackers were. On Monday morning we had just taken a break from cleaning and harrowing twenty acres, split by a creek lined with cottonwoods, when we saw a dirty yellow race car turn off the two-lane and come hard down the road, troweling a flume of dust so thick it blotted out the sun. The race car was dented and had a big black number 7 painted on the hood and the driver’s door.
Mr. Lowry was standing with us under a solitary cottonwood tree by a creek bed, drinking from a tin cup he’d just filled from our watercooler, one that had a block of ice floating under the lid. He was a handsome man with thick white hair and the chiseled features I always associated with the revolutionary soldiers who fought at Breed’s Hill. A Rotary Club article in a local newspaper said he had migrated from Massachusetts to Colorado after his return from World War I. The article said he was a recipient of the Medal of Honor. Mr. Lowry never argued or demeaned and reminded me in many ways of my father, who had been at both the Somme and the Marne.
“Who’s that?” Cotton said.
“Rueben Vickers and his son,” Mr. Lowry said. “We’re not going to have trouble with them, are we, Cotton?”
Cotton sipped from his cup, his good eye like a solitary marble on a plate.
“Cotton?” Mr. Lowry said.
“It won’t start on my account, Mr. Lowry,” Cotton said.
“What about you, Spud?” Mr. Lowry asked.
Spud’s eyes were half-lidded. You could never tell what Spud was thinking. Most of the time it was about women. But he came from East Kentucky, and I believed on occasion his thoughts wandered into the dark hollows of his ancestors. “They hurt us pretty bad, Mr. Lowry. It’s not fair what they got away with.”
“I’m asking if you’ll put your trust in me for the next few minutes.”
“Yes, sir, if that’s what you want,” Spud replied.
“What about you, Aaron?” Mr. Lowry said.
The cottonwood leaves were clicking in the sunlight. Mr. Lowry didn’t have to wait long for an answer from me. I grew up in Texas and Louisiana and knew better than to mess with rich and powerful people, particularly in the oil business. “You’re the skipper, Mr. Lowry,” I said.
“Well, good enough, fellows,” he said, his gaze lingering on me, perhaps not entirely convinced.
The race car pulled onto the grass and into the shade. Rueben, the father, cut the engine and got out. His son, Darrel, followed, but not until his father had closed the driver’s door. Darrel closed his own door quietly, snicking it tight, as though trying not to draw attention. His cheeks and throat were patinaed with soft red stubble, his coppery hair freshly barbered and bright with a light oil. He reached behind the seat and lifted up a coned straw hat and put it on, his face shadowing, as though he had taken on another persona.