Rain Gods (Hackberry Holland 2)

?Nothing. Would you get me an aspirin, please? Bring the box.?

At eight-thirty A.M., Hackberry and Pam Tibbs were doing eighty miles an hour down the four-lane, the emergency flasher rippling silently. Hackberry lay back in the passenger seat, half asleep, his Stetson tilted over his eyes, his long legs extended.

Where do you look for a guitar-picking woman in the state of Texas?

Anywhere.

Where do you look for a guitar-picking woman who sings ?Will the Circle Be Unbroken? to a beer-joint audience?

In a place that will probably remember the experience for a long time.

Hackberry knew his errand was probably a foolish one. He was out of his jurisdiction and trying to save young people who trusted neither him, his department, nor the system he represented. Cassandra had been given knowledge of the future and simultaneously condemned to a lifetime of being disbelieved and rejected. The wearisome preoccupation of the elderly?namely, the conviction that they had already seen the show but could never pass on the lessons they had learned from it?was not unlike Cassandra?s burden, except the anger and bitterness of old people was not the stuff of Homeric epics.

Hackberry shifted in the seat, pulling his hat lower on his face, and tried to get out of his funk. The cruiser hit a bump and forced his eyes open. He hadn?t realized how far he and Pam had driven. He saw the shapes of mountains in the south and the buildings and planted trees and the planned neighborhoods of a small town spread along the side of a long geological slope that looked as though the land had suddenly tilted into the sky.

?You fell asleep,? Pam said.

?Where are we??

?Not far from the convenience store where Bobby Lee Motree pulled a semiauto on the night clerk. Did the FBI get you a mug shot of him yet??

?They will eventually. Th

ey have their own problems to deal with.?

?Why do you make excuses for them??

?Because a lot of them are decent people.?

?I bet they love their grandmothers and they?re kind to animals, too.? She glanced sideways at him, her expression hidden behind her aviator shades, her mouth a flat line.

?My grandfather was a Texas Ranger,? Hackberry said. ?He and some of his friends went on a raid into Mexico after Pancho Villa crossed the river and killed a bunch of civilians. My grandfather and his friends attacked a train loaded with Villa?s soldiers. The Texans had captured a Lewis gun. They caught a bunch of those poor devils in an uncoupled cattle car that was rolling downhill. My grandfather said their blood was blowing out of the boards and fanning in the wind like the discharge from a chute in a slaughterhouse.?

?I don?t get your point.?

?My grandfather was an honest lawman. He did some things that bothered his conscience, but you don?t judge a person by one episode or event in his life, and you don?t judge people categorically, either. Ethan Riser is a good man.?

?You really were an ACLU lawyer.?

Hackberry removed his hat and ran a comb through his hair. He could feel his gun belt biting into his hips. ?Put it on pause, will you, Pam??

?Say again??

?That must be the convenience store yonder,? he said.

They parked and introduced themselves to the assistant manager. He had the manic look and behavioral manner of someone who might have spent his life inside a windstorm. His description of Bobby Lee Motree was not helpful. ?You tend to forget what people look like when they?re waving a pistol in your face,? he said.

?You don?t happen to have the surveillance tape, do you?? Hackberry said.

?Them FBI people took it.?

?Have you ever seen Pete Flores??

?Who??

?The kid who left the beer on your counter and took off. The one with the long scar on his face.?

?No, sir. I can tell you one thing about him, though. That boy can flat haul ass.?