Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
NOW, IN THE DREAM, the entire hut or trailer is filled with light and noise, a war’s worth of bullets seeking him out and punching through the walls that Danny knows aren’t walls at all.
They are cloth. Just cloth, and nothing more.
And then the girl’s hands are on him . . .
—
AND THEN THE GIRL’S HANDS were on him . . . Zita. Waking him up, as Danny kicked free of the hot sleeping bag with his Colt in one hand and a Glock in the other. His bad eye was buzzing, coming into focus, and he pointed them both at her and she screamed, backing away, talking rapidly in Spanish.
Danny crawled to his feet and checked the bed to find it was empty.
Amé was gone.
Early-morning sun was coming in through the blinds of the bedroom window, filling the room with new light.
The inside of the hut and the trailer and the grave or whatever is crisscrossed with blinding light.
Desert sun here and now and half a world away.
Danny stepped into the next room and saw the rumpled pallet, and knew that Fox Uno was gone, too.
Zita had retreated to the kitchenette, as far away from him as she could get. Hiding behind the table, peeking around it, her hands up. Crying.
Jesus, it was the second time he’d aimed a gun at the girl.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m so sorry.” He held up the guns, dropped their mags and ejected the chambered rounds, and set them both on the coffee table far away from him so she could see.
He had done almost the same thing with Fox Uno.
Now he kept his empty hands raised, where they could both see they were shaking.
Zita’s crying had begun to trail off, but she hadn’t moved any closer to him.
She was talking, asking him questions, he guessed, but he had no idea what she was saying.
“No, no, it’s all okay. It’s fine. I don’t know where they are, but I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”
He tried to think of what little Spanish he knew, something—anything—to calm the terrified girl down.
“Helado,” he finally said. “I’m so sorry, Zita. Helado. Helado.”
He knelt—like he’d knelt beside PV2 Newberry in his dream—and held out his hands to her, steadier now. She watched him closely for several long, heartbreaking minutes, and then—slowly—came out from behind the kitchen table and ran into his arms.
Helado.
Goddamn ice cream.
That was the best he could do.
—
HE GOT ZITA SETTLED DOWN in front of a Mexican cartoon on the TV. He put his Bullhide hat on her head, and she seemed to like that.
Amé and Fox Uno had slipped out earlier, before first light, and he had no idea where they’d gone.