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?
He then held out the phone in his left hand to her, the Mexican Telcel. When she had seen it that first night, it had reminded her of the phone her brother had once carried. The same one she used to summon Máximo. “When this one rings, answer it. Do not speak first. Someone on the other end will say a word. It will be one of three words. Each one is a color. White . . . red . . . green.” He smiled, those were the colors of the Mexican flag. “If you hear the first word, stop the call and wait five minutes and there will be a second call. If you hear the second word, stop the call immediately and toss the phone into the desert. It is useless to us. If you hear the third, then . . . we are fine.” Without asking her if it was okay, he slowly folded his legs and sat down in the dust. He took the Telcel and tossed it at her feet.
She remained standing, looking at the gun in her hand, and the phone down by her boots. “How long do we wait?”
He picked at a piece of grass, then another. “As long as it takes.” He studied her. “This is how it starts. One thing, then another, always one more thing. You are part of this now. There is an old, old saying: ‘One nail drives out another.’”
She relented and sat cross-legged from him. “Unless I ask you something, I want you to stay quiet.”
But he kept talking. “It has been a long walk. I will lie here in the sun and wait with you, Señora de la Santa Muerte. We will learn together whether I have told the truth.”
He stretched out in the dirt and covered his eyes with his arms.
“But we know in our hearts that neither of us are liars.”
—
AMERICA WAITED MORE THAN AN HOUR, the sun tracking higher above them, and watched the old man sleep and snore on the ground a few feet away from her.
A white-haired old man in his borrowed clothes, muddy and stained in cow shit. He could be her papa, come in after a long day of working the cattle ranches around Murfee, or the giant marijuana fields in Chihuahua owned by her uncle.
For a few moments, she was eighteen years old again . . . holding Rodolfo’s phone.
Holding Rodolfo’s gun.
Now her own.
Señora de la Santa Muerte.
—
THE PHONE RANG.
Fox Uno stirred when it did, rising up on his elbows. Faster than she’d imagined, so maybe he’d never been sleeping at all. He watched her closely, but said nothing.
He was just as curious as she was about what would happen when she answered it.
One nail drives another . . . Un clavo saca a otro clavo . . .
She finally put it to her ear, waited, and heard a single word.
She blinked once, twice, holding her breath.