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?
“I don’t understand what the fuck he just said, but do you know him?” Danny asked, keeping his gun steady, moving to put himself between the girl and Amé and the man who watched them both.
Amé stared down at him for a long time, but if she answered one way or another, Danny didn’t hear her.
TWELVE
He switched the matchstick from one corner of his mouth to the other, side to side, relentlessly, watching the pumpjack do its thing. The windows were down on his unmarked Charger—a midnight-black 370-HP Hemi V-8 purchased with federal funds—letting in the night and a generous helping of West Texas grit, a fine dust that had already coated his dashboard. He could smell the metal skin and oily sweat beaded on the pumpjack, a thick stink like the thing itself was on fire. He was parked close enough that he could feel heat coming off it, could reach out and touch it.
He could also feel it in his gut every time it went up and down in long, rumbling strokes, pulling that black liquid out of the very earth. He’d lived in Terrell County his whole life, had seen these things scattered around forever, but they were still a mystery to him. He wasn’t sure exactly how they did what they did, but that’s one reason he’d become a deputy sheriff—so he’d never have to work out on the damn rigs.
Johnnie Machado, Johnnie Macho to his friends and family, glanced down the road. He had a good long eye down 349, a clean and empty line that ran as far as Dryden. It was dark out there, dark all the way, with a thick band of stars above him, but he didn’t know shit about stars or constellations, either. He looked up only when he had to. Otherwise, Johnnie Macho was the sort of man who generally looked straight fucking ahead.