A Thousand Falling Crows (27 page)

Jesse Burton's face was red with restrained rage as he jumped out of the black sedan and slammed the door. The windshield cracked a little more and threatened to cave in, but it didn't. The glass just shook like it had been touched by the finger of an earthquake.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jesse demanded, stalking straight up to Sonny and Pete.

Sonny could smell old coffee on his son's breath. “I stopped by for a visit.”

“Sure you did.”

“Do you think you could excuse us both a second, Pete. I need to have a discussion with my son here for a moment. Seems he's lost a bit of his manners.”

“Sure, sure thing.” Pete nodded to them both, then hurried up to the porch and dashed inside the house without looking back.

The curtains fluttered in the window next to the door, and Sonny surmised that it was Lidde, seeing who else had arrived and what the shouting was all about. “You've got no call to speak to me like that in front of Pete. You've got no call to speak to anyone like that.”

“The hell, I don't,” Jesse said. His face had grown even redder, and if there was ever any question that the boy was Martha's and her hot-headed kin, there was no mistaking it now. “You've got no badge, no jurisdiction, and no reason to be talking to Pete Jorgenson. He's a suspect, Pa, a suspect in an ugly, brutal string of murders that needs to be stopped.”

“And how's that working out for you and Jonesy?” Sonny couldn't restrain himself any longer.

“What's that supposed to mean? We're doing just fine, thank you. We have people of interest that we're keeping an eye on. And I certainly don't need you steppin' in and trying to act like you're capable of helping when you're not hardly capable of feeding yourself.”

“You mean I‘m not whole because I don't have both arms, both hands?”

All of the air had got sucked out of the world at that very moment, and there was nothing around Sonny that he could hear past his own rising anger. He couldn't hear his own beating heart. It was like it had stopped. If Martha had always confounded Sonny, then Jesse had always challenged him—challenged him not to just haul off and smack the boy's mouth when he deserved it—which, over the years, was, more often than not, every time they were in each other's company.

“You said it,” Jesse answered. “Now go on. Go home. This is Ranger business. Stay out of it.”

If Sonny had a right hand, he would have balled up his fist and punched Jesse square in the mouth—which, at the moment, probably would have landed him in jail. But he didn't have a hand, or a fist, and he had no feeling at all there.

Instead, Sonny exhaled deeply and stepped back. He was glad to see Lidde walk out the door with Blue at her heels. Pete wasn't far behind. They all three stopped at the top of the porch steps.

“Blue be ready to go home now, Sonny,” Lidde said. She had a brown paper bag in her left hand and held it out to him. “Here's some bones for him, and another for your next bit of beans.”

Sonny understood; he was being shooed off. They both knew what was coming. They'd been through it before. He nodded, walked up to the porch, and took the bag. “You need me, you call, you hear?”

Pete and Lidde nodded in unison, like they were connected by the same wire and operated off the same motor. “We'll be fine,” Pete said.

“Come on, Blue, let's go.” Sonny turned and walked toward his truck. The dog followed loyally behind him, struggling to keep up.

“I meant what I said, Pa. Stay out of this,” Jesse said, as Sonny walked by him.

Sonny didn't answer; he just stared straight ahead, helped Blue in the truck, and drove off, doing his hale and hearty best not to miss a shift as he sped away.

CHAPTER 25

The afternoon tilted toward evening and the temperature reached for its peak. Sonny was glad to enter a building to escape the glare of the day, if only for a moment. The local Texas Ranger office was in the basement of the Collingsworth County courthouse, and it was always a few degrees cooler there. Not that Sonny ever enjoyed being behind a desk, but in the depths of summer, the office had been a retreat.

Headquarters for Company C, on the other hand, the division of Rangers who covered the Panhandle and collection of counties south, was located down in Lubbock, nearly a hundred and eighty miles away, in a three-story building that held heat like an oven. It had been a long time since Sonny had ventured to headquarters, well on over a year. He didn't even know who the captain was these days. It didn't matter much to him. He'd never kept up with the politics of the organization. His father had been a captain, and the ghost of that office had followed Sonny throughout his entire career, like he wouldn't have accomplished anything if he didn't match his father's rise as a commanding officer. Leadership had never interested Sonny. He just wanted to do his job the best he could. The basement office in Wellington with one secretary had suited him just fine.

The drive into town from Pete and Lidde Jorgenson's was a blur. He was so mad he could've kicked a cow. Jesse warning him off the Jorgenson's place was above and beyond any of his powers. But the boy was insecure, there was no question about that. Ambition showed on Jesse from the shine on his shoes to the stiffness of his gait. He held himself like a general going into battle no matter what the circumstance was. There was no question in Sonny's mind that there would be another Captain Burton on the Ranger scrolls, etched to stand the time before it was all said and done. Jesse had always wanted to be in charge. Always. That was part of their tangle.

Sonny gunned the Model A truck into one of the many slanted parking spots that surrounded the courthouse and hit the brakes just before hitting the curb. Blue nearly fell off the seat. “Sorry about that, boy,” Sonny said, realizing what he had allowed his anger to do, or almost do. He couldn't imagine hurting the dog—again—and the thought made his stomach roll. Blue squared himself in the seat and wagged his tail.

The courthouse took up a full city block and served as the center of Wellington, with businesses surrounding the square, some successful but most not. The Depression had brought a load of new boards to the windows of the store fronts. The butcher, hardware store, grocery, and Ritz Theater had hung on, but nearly all the other stores had been forced to close. People just didn't have money for anything extra—other than movies and newsreels.

Sonny tried to ignore the theater as he stepped out of the truck, but he couldn't keep himself from looking over his shoulder at the red brick building. It was impossible not to see the image of Bonnie and Clyde sauntering out of the Ritz, arm in arm, like they were just two young lovers on an innocent date. But it was more than that. It had been a distraction, the dark movie house a place to hide for a brief moment. Everything had changed after that—for them and for Sonny.
And the town, too
, Sonny thought, as he stepped out of the truck.

It was after the shootout with Bonnie and Clyde that the murders had started. Three nameless girls dead in a matter of a year. No clue to the identity of the killer, just two of the nicest people in the world as suspects, as persons of interest—Pete and Lidde Jorgenson. That didn't settle well with Sonny. Hadn't since he'd found out that they were the focus of suspicion—they had the means, but there was no motive and no evidence, at least that Sonny knew of. But that was not why he was at the courthouse. Not this time. Not yet. He had a wrong to right first, a friend to help, a girl to rescue, if that were possible.

“You stay here, Blue.” The dog stood at the window, which Sonny had left rolled down about six inches so the breeze could pass through it. Blue ran his nose up and down the window, trying to figure a way out, so he could go, too. “Not this time. I won't be long,” Sonny said.

The sun had started to fall to the other side of the earth, and it was the hottest part of the day. Clouds were as rare as a fat jackrabbit, and the wind had subsided for the moment. The air was as still as the inside of a kettle. Sonny wasn't keen on leaving Blue in the truck in the heat, but he had no choice. The animal wasn't welcome inside the courthouse. They barely tolerated children. He hoped he was telling the dog the truth, that he wouldn't be too long.

Sonny looked straight up at the courthouse and pushed away the image and any more thoughts about Bonnie and Clyde. His concern now was the Clever, Clever boys and Carmen, a girl, little more than a child, who had fallen into their grasp. At least, that was the way Aldo told it.

On the whole of things, the hows and whys of the girl's residence with the boys didn't matter much. What mattered was bringing her home. Sonny really didn't know if that was possible. His gut told him she was a lost cause. His time would be better spent trying to prove that Pete and Lidde were innocent.

He entered through two double doors and stood in the foyer of the building as the doors clanked closed behind him. The rub of the metal latches echoed upward to the open ceiling after bouncing off the marble floors.

The courthouse smelled institutional, but not sterile like the hospital. It smelled of paper, wax, and books, books that were stuffed into the walnut barrister bookcases that stood in every office, niche, and corner where one could fit. If law and order had a smell, then the inside of the courthouse fit that bill.

Sonny had walked in and out of the courthouse doors a million times in his long life. Once to get his marriage license, another time to get a death certificate, but mostly, just back and forth to work and to the courts to settle matters of justice, civil and criminal, depending on the matter that he had been involved in.

People came and went, paying Sonny little mind as he stood there taking in the scope of the courthouse, with its mezzanine, many doors and hallways, and high ceiling. He was a fixture in the courthouse, almost as permanent as the brass door handles.

He hadn't been inside the building since he'd left the Rangers, since he'd had to turn in his badge and gun.

The small of his back arched at the thought, so that he felt his own gun now, carried out of sight, just like any authority he thought he might possess—which, according to his son, was exactly zero.

He turned left and started to head toward the door that led down to the basement, to the Ranger office, but it opened with a hard push before he got there. To his surprise, Sonny found himself face-to-face with Frank Hamer.

“Well, if it ain't Sonny Burton. I was just askin' Faye about you,” Hamer said. He was a hair shorter than Sonny, but with his wide-brimmed hat on they looked to be about the same height. Hamer was nearly fifty years old, clean-shaven, and had a hard-set jaw that was common among men who chose law enforcement as a profession—and some who did not. You could tell he had been a thin man when he was young, but age had put some weight on him. He didn't look fat, just full, filled out. There were a few people who said Hamer favored the gangster John Dillinger, but never to his face. That would have been a mistake for any man, or woman as far as that went, to make. Such a comment would provoke a harshness that would belie any kindness and prove the swagger he walked with to be true and not just bluster.

Sonny nodded and stepped back as Hamer's right hand flinched up, then fell quickly back to his side, uncertain what to do with the customary handshake.

“It's all right, Frank,” Sonny said.

Hamer exhaled, then looked away from the pinned sleeve that had once held Sonny's right arm. “Sorry how things worked out for you, Sonny.”

“You got them. That's what matters.”

“It is. Hey, I got that Remington Model 8 out in the car I used in the shoot-out. You want to see it?”

“No, that's all right; I‘ll pass.”

“It's a dandy. Petmecky, in Austin, got me a custom fifteen-round clip. Boy, it's got balance, but a little man'll carry a bruise for a month if he doesn't hold the dang thing right.”

“I‘m sure it's a fine weapon, Frank.” Sonny nodded in appreciation of J. C. Petmecky and the gunsmith's notorious skill, and he was a little envious, too. He'd always wanted to own a custom-made gun from the shop in Austin but could never afford one.

Sonny was glad to see the usual gregariousness that accompanied Frank Hamer, but it seemed a little overdone, like the man was forcing his enthusiasm; he was nervous or uncomfortable, Sonny couldn't tell which. “I was hoping to get a call into you, that Faye would know how to get ahold of you. What brings you up this way?”

Hamer's shoulders stiffened, and he stepped in so he was nearly nose-to-nose with Sonny. “Jonesy called a week ago, but I had my hands full and couldn't make it up this way. Your boy put out a call, too. A few things are heatin' up, and he needs some help, so I thought I better set aside the unnecessariness and see what the deal was up here. I know they haven't been the same since you . . . um, had to leave.”