“How long do you think any O’odham would last with a gang of thugs like that? They treat us like dogs. Worse. Like we’re somehow the enemy. Like it’s our fault these traffickers are abusing our land and forcing them to be out here protecting us. Like we’re weak for not protecting ourselves.”
I nodded. What could I say?
I opened my door and climbed out. The day was strangely quiet. I couldn’t hear a single car engine or airplane. No rustling of the breeze through the shrubs. It was as if the world itself had stopped turning.
Roman closed his door and walked around the hood to join me.
“You still have the key to that thing?”
He patted the front pocket of his jeans in response.
“Mind opening her up?”
Had he declined, I could have obtained a search warrant without much difficulty. I also could have just kicked the door in, but I would have had a hard time explaining that with a witness standing right here next to me.
He probably figured it was best to just open it up and be done with it. Or maybe he was curious himself. I suppose Frankenstein had been fascinated by the monster he had inadvertently created, too.
Roman’s footsteps echoed from beneath the wooden stairs and porch. Rusted nails creaked in their moorings. The keys jingled as he found the right one and slid it into the lock. He turned the key until it made a clicking sound.
“Okay.” I drew my pistol. “Step away from the door.”
He nodded and backed up against the railing. I knew there was no one inside, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was empty. I sighted down the Beretta, took hold of the latch with my left hand, threw open the door, ducked to the side, and pressed my back against the trailer.
The door banged against the opposite side of the frame and shivered back toward me.
No gunshots. No explosions. No shouting. No snakes. No nothing.
Just a smell that told me no one had lived here in quite some time.
It was dark inside, save for the thin strip of light that slanted across the room from the open doorway. My shadow stretched across carpet worn bare in spots and thick with dirt and dust. I eased cautiously across the threshold, leading with my pistol, and toggled the light switch with my elbow. Once. Then again.
Nothing.
Fortunately, I was becoming accustomed to this scenario and drew the Maglite from my pocket. I shined it backhanded into the room with my left, braced my right forearm on top of it, and advanced into the main room.
I took in my surroundings as quickly as possible.
A half-wall to my right. Beveled rails. The kitchen beyond. Single doorway to my left. Bathroom. Hallway. Dark room at the very end. Bedroom. Doorway to the right of it. Presumably another bedroom. No sign of movement.
Buzzing sound. Flies?
The smell. Something rotting. Garbage, not decomposition. Spoiled food.
Definitely flies. Crawling on the refrigerator, swirling over the sink.
Another step. A creak from the floorboards. I exhaled slowly to steady my nerves. Glanced back at Roman on the porch. Elder brother was the wild card. I didn’t like him behind me with the unknown ahead.
The furniture: threadbare and old. Seventies-style fabric. Wood showing through the armrests. A recliner chair with broken springs. Coffee table; chipped lacquer, stained with rings. Television; dark, small. No pictures hanging on the faux wood paneling. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling, meeting at the broken light fixture. Back window, boarded and braced with an empty bookcase.
Another step. Creak. Hollow space below.
Glance back. Roman still on the porch, nose crinkled. His expression: revulsion. Resignation.
Turn back to the kitchen. Sweep the light. Patina of dust and grime on the table. Two chairs, duct-taped vinyl. Linoleum floor, orange and gold, peeled away from exposed, water-stained wood near the sink. Brimming with rusted pots. Two more steps. Roiling cloud of flies. Cupboard beneath open, overflowing trash can, the source of the smell. Cross into the kitchen, sight down my pistol from left to right. Clear. Cabinets closed; too small to hide inside anyway. Refrigerator—squeal—ugh. Rotten mold, cheese. A puddle of lettuce, fruit? Grape skeleton. Slam the door closed. Turn around.
Roman standing in the main doorway, silhouetted against the brilliant daylight, hand over his mouth.
Walk quickly across the living room. Kick in the half-bathroom door. Grime-stained sink. Toilet open. Cracked mirror. The door struck the inner wall, rebounded, closed again. Move on.
Hallway. No pictures. Crevices in the ceiling. Broken fixture. Glass shards from the shattered bulb on the carpet.
Bedroom to the right. Boarded window. No bed. Bookcase in the corner. No books. Closet door, open. Empty.
Hallway again. Glance back. Roman in the entryway. Turn away. Two more steps. Kick in the main bathroom door. Plastic tub, cracked, ringed with grunge and rust. No head on the shower. No curtains or rings. Sink. Medicine cabinet, triangular shards of broken mirror lining the edges of the face, reflecting my flashlight beam. The smell? Christ. Nothing I want to see.
Back out. Peek over my shoulder. Roman in the main room, looking around as though walking into an unfamiliar place.
Master bedroom. Mattress on the floor. Stained. Crumpled sheet. Pillow, no case. Brown bottles. Scorpions skittered across the room toward the open closet, vanished into the shadows. Dark, imitation walnut paneling, chipped and faded. Crumpled plastic dropcloth in the corner. Black and crusted. Smell of rot. Not garbage this time. Decomp. Light fixture, gone. Nothing but wires. Spider webs; hairy occupants the size of my hand.
Step into the room.
Creak. Creak.
Stomp on the floor.
Thoom.
Hollow.
Glance back at Roman, his eyes awash in shadows, tears glistening on his cheeks.
Creak. Creak.
Chase away the darkness in the closet with my light.
Creak. Creak.
Bare shelf. Two wire hangers on the rack. One plastic. Zero scorpions.
Creak. Creak.
Edge of carpet, curled up in the corner. Smell of decomp stronger.
Creak. Creak.
Glance back. Roman, out of sight. Damn it.
Closet again. Stomp.
Thoom.
The floorboards shuddered underfoot. Stomp the curled carpet in the back corner. No crunching or squishing sounds. Grab the carpet, yank it back.
The smell hit me so hard I had to cover my mouth and nose with the bend of my left elbow. A gap in the floorboards. Easy enough to slide to the side with my foot, exposing the dark area beneath the trailer and contained by the skirt.
I shined my light down there and the brown scorpions raced away, clicking and clacking.
Even though I had a good idea of what I would find, I was unprepared for what I saw.
“Christ...”
TWENTY-SIX
I heard a creaking sound behind me, spun around, and nearly shot Roman right in the chest.
He shielded his eyes from the flashlight beam and I read it on his face. He knew what I had found. There was no surprise or alarm, merely a blank expression that told me everything I needed to know. This was a man whose worst fears had just been realized.
“You knew about this but did nothing to stop it?”
Roman shook his head.
“I didn’t know. I just always suspected that there was something…wrong with him. Something broken inside of him that I couldn’t fix. I tried to be his father, tried to love him like a father is supposed to…”
“He led you to the scene of the first crime, didn’t he? No one had found it, so he led you there. His own father. He led you there so you could discover his work and report it.”