was today, with the jets taking off to the south, the opposite direction from the graveyard, out of nearby Dallas/Fort Worth airport. Still, Del couldnât help but wonder if the man didnât deserve better.
The answer came to him harshly. Of course he did; he deserved to still be alive.
Del dug his fists into eyes gritty from lack of sleep and the dust blowing in from West Texas on an arid wind. His chest ached as if something was missing inside him.
As if his soul was gone.
Waiting in the negligible shade of a scrub mesquite on a knoll some hundred yards from the gravesite, he scanned the assemblage of mourners again, still not finding whatâwhoâhe was looking for.
Vultures, mostly, had turned out for the service. Reporters. The investigation into exactly what happened at the warehouse was still ongoing. But no connection between Garcia and the gunmen or the confiscated weapons had been found. Word that an innocent man had been shot by one of the legendary Texas Rangersâespecially word that an innocent Hispanic man had been shot by a Caucasian Texas Rangerâhad the press on a witch-hunt.
Unfortunately, Del was the witch.
They were the reason he watched from up here, instead of bowing his head before the preacher. Lay low, Bull had told him. Let this blow over.
At the time heâd thought Captain Matheson meant a day or two, until the inspectors from the Department of Public Safetyâthe state agency that oversaw the Rangersâfinished grilling him about the incident and declared Garciaâs death a tragic but unavoidable accident. But five days had passed since the shooting. The medical examiner had released the body after performing a full autopsy, and still the DPS inspectors hadnât made any ruling. The furor showed no signs of dying down any time soon.
It didnât matter. Let the system work its course, he told himself. He could pay his respects to Garcia later, after the press left. It wasnât as if the man was going anywhere.
What mattered today was that she wasnât down there, either. Amazon woman. The lady whose cries echoed in his mind a thousand times a night, robbed him of his sleep. The one heâd come to see.
There had been no question who had fired the shot that killed Garcia. Del was the only one carrying a shotgun. Within minutes of finding Garcia, Bull had ordered Del away from the crime scene, and rightly so. The deathof a civilianâan innocent manâdemanded an unbiased investigation. Del hadnât had the chance to talk to the mystery woman with the dark chocolate eyes. He needed to know more about her. What Garcia had been to her. What Del had taken from her. He needed to know.
He scanned the crowd huddled around the grave once again, skipping over the media with their tripods and film-at-ten television cameras, looking for her.
Why hadnât she come?
Disappointed, he supposed the reporters had kept her away, too. So far, the press hadnât caught on to the fact that Garcia had been involved with a woman. Del hoped it stayed that way. She would be going through enough right now without the press hounding her.
On the plain below, those surrounding the grave, even most of the reporters, lowered their heads in prayer. This far away, Del couldnât hear the words. He didnât need to; he knew them all to well.
Yea, tho I walk through the valley of the shadow of deathâ¦
Heâd been walking through a valley of his own since the shooting. Five days of reliving the same two-second slice of life over and over.
He crouches behind the car. Windows break in the warehouse across from him. Hayes is on the move, sprinting across the road. Inside the warehouse he sees the figure of a man through a window. The man raises a rifle, tracking Hayes.
Del stands. Fires two rounds from the shotgun.
And then hears the womanâs anguished cry, again and again.
Del canât remember ever seeing the hostage. But the windows
The answer came to him harshly. Of course he did; he deserved to still be alive.
Del dug his fists into eyes gritty from lack of sleep and the dust blowing in from West Texas on an arid wind. His chest ached as if something was missing inside him.
As if his soul was gone.
Waiting in the negligible shade of a scrub mesquite on a knoll some hundred yards from the gravesite, he scanned the assemblage of mourners again, still not finding whatâwhoâhe was looking for.
Vultures, mostly, had turned out for the service. Reporters. The investigation into exactly what happened at the warehouse was still ongoing. But no connection between Garcia and the gunmen or the confiscated weapons had been found. Word that an innocent man had been shot by one of the legendary Texas Rangersâespecially word that an innocent Hispanic man had been shot by a Caucasian Texas Rangerâhad the press on a witch-hunt.
Unfortunately, Del was the witch.
They were the reason he watched from up here, instead of bowing his head before the preacher. Lay low, Bull had told him. Let this blow over.
At the time heâd thought Captain Matheson meant a day or two, until the inspectors from the Department of Public Safetyâthe state agency that oversaw the Rangersâfinished grilling him about the incident and declared Garciaâs death a tragic but unavoidable accident. But five days had passed since the shooting. The medical examiner had released the body after performing a full autopsy, and still the DPS inspectors hadnât made any ruling. The furor showed no signs of dying down any time soon.
It didnât matter. Let the system work its course, he told himself. He could pay his respects to Garcia later, after the press left. It wasnât as if the man was going anywhere.
What mattered today was that she wasnât down there, either. Amazon woman. The lady whose cries echoed in his mind a thousand times a night, robbed him of his sleep. The one heâd come to see.
There had been no question who had fired the shot that killed Garcia. Del was the only one carrying a shotgun. Within minutes of finding Garcia, Bull had ordered Del away from the crime scene, and rightly so. The deathof a civilianâan innocent manâdemanded an unbiased investigation. Del hadnât had the chance to talk to the mystery woman with the dark chocolate eyes. He needed to know more about her. What Garcia had been to her. What Del had taken from her. He needed to know.
He scanned the crowd huddled around the grave once again, skipping over the media with their tripods and film-at-ten television cameras, looking for her.
Why hadnât she come?
Disappointed, he supposed the reporters had kept her away, too. So far, the press hadnât caught on to the fact that Garcia had been involved with a woman. Del hoped it stayed that way. She would be going through enough right now without the press hounding her.
On the plain below, those surrounding the grave, even most of the reporters, lowered their heads in prayer. This far away, Del couldnât hear the words. He didnât need to; he knew them all to well.
Yea, tho I walk through the valley of the shadow of deathâ¦
Heâd been walking through a valley of his own since the shooting. Five days of reliving the same two-second slice of life over and over.
He crouches behind the car. Windows break in the warehouse across from him. Hayes is on the move, sprinting across the road. Inside the warehouse he sees the figure of a man through a window. The man raises a rifle, tracking Hayes.
Del stands. Fires two rounds from the shotgun.
And then hears the womanâs anguished cry, again and again.
Del canât remember ever seeing the hostage. But the windows
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