For a moment he wasn’t sure if he’d said the words out loud, he was so used to being alone and not talking. The conversation was already the longest he’d had with anyone in nearly three months. At least he thought it was three. He wasn’t too sure about that, either.
Nunn lowered the rifle. He sat down on the wooden trough and stared at the dirt. He didn’t look surprised. “Was it Rodriguez?” He rubbed his hand back and forth across his mustache. “Or Manley? I bet it was Manley.”
“It wasn’t Manley.”
“Parker, then. He always hated my guts.”
“It wasn’t any of those guys,” said Hawley. “I’ve got a list, that’s all. And you’re on it.” He could smell it now, the air from his old land. Full of carbon monoxide and clouds of chemicals. The smell of burning things never meant to be burned.
“King,” said Nunn. “He on your list?”
“He’s in prison.”
“Somebody sold him out, I heard.” Nunn touched his mustache again. He seemed more thoughtful than frightened, as if he’d been waiting for something like this to happen. “Well, anyway. I was right, you know. They can talk.”
“Who’s that?”
“The prairie dogs,” Nunn said. “A scientist came out here from the University of Oklahoma to count the population. Helped them get off the endangered species list. He paid me to study the dogs and the noises they make. They have words and grammar and everything. A whole language.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Hawley asked.
“It’s just that I thought I was losing it. When I got this dead land. I used to go up on that ridge and listen to them talking and think about blowing my brains out. But they were saying something, after all. It felt good to be right about that. They’re actually quite intelligent.”
In the distance, Hawley could hear Mike and Ike pulling off their shots. And then he heard a phone ringing, from inside the trailer. The phone rang and rang. Hawley waited to see if Nunn would go answer it, but the man stayed where he was.
“Why use them for target practice, then?”
“I got to shoot something,” said Nunn.
The screen door opened and the girl came outside. She’d ditched the bathrobe, but was still wearing the shorts and football jersey. The orange hunting cap was pulled tight around her face. She was wearing flip-flops with daisies on them, her green toenails flashing beneath the flowers with each step.
“Phone,” she said.
“Right,” said Nunn. To Hawley he said, “Wait.” Then he stepped on the trough and into the trailer.
Overhead the sky was starting to pink, the sun slipping behind the mountains. In the distance Mike and Ike whooped, and the guts of another prairie dog blew across the ground.
“He’s a little old for you,” Hawley said.
The girl shrugged and pulled at her hunting cap.
“Why don’t you get out of here.”
“I’ve got a deal with him,” said the girl.
“Whatever it was it doesn’t matter anymore,” said Hawley. And he showed her the Magnum.
The girl looked at him and then she looked at the gun and then she opened the door to the SUV and got in. She turned the ignition. She rolled down the window.
“He’s got a custom Weatherby in there. Semiautomatic, with a laser.”
“Jesus,” said Hawley. “Thanks.”
“Wait until I’m on the road,” she said. Then she pulled the hunting cap off, and her hair came down, and it was green, too, just like her toenails. And even though her lips were chapped when she smiled at Hawley, it was the nicest thing that had happened to him in a long time.
Then she threw the SUV in gear and drove off.
Hawley knew that Nunn was inside watching him. Probably already had the semiautomatic trained on his back. He took the gun he’d shown the girl and tucked it into his jeans. Then he walked toward the screened door and knocked.
“Are you really fucking knocking?” Nunn called out.
“I guess so,” said Hawley, and then he went inside. The place was small and cramped but surprisingly tidy. The bed at the back was covered with a quilt, and the miniature kitchen had a propane stove and a row of mugs hanging from a rack. In the corner was a table piled high with old country records—Lefty Frizzell and Kitty Wells—and a record player, the portable kind that came in a suitcase. There were four clocks, one on each wall, all set to the same time. Two Hawley recognized from the great house: a face with Roman numerals instead of numbers, and a Kit-Cat clock next to the door, the eyes clicking back and forth.
Nunn was standing by the stove, holding the Weatherby, and it was just as the girl said, a beautiful weapon with a laser and a scope that looked like something out of the movies.
“Take it easy,” said Hawley.
“Give me that gun and I will.”
Hawley turned around and Nunn put the Weatherby right between his shoulders. Then Nunn pulled the Magnum from the back of Hawley’s jeans. He opened the gun and took out the bullets and put both onto the counter behind him. He motioned to the bed and Hawley sat down on it.
“Right,” said Nunn. “Now what happens?”
“You try to change my mind,” said Hawley.
“About what?”
“About killing you.”
Nunn rolled his lips, so that his mustache moved forward and back underneath his nose, like it was itching him but he couldn’t take his hands off the gun to scratch it. “I thought you’d gone off and married some girl.”
For a moment Hawley just sat there. But his feelings were as straight as a line. He was not surprised that Frederick Nunn would know about Lily. Hearing this only made him more certain of the job he needed to do. In October, his daughter was going to be three years old. Three short years of being alive in the world.
“You said this was a job,” said Nunn. “But I think it’s something else.”
“My wife is dead.”
“So that’s it.” Nunn lowered the gun and put it across his lap. “You’re looking for a way out. Someone to off you? Is that it?”
Hawley wondered if Nunn was right. He closed his eyes and tried to listen, to dig the truth out of himself, but his body was numb. “I’ve got some errands to run first.”
The door to the trailer opened. The man with the leather-fringe vest poked his head inside, his rifle slung across his shoulder. “We’re outta beer.”
Hawley couldn’t remember if it was Mike or Ike.
“Whoah, brah,” the man said, eyeing the Weatherby. “Nice scope.”
“We were just talking about prairie dogs,” said Nunn.
The man blinked once. Twice. Then grinned. “Oh, shit. Don’t get this guy started.” He stumbled inside and opened the small fridge. He pulled out a six-pack. Hawley could smell the alcohol coming off his skin, a sickly-sweet odor that reminded him of his mother, before she switched to vodka and moved to Phoenix and drank herself to death.
“Getting dark out there,” said Hawley.
“Won’t stop us. Besides,” the man said, “you can hear the little fuckers.” He put down the six-pack and picked up Hawley’s .357 from the counter. “Nice.” He opened the cylinder. “Old school.”
“Take it,” said Hawley.
“You serious?”
“I’ve got another one just like it.”
Nunn shifted the Weatherby in his arms. “Better say thanks, Mike, or he’ll hold it against you.”
“Shit, thanks, brah.”