Part 46 (1/2)

'Carla and her mother sued Billy Bob and his company for negligence. They lost. Carla's been after Billy Bob ever since. He's gotten restraining orders against her in four Texas counties. She apparently snuck onto his well sites trying to get incriminating evidence. Tom Dunn represented Billy Bob and the company in court, said she had a vendetta. Said she was mentally unstable.'

'You're a handsome little boy, aren't you? Yes, you are.'

Carla Kent made faces and baby talk to Nathan Jones Jr. wrapped up like a papoose in the crib on the other side of the gla.s.s. Book stood next to her.

'So, Professor, you want to make a baby?'

'Right now?'

'One day.'

He had always thought that he would be a father one day. Until he got the test results back. There would never be a John Bookman Jr. It didn't seem fair. But life was not fair. Not for Nathan Jones Jr. who would never know his father, or for Nathan Jones who would never know his son. Not for Nadine's sister. Or Book's father. Or his mother. Not for anyone.

'Wave to Aunt Carla.'

They stopped by Brenda Jones's room and told her what they had found and that as soon as they knew what it meant, she would know. She cried.

'I wish Nathan was here,' she said.

'I know you do,' Book said.

They then drove back to Marfa and had a late lunch at the Food Shark under the shed in downtown. They sat at a long picnic table where artists had gathered like moths to a flame, fitting since the Food Shark proprietor was himself an artist; his medium was old television sets, which he arranged in various patterns with an image on each screen.

'Kids need a dad,' Carla said. 'Especially boys.'

They did.

'At least he'll have his grandpa.'

At least.

'You still here?'

Book looked up to the mayor of Marfa. He wasn't smiling.

'I'm afraid so.'

'Well, I hope you're happy.'

'About what?'

'I lost a sale today. A New York couple-two boys-they backed out 'cause they heard about the murder, that we got a murderer running the streets of Marfa, killing h.o.m.os.e.xuals. Said other artists are worried they might be next, figure the locals are targeting them.'

'Well, look at the bright side, Mayor. If we find the killer, the New York Times might write another story about Marfa.'

His expression brightened.

'You really think so?'

Carla sat inside one of Donald Judd's concrete boxes at the old fort and dangled her legs.

'I love these things,' she said. 'My teepee is right over there'-El Cosmico occupied the adjacent tract-'so I come over here and contemplate life on concrete. You know they're big enough to see on Google Earth? Like G.o.d looking down on us. What was he thinking?'

'G.o.d?'

'Judd.'

They had driven out to the Chinati Foundation then walked over to the field where Judd had aligned sixty concrete boxes-each exactly 2.5 2.5 5 meters-into fifteen groupings. Carla climbed through the boxes like a kid on a playscape. A tomboy.

'If I was a boy, my dad was going to name me Clark. He always called me his Supergirl.'

'You miss him?'

'Every day. Hard on my mom. She lives with me.'

'You take care of her?'

'More like she takes care of me. She gave me my pa.s.sion. He made me tough. Taught me to fight boys-not as good as you-and to never back down. And to use guns. He said men respect a woman who carries a gun.'

She pondered her words a moment then pointed past Book.

'There's a tough man who carries a gun.'

Book turned and saw the sheriff standing in the parking lot between his cruiser and Carla's truck. He waved Book over.

'I'll wait here,' Carla said.

Book walked through the prairie gra.s.s and over to the sheriff. A Hispanic woman sat in the back seat of the cruiser.

He shook hands with the sheriff who nodded toward Carla and the concrete boxes.

'You figure her out?'

'I did.'

'Anything I need to know?'

'No.'

The sheriff grunted. 'Well, podna, there's something you need to know about her.' He opened the back door of the cruiser. 'This here's Lupe. She's the overnight maid at the Paisano. Lupe, this is the professor.'

Book said h.e.l.lo. She just smiled in response.

'She's a little shy around Anglos,' the sheriff said. 'Anyway, she remembered something about the truck that sped off the night your window got shot out.'

'It was maroon?'

'Uh, no.'