Free Rain Gods by James Lee Burke

the inside of the house in a way that reminded him of his own home after his wife had died, as though a terrible theft had just occurred for which there was no redress except silence. He walked deeper into the house, his boots loud on the plank floors. A half-eaten cheese sandwich lay on a plate on top of the kitchen table. Dry crumbs were scattered on the plate. A faucet dripped into an unwashed pan in the sink. A garbage sack, double-bagged and taped, rested on the back screen porch, as though someone had planned to carry it down to the Dumpster on the road or to bury it and had been interrupted.
     
    The medicine cabinet and the bedroom closet were empty, coat hangers strewn on the floor. The toilet paper had been removed from the spindle. Hackberry looked through the front screen and saw a small Hispanic boy on a bicycle in the yard. The boy was not more than ten or eleven, and he was staring at the pump shotgun affixed to the cruiser’s dashboard. The bicycle the boy rode was old and had fat tires and was too big for a boy his size.
     
    “You know where Pete Flores is?” Hackberry asked, stepping out on the gallery.
     
    “He ain’t home?” the boy said.
     
    “Afraid not.”
     
    The boy didn’t speak. He got back on the bike, his face empty.
     
    “I’m Sheriff Holland. Pete’s helping me with a little matter. Do you know where he might be?”
     
    “No, sir. Miss Vikki ain’t home, either?”
     
    “No, nobody is here right now.”
     
    “Then how come you’re in their house?”
     
    Hackberry sat down on the steps and removed his hat. He straightened the felt in the crown. He lifted his face into the sunlight that was breaking over the hill. “What’s your name?”
     
    “Bernabe Segura.”
     
    “Pete might be in some trouble, Bernabe. What’s Miss Vikki’s last name?”
     
    “Gaddis.”
     
    “Do you know where I could find her?”
     
    The little boy’s face was clouded, as though he were looking at an image buried behind his eyes.
     
    “Are you listening, Bernabe?”
     
    “There were some men here last night. They had flashlights. They went inside the house.”
     
    “So you came here to check on Pete?”
     
    “We were gonna hunt for arrowheads today.”
     
    “You shouldn’t have come here by yourself. Where’s your father?”
     
    “I don’t have one.” Bernabe tapped on his handlebars. “Pete give me this bike.”
     
    “Where can I find Miss Vikki, Bernabe?”
     
     
    JUNIOR VOGEL LEANED on the counter. “I knew it,” he said.
     
    “Knew what?” Hackberry said.
     
    Junior picked up a towel from the counter, wiped his hands with it, and threw it in the direction of a yellow plastic container filled with soiled towels and aprons. “It’s that damn kid she’s been mixed up with. Pete Flores. What’d he do?”
     
    “Nothing I know of. We just need some information from him.”
     
    “Who you kidding? When that boy isn’t drunk, he’s hungover. I knew she was in trouble when she left the diner. I should have done something about it.”
     
    “I’m not sure I follow you.”
     
    “She came in for her check. But two or three things were going on at the same time. Like a bad omen or something. I don’t know how to put it. A guy wanted to buy milk for his baby. Then a couple of guys in a Trans Am started coming on to her. I didn’t sort it out at the time.”
     
    Pam Tibbs looked at the side of Hackberry’s face, then at Junior and back at Hackberry. “We don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, sir. Can you take the pralines out of your mouth?” she said.
     
    “This guy said he was staying at the Super 8 and needed milk for his three-month-old baby girl. I asked him why he didn’t go to the convenience store. He said it was after eleven and the store was closed. So I got him a half-gallon out of my refrigerator and told him to give me two bucks for it. But he didn’t have the two bucks. How can a guy be out looking for milk and driving across Texas with his family when he doesn’t even have two bucks in his