"You were going awfully fast coming over that hill by the church."
The young man glanced back, as if to remind himself that there'd been a hill.
"License and registration," Romero repeated.
"I'm sure I wasn't going more than the speed limit," the young man said. "It's forty there, isn't it?" He handed over his license and pulled the registration from a pouch on the sun visor above his head.
Romero read the name. "Luke Parsons."
"Yes, sir." The young man's voice was reedy, with a gentle politeness.
"P.O. Box 25, Dillon, New Mexico?" Romero asked.
"Yes, sir. That's about fifty miles north. Up past Espanola and Embudo and – "
"I know where Dillon is. What brings you down here?"
"Selling moss rocks at the roadside stand off the Interstate."
Romero nodded. The rocks in the back of the truck were valued locally for their use in landscaping. The lichen-like moss that speckled them turned pleasant muted colors after a rain. Hardscrabble vendors gathered them in the mountains and sold them, along with homemade bird houses, self-planed roof-support beams, firewood, and vegetables in season, at a clearing off a country road that paralleled the Interstate.
"Awful far from Dillon to be selling moss rocks," Romero said.
"Have to go where the customers are. Really, what's this all a – "
"You're selling after dark?"
" I wait until dusk in case folks coming out of Harry's Road House or the steak house farther along decide to stop and buy something. Then I go over to Harry's and get something to eat. Love his barbecued vegetables."
This wasn't how Romero had expected the conversation to go. He'd anticipated that the driver would look uneasy because he'd lost the game. But the young man's politeness was disarming.
"I want to talk to you about those shoes you threw out of the car. There's a heavy fine for – "
"Shoes?"
"You've been doing it for several days. I want to know why – "
"Officer, honestly, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
"The shoes I saw you throw onto the road."
"Believe me, whatever you saw happen, it wasn't me doing it. Why would I throw shoes on the road?"
The young man's blue eyes were direct, his candid look disarming. Damn it, Romero thought, I went after the wrong car.
Inwardly, he sighed.
He gave back the license and registration. "Sorry to bother you."
"No problem, Officer. I know you have to do your job."
"Going all the way back to Dillon tonight?"
"Yes, sir."
"As I said, it's a long way to travel to sell moss rocks."
"Well, we do what we have to do."
"That's for sure," Romero said. "Drive safely."
"I always do, Officer. Good night."
"Goodnight."
Romero drove back to the top of the hill, picked up the hiking shoes, and put them in the trunk of his car. It was about that time, a little before ten, that his son was killed.
He passed the crash site on the way home to Pecos. Seeing the flashing lights and the silhouettes of two ambulances and three police cars on the opposite section of the Interstate, grimacing at the twisted wrecks of two vehicles, he couldn't help thinking, poor bastards. God help them. But God didn't, and by the time Romero got home, the medical examiner was showing the state police the wallet that he'd taken from the mutilated body of what seemed to be a young Hispanic male.
Romero and his wife were arguing about his late hours when the phone rang.
"Answer it!" she yelled. "It's probably you're damned girlfriend."
"I keep telling you I don't have a – " The phone rang again. "Yeah, hello."
"Gabe? This is Ray Becker with the state police. Sit down, would you?"
As Romero listened, he felt a cold ball grow inside him. He had never felt so numb, not even when he'd been told about the deaths of his parents.
His wife saw his stunned look. "What is it?"
Trembling, he managed to overcome his numbness enough to tell her. She screamed. She never stopped screaming until she collapsed.
Two weeks later, after the funeral, after Romero's wife went to visit her sister in Denver, after Romero tried going back to work (his sergeant advised against it, but Romero knew he'd go crazy just sitting around home), the dispatcher sent him on a call that forced him to drive up Old Pecos Trail by the Baptist church. Bitterly, he remembered how fixated he had been on this spot not long ago. Instead of screwing around wondering about those shoes, I should have stayed home and paid attention to my son, he thought. Maybe I could have prevented what happened.
There weren't any shoes on the road.
There weren't any shoes on the road the next day or the day after that.
Romero's wife never came back from Denver.
"You have to get out more," his sergeant told him.
It was three months later, the middle Saturday of August. As a part of the impending divorce settlement and as a way of trying to stifle memories, Romero had sold the house in Pecos. With his share of the proceeds, he'd moved to Santa Fe and risked a down payment on a modest house in the El Dorado subdivision. It didn't make a difference. He still had the sense of carrying a weight on his back.
"I hope you're not talking about dating."
"I'm just saying, you can't stay holed up in this house all the time. You have to get out and do something. Distract yourself. While I think of it, you ought to be eating better. Look at the crap in this fridge. Stale milk, a twelve pack of beer, and some leftover Chicken McNuggets."
"Most of the time, I'm not hungry."
"With a fridge like this, I don't doubt it."
" I don't like cooking for myself."
"It's too much effort to make a salad? I tell you what. Saturdays, Maria and I go to the Farmers' Market. Tomorrow morning, you come with us. The vegetables don't come any fresher. Maybe if you had some decent food in this fridge, you'd – "
"What's wrong with me the Farmers' Market isn't going to cure."
"Hey, I'm knocking myself out trying to be a friend. The least you can do is humor me."
The Farmers' Market was near the old train station, past the tracks, in an open area the city had recently purchased, called the Rail Yard. Farmers drove their loaded pickups in and parked in spaces they'd been assigned. Some set up tables and put up awnings. Others just sold from the back of their trucks. There were taste samples of everything from pies to salsa. A bluegrass band played in a corner. Somebody dressed up as a clown wandered through the crowd.
"See, it's not so bad," the sergeant said.
Romero walked listlessly past stands of cider, herbal remedies, free-range chicken, and sunflower sprouts. In a detached way, he had to admit, "Yeah, not so bad." All the years he'd worked for the police department, he'd never been here – another example of how he'd let his life pass him by. But instead of motivating him to learn from his mistakes, his regret only made him more depressed.
"How about some of these little pies?" the sergeant's wife asked. "You can keep them in the freezer and heat one up when you feel like it. They're only one or two servings, so you won't have any leftovers."
"Sure," Romero said, not caring. "Why not?" His dejected gaze drifted over the crowd.
"What kind?"
"Excuse me?"
"What kind? Peach or butter pecan?"
"It doesn't matter. Choose some for me."
His gaze settled on a stand that offered religious icons made out of corn husks layered over carved wood: Madonnas, manger scenes, and crosses. The skillfully formed images were painted and covered with a protective layer of varnish. It was a traditional Hispanic folk art, but what caught Romero's attention wasn't the attractiveness of the images but rather that an Anglo instead of an Hispanic was selling them as if he'd made them.