The Chicken Hanger

Chapter 16

114 SIXTEEN Dupree. That was the man’s last name. Clayton Dupree.Warren had it now. He hadn’t thought to ask last night, but now it came to him as he sat watching the Longhorns play Nebraska, because there was a cornerback with that name. Warren couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched a University of Texas game, because he’d always been out in the field on Saturdays. When he went back to Hebbronville, he’d have a more regular schedule. Weekends off. Nights, too, because that’s what he’d told Ray Ortega. Not asked, told. No evening patrol. Ray had said yeah, no problem. When can you start? Once they clear me in the shooting, he’d told Ray, I’ll give notice. Now that Warren had made up his mind for sure, and given voice to his intentions, it was like having a three-inch splinter removed from his brain. He could think clearly. He could breathe. He’d slept like a baby last night, after he and Ellen had fooled around for the first time in six weeks, making that connection again, enjoying the closeness, the talking afterward, the giggling, like the early years. Wearing each other out, him on top first, then her. “Jesus, that was great, but what have you done with my husband?” she’d asked afterward, her face flushed, sweat beaded on her forehead. It made him understand that life didn’t have to be complicated. He didn’t have to pick sides or decide what’s right or wrong. All he had to do, when he got back home to Hebbronville, was bust speeders and assist accident victims and maybe keep the occasional stray cow off the highway. That was enough, wasn’t it? He didn’t have to save the country. Or choose not to save it. But it was hard for Warren to quit thinking about Dupree. Last night, the man wouldn’t open up. Warren had said he was looking into the shooting of an illegal alien, and Dupree said, “I got no idea what you’re talking about.” Standing there in the aisles of Home Depot, lying his ass off. Warren could see his face tighten up, could hear the slight tremor in his voice. “Who works the ranch nowadays?”Warren asked him.“Just you and Gandy?” “Yes, sir.” “Any hunters out there this week? Getting ready for the season?” There was a pause. Warren could almost hear the gears spinning. Dupree was wanting to say yeah, there were a bunch of hunters out there—but then he’d have to come up with a list of names. And phone numbers. And Warren would 115 call them. So Dupree said,“No, but we get poachers sometimes. Check with the warden. He’ll tell you.” Shifting the blame. Pointing the finger elsewhere. So typical. “You hear any shots on Wednesday evening?” “I hear shots almost every day, people shooting at coyotes or hogs or sighting in their rifles.” An attractive middle-aged woman in a velveteen jogging suit was coming down the aisle slowly with a cart, scanning the shelves. “But did you hear any on Wednesday evening?” “I can’t remember. Maybe.” “Where were you?” “When?” Warren was starting to lose his temper. “We’re talking about Wednesday evening, aren’t we?” Clayton Dupree had the air of a tough guy, an authentic cowboy, all weathered skin and wiry muscle, but he was plainly intimidated. “Okay, take it easy. You weren’t clear. I guess I was hanging around the ranch, because this is my first time in town since last weekend.” “Where was Gandy?” The woman had gotten closer with her cart, and she had one hand on a roll of chicken wire, but she was looking around for a sales associate. Dupree started to say something, but seemed to change his mind.Then, in a lower voice, he said, “Look, I don’t know where you’re headed with this, but I can’t help you. I don’t know anything about it, and neither does Herschel.” “How do you know?” “How do I know what?” “Whether Herschel knows anything. Were you with him on Wednesday evening?” Dupree shook his head slowly and let out an exasperated sigh, like, The nerve of this guy. “Man ... I got nothing else to say.” “Excuse me.” It was the woman, suddenly at Warren’s elbow, smiling. “Do either of you know anything about chicken...