The Chicken Hanger

Chapter 22

155 TWENTY-TWO Warren was driving and talking on his cell. Or listening, mostly. “Yeah, he was pretty upset,” Ellen was saying. “I could see it in his face. But he said he understood. I think he was afraid you might come down here and kick his ass if he caused any trouble. It’s funny some of the things people have said about you. They think you’re like this tough-guy cowboy.” Warren was too distracted to respond. He’d decided to let the random circumstances of fate determine his course of action at Gandy’s ranch. If the gate was open, he’d drive up and have a talk with him. “You there?” Ellen said. “Yeah, sorry.” “Where are you?” “Just taking a drive. Getting some fresh air. I had to get out of the house.” If the gate was still closed, Warren would turn around, go home, and never think about Tomás Delgado again. Period. End of story. “Anyway, I’m glad to have it done with,” Ellen said. “I told him two weeks, but honestly, if it takes a little longer to find a replacement, I’m willing to stay another couple of weeks. I think that’s fair, don’t you?” “Definitely.” It was a smart plan, this gate thing, because, in a sense, he was putting the matter in God’s hands. God could open or close that gate—whichever He chose—before Warren got there. So the future was entirely up to Him. And you couldn’t go wrong by letting God make the decision, could you? “On the other hand, there’s so much to do,” Ellen said. “We have to find a place to live, Warren. We haven’t even talked about that yet. Not an apartment, okay? Or a duplex. Let’s just rent a house at first, then we can think about buying something.” “Yeah, that sounds good.” Then Warren remembered something he’d said just four days earlier: If he takes the next exit, we’ll pull him over. Talking about Herrera in the Ford van. Leaving it up to fate. That didn’t work out so well, did it? Well,that system would have to do,because Warren wasn’t far from the ranch entrance, and he didn’t trust his own judgment anymore. Sometimes he wondered if he was behaving in a rational manner. Why couldn’t he let this thing go? 156 Up ahead, still on the roadside, sat Clayton Dupree’s truck. “I’d better get going,” Ellen said. “The bell just rang.” “Okay, I’ll see you tonight.” “I love you, Warren. I’m excited by all this.” “I love you, too.” He hung up. As Warren passed Dupree’s truck, he noticed an orange abandoned-vehicle sticker on the driver’s-side window, slapped on by some highly efficient deputy. Which meant the owner had forty-eight hours to move it or the vehicle would be impounded. Odd that the truck was still there. Most abandoned vehicles were junkers, not nice trucks like this one. Why hadn’t Dupree fixed the flat, or at least towed the Ford to the ranch? Out here, on the highway, it was a sitting duck for vandals and thieves. Sooner or later, someone would throw a rock through the window and take anything of value. Warren kept driving. He realized he was holding his breath. Nervous. Palms sweating. Then, finally, the entrance to Gandy’s ranch came into view. Warren pulled in and stopped, then simply sat quietly for a few moments, staring through the windshield. The gate was closed. c Herschel was sitting on the deck, still dipping into the Crown Royal, getting pretty loose, and every now and then—this was weird—he’d catch himself wondering where Clayton was. Just for a split second, thinking, Where’s he run off to? Why is it so quiet around here? Then he’d feel horrible, he really would. All he wanted was somebody to talk to. He knew it was partially the whiskey making him mopey, but what kind of man shoots his best friend? He wished he hadn’t done it, no question. But Clayton hadn’t left him any options. He’d threatened to snitch. Now this damn lawsuit. Twenty-seven days to respond. He had his cell phone in his lap, preparing to call Brent Nielsen. Herschel was dreading that conversation, but it was unavoidable. Nielsen would have a cow...