The Dead Run Read Online Free Page A
Author: Adam Mansbach
the sheriff wouldnât have been elected mostly because heâd quarterbacked the high school football team to a state championship twenty-six years earlier.
A couple of Gulf War medals, a degree in communication from Arizona State, and a semi-successful stint selling insurance wouldnât have sufficed as qualifications in a real department. Especially not one charged with patrolling a massive no-manâs-land at a time when immigration and terrorism were the biggest issues in the entire country. Whenever Nichols saw politicians on TV, talking tough about that stuff, he wanted to laugh. Either that or invite them all down to Del Verde for a few weeks to see how things really were.
It wasnât fair to say the job had cost him his marriage, though a casual observer might have pointed out that the two had only overlapped by a few months. More accurate would be to say that Nichols wouldnât have run for office if things had been hunky-dory on the home front, and more accurate still would be to marvel at the fact that he and Kat had kept at it for as long as they had. The quarterback and the head cheerleaderâit didnât get any cornier than that, even if Kat was also the editor of the newspaper and the valedictorian. Sheâd stayed with him through three deployments, allowed herself to be swayed by Nicholsâs argument that it made no sense to start a family until he got his life back, that he didnât want to leave her alone with a baby any more than he wanted to miss the kidâs first words or come home to a toddler who barely recognized his face. It made sense; she saw it, too. And they were young. They had plenty of time.
Six years later, Nichols was a civilian again. Let the baby-making begin.
The first few months of trying were fun. The next six were all timing and thermometers, dashed optimism and creeping doubts. Then came the doctors, the fertility clinics. The fifteen grand, borrowed from Katâs old man, for in vitro fertilization. And the fifteen grand they couldnât afford to try again.
Then came the bitterness, vague and sharp at once. The talk of adoption, trailing off when it became clear that neither of their hearts was in it. The guilt over that. The glacial drift apart: an inch a day, every day, until they could only hear each other if they shouted. The fights, the coupleâs counseling, the unspoken abandonment of hope, the run for sheriff. Kat was living with a woman now, in Austin. He sure as hell hadnât seen that coming. They sent each other Christmas cards and birthday e-mails, kept things nice and cordial.
Nichols reached the mile marker at noon on the dot, the hottest minute of a scorching day. Heâd sweated through his uniform, dark circles under both arms and a wet patch at the small of his back. As if the Mexicans gave a shit what he looked like. But vanity was a hard thing to put down, even if you werenât so pretty anymore.
Still prettier than most, though, he told himself. And not in bad shape, either, considering the crap diet and the fact that I only make it to the gym a half a dozen times a year. I bet I could still throw for sixty if I had to. How many goddamn sheriffs can say that?
He pulled off the road, rambled the cruiser toward the two Mexican police cars parked a hundred feet away. Dust kicked up around him. The second you pulled off the asphalt, you were in the wilderness. Darting lizards, cacti, the whole nine.
Fuentes turned and nodded. He was a stocky guy with salt-and-pepper hair, a little bit of a paunch. Always seemed to have a toothpick in his mouth and a couple of fingers on the toothpick. His three deputies were all taller than he, Fuentes short even by Mexican standards. Nichols towered over them all.
âWhat have we got?â he said by way of greeting. The cops stepped aside to give him a look.
In a real department, the sight and smell wouldnât have made the sheriffâs stomach turn. Or hell,
A couple of Gulf War medals, a degree in communication from Arizona State, and a semi-successful stint selling insurance wouldnât have sufficed as qualifications in a real department. Especially not one charged with patrolling a massive no-manâs-land at a time when immigration and terrorism were the biggest issues in the entire country. Whenever Nichols saw politicians on TV, talking tough about that stuff, he wanted to laugh. Either that or invite them all down to Del Verde for a few weeks to see how things really were.
It wasnât fair to say the job had cost him his marriage, though a casual observer might have pointed out that the two had only overlapped by a few months. More accurate would be to say that Nichols wouldnât have run for office if things had been hunky-dory on the home front, and more accurate still would be to marvel at the fact that he and Kat had kept at it for as long as they had. The quarterback and the head cheerleaderâit didnât get any cornier than that, even if Kat was also the editor of the newspaper and the valedictorian. Sheâd stayed with him through three deployments, allowed herself to be swayed by Nicholsâs argument that it made no sense to start a family until he got his life back, that he didnât want to leave her alone with a baby any more than he wanted to miss the kidâs first words or come home to a toddler who barely recognized his face. It made sense; she saw it, too. And they were young. They had plenty of time.
Six years later, Nichols was a civilian again. Let the baby-making begin.
The first few months of trying were fun. The next six were all timing and thermometers, dashed optimism and creeping doubts. Then came the doctors, the fertility clinics. The fifteen grand, borrowed from Katâs old man, for in vitro fertilization. And the fifteen grand they couldnât afford to try again.
Then came the bitterness, vague and sharp at once. The talk of adoption, trailing off when it became clear that neither of their hearts was in it. The guilt over that. The glacial drift apart: an inch a day, every day, until they could only hear each other if they shouted. The fights, the coupleâs counseling, the unspoken abandonment of hope, the run for sheriff. Kat was living with a woman now, in Austin. He sure as hell hadnât seen that coming. They sent each other Christmas cards and birthday e-mails, kept things nice and cordial.
Nichols reached the mile marker at noon on the dot, the hottest minute of a scorching day. Heâd sweated through his uniform, dark circles under both arms and a wet patch at the small of his back. As if the Mexicans gave a shit what he looked like. But vanity was a hard thing to put down, even if you werenât so pretty anymore.
Still prettier than most, though, he told himself. And not in bad shape, either, considering the crap diet and the fact that I only make it to the gym a half a dozen times a year. I bet I could still throw for sixty if I had to. How many goddamn sheriffs can say that?
He pulled off the road, rambled the cruiser toward the two Mexican police cars parked a hundred feet away. Dust kicked up around him. The second you pulled off the asphalt, you were in the wilderness. Darting lizards, cacti, the whole nine.
Fuentes turned and nodded. He was a stocky guy with salt-and-pepper hair, a little bit of a paunch. Always seemed to have a toothpick in his mouth and a couple of fingers on the toothpick. His three deputies were all taller than he, Fuentes short even by Mexican standards. Nichols towered over them all.
âWhat have we got?â he said by way of greeting. The cops stepped aside to give him a look.
In a real department, the sight and smell wouldnât have made the sheriffâs stomach turn. Or hell,
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