Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2) - James Patterson Page 0,11
I’m driving across Texas as we speak.
“They shouldn’t have you back on duty this fast,” she says.
I don’t tell her that Kyle is punishing me.
“It will be fine,” I say. “Besides, I need to get out of town for a while before everyone I know gives me shit about being in your song.”
“I’m serious, Rory. Do you think you’re ready to be back on duty?”
“It’s a little town in the middle of nowhere,” I say. “How dangerous could it be?”
Chapter 11
I FIND MYSELF driving on back roads that twist through the rolling hills. I go for miles without seeing another car—just sagebrush and the occasional fenced-off pump jack levering up and down, pulling oil out of the earth. Off to my left is a narrow oasis dotted with big cottonwood trees and shrubs. That’s the route of the namesake of the town, the Rio Lobo, I assume. I can’t see the river, but in these parts, a waterway would be the only explanation for a meandering ribbon of lush vegetation.
Around six o’clock in the evening, the road and the river converge at a little town probably no bigger than a few square miles. I drive clear through and out the other side before I realize I’ve seen the whole thing. There are two stoplights.
I circle back and take a second tour up and down the main roadway. The architecture is a mix of old brick with a distinct Spanish influence (picture the Alamo Mission) and New Mexico–style adobe. The houses are mostly single-story, with shallow roofs and sometimes colorfully painted walls.
I pass by the school, which likely contains every grade—K through twelve. Behind the school are a baseball diamond and a football stadium that don’t look half bad for a town this small. A fenced-in lot holds several school buses, which rural kids probably ride more than two hours a day.
A handful of businesses includes a small grocery store and only a few restaurants. One is called Good Gravy and looks like your typical Texas greasy spoon. A Taste of Texas seems a little nicer. I also see a Tex-Mex place named Rosalia’s. I pass a well-kept bar called Lobo Lizard. The type of place a town dignitary—or what counts for one here—could enjoy a beer alongside a day laborer or a field worker.
There’s a motel with an empty parking lot and a lit-up VACANCY sign with a couple of letters burned out. A tiny adobe post office stands next to a gas station with a mechanic’s garage. I spot a couple of churches, both built in the Spanish style of the early settlers. A pharmacy—a little mom-and-pop place, not a chain—stands next to a small medical center with twenty-four-hour urgent care. The public library is located next to a park with some new-looking playground equipment. I spot a newspaper, the Rio Lobo Record, housed in one of the bigger buildings in town.
I see a McDonald’s, of course, but otherwise the branded world seems to have left the little town alone. The one exception is banks. I count at least five: Wells Fargo, BBVA Compass, Prosperity, PlainsCapital, and Rio Grande Bank and Trust, where Willow and I share an account. There might be more banks than restaurants, which seems odd for a town this size.
Rio Lobo is small, but it’s clean and well maintained. I spot instances of graffiti on fences but no abandoned eyesores. No vacant lots. The occasional man-made arroyo splits off from the river corridor, feeding irrigation throughout the community. The canals are lined with well-worn dirt walking trails. There are plenty of trees, and the lawns are green. For whatever reason—probably oil—Rio Lobo doesn’t seem as cash-strapped as the typical small Texas town.
It’s easy to find the police station, which isn’t much bigger than my two-bedroom house. It shares a gravel parking lot with other municipal buildings: a community center, a senior center, the volunteer fire department.
I pull into the surprisingly busy parking lot. People are filing out of the community center, heading toward their cars. Some of them are dressed up with button-down shirts and bolo ties and sport jackets. A man wearing a tan police uniform with a pistol on one hip and a radio on the other spots me right away and walks over. He probably knows every vehicle in town—and that my truck isn’t from around here.
“I’m John Grady Harris,” he says. “Police chief.”
I open my mouth to introduce myself, but he interrupts me.