Broken Promise: A Solomon Creed Novella

Broken Promise: A Solomon Creed Novella Simon Toyne One secret could destroy a family. One lie could save them.The brilliant prequel to The Boy Who Saw, a gripping thriller from Sunday Times bestseller Simon Toyne, featuring the enigmatic Solomon Creed.A strangerSolomon Creed is an outsider with an unknown past, travelling through a remote part of Texas. He doesn’t look for trouble – but trouble finds him.A familyAt a roadside diner, he runs into a worn-down family whose ancestral land and home is about to be auctioned. But when Solomon suspects it’s worth a lot more than they think he decides to take things into his own hands.A secretAs Solomon races to find hard evidence of the land’s true value, he uncovers a dark truth – hidden for generations – that changes everything. But how far is he willing to go to save a family from potential ruin? And how far will others go to stop him? BROKEN PROMISE FEATURING SOLOMON CREED Simon Toyne This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018 Copyright © Simon Toyne 2018 Simon Toyne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018 Cover photographs: A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books Ebook Edition © JUNE 2017 ISBN: 9780008300807 Version 2018-03-07 This is for my readers. Without you I’m just a crazy person sitting alone in a room. Table of Contents Cover (#ubbd8e3fb-297c-5d86-9361-fad280c39284) Title Page (#u29ff788f-e7af-5012-878a-8ed30ecdff04) Copyright (#u7de10927-53a3-5c15-9310-3a637ceaef34) Dedication (#u5dd17db8-19d7-5d7c-95e3-6ace0755ffe6) Chapter 1 (#u960d07c4-075d-5556-8e72-7cae649b7b94) Chapter 2 (#u619541de-4455-52a3-b382-5511c7120400) Chapter 3 (#uf63da2cb-84ea-5862-8f8b-087fe064ee6d) Chapter 4 (#u01bedf83-6de6-57a4-a151-1adf0f6eaaf7) Chapter 5 (#uf2ed79c9-cd83-5cae-a71b-ffd2cf33e0a8) Chapter 6 (#ud6598605-0f94-58fe-8322-711d296facc4) Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) AUTHOR’S NOTE (#litres_trial_promo) If you enjoyed Broken Promise, read on for an exclusive extract from the next Solomon Creed thriller: (#litres_trial_promo) KEEP READING… (#litres_trial_promo) How can he save a man who is already dead? (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Simon Toyne (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 (#udc2541d1-5572-5a87-833a-fff5dccd83bc) Solomon Creed walked east, away from Arizona and all the complications that spilt blood tends to bring. He kept to the minor roads and travelled mostly at night, dodging the traffic and the sledgehammer sun, sipping water from a plastic gallon jug he’d found crumpled in a roadside ditch outside Bisbee. He tipped it up now and drank the blood-warm water until the jug was empty. He could fill it again at the next gas station, or diner, or truck stop. Water was not a problem. You could pick up water for free if you stuck to the roads. But not food. Food you had to pay for, or take what you could find, baked and rancid by the side of the road. On day one it had been a cottontail that had been clipped by a car then limped off to die in the shade of an ephedra bush. He’d skinned and gutted it using the jagged edge of a broken beer bottle then roasted it over a small fire coaxed from mesquite straw using the same bottle and the sun’s fierce rays. Day two was a rattlesnake he’d disturbed in a storm drain while taking shelter from the rising heat. It had struck from the shadows, the rattle coming at the same time as the fangs. Solomon had felt the minute shift in air pressure and twitched out of the way, catching it behind the head, grabbing its tail then cracking it like a bullwhip, so sharp that it snapped the head clean off. He had drunk its blood, the bitter warmth soaking life back into his tired muscles, then gutted it and chewed slowly on its cooling flesh. He had a fleeting memory of doing something similar in a different desert, but like most memories regarding himself, it was gone before he could catch a hold of it. He had sat cross-legged, in the dusty dark, licking snake blood from his fingers and sucking the warm, viscous contents of the leathery eggs the mother had been laying. That had been thirty-six hours ago now. The only things that had passed his lips since were air and water so hot from the jug you could brew tea with it. But there was something up ahead, something carried on the wind and getting stronger with each step he took. It was the smell of hot grease and salt, fried potatoes and ham, eggs and coffee, and his stomach rumbled in response whenever the wind shifted. He had smelled similar at every greasy-windowed truck stop he’d passed along the way and had always got no further than the parking lot, the need to catch another ride and put distance between himself and Arizona stronger than his hunger. But Arizona was four days, hundreds of miles and a state and a half behind him now. And his legs ached and his stomach growled and the thought of another road-kill meal washed down with plastic-tasting water made him feel sick to his empty stomach. The problem was no longer urgency, it was economic. Because a sit-down meal with seasoning and sauces, and iced-water on the side, would cost money and the only coin he had to his name was a single, worn-down quarter he’d found by a city limits sign a hundred miles or more back. He reached into the pocket of the pale suit jacket he wore and palmed the quarter, rolling it over his knuckles as smoothly as he rolled the problem of his poverty over and over in his mind until he saw a skinny tower rise up ahead on the eastbound side of the I-10. Red neon letters burned on the side spelling out‘BOBBY D’s EATS’,and an arrow buzzed below it, pointing down to a one-storey building surrounded by dusty cars and big rigs. Solomon left the highway and walked through lines of trucks with confederate flags and the silhouettes of pneumatic women on their mud-flaps. He passed a boarded-up gas station with decommissioned pumps and a printed sheet of paper taped to the door announcing that the place was due to be sold at auction on July 21st along with some land. He had no idea what day it was but the diner was still open and cooking food, which was all that mattered to him right now. He dropped the empty gallon jug by the door and stepped inside. A bell tinkled above his head and a couple of sets of eyes peered up beneath the brims of battered caps before returning to their plates of food, finding their steaks and ribs more interesting than the tall, dusty dude who had just blown in. There were maybe fifteen guys spread out in a place that could easily seat eighty. Not exactly busy but busy enough for what Solomon had in mind. He took in the room, his senses overwhelmed after so long spent outside on wide, empty roads. Booths lined three of the walls and a long counter stretched along the fourth, ending at a dusty display cabinet displaying Indian beads, souvenir caps and T-shirts with the slogan ‘A gift from Broken Promise, Texas’ stitched across them. A sun-faded photograph hung above it showing Native American symbols – eagles and moons, stick horses and arrows – carved into the rough ochre walls of what looked like a cave. People were reading newspapers or chatting in groups. No one was looking at their phones. A sign by the cash register explained why. ‘We don’t got free Internet so don’t ask’, it said. Perfect, Solomon thought, and headed over to the counter, feeling the greasy air and the tickle of stolen glances on his skin. Low conversations murmured and blurred with the tinny whine of a country and western song. The clatter and sizzle of the kitchen and the smell of grease and the salt-sour odour of unwashed bodies hung thick in the air. He pulled out a stool from the middle of the counter and savoured the exquisite relief of sitting after so long on his feet. He stretched his legs and arched his back. The menu was painted on the wall behind the counter, the blue paint of the lettering faded and cracked by age and heat. There were dollar bills pinned to the wall too, marked with messages from the people who’d left them – ‘Big Bear blew thru’, ‘This buck stops here’, ‘Bobby D’s – best breakfast in West Texas’. A plastic tumbler clacked down on the beaten metal counter and iced water rattled into it like rocks into a bucket. ‘If it’s on the wall, we got it. If it ain’t we don’t, so don’t bother asking.’ The waitress was tall and whip-thin, black-blue hair pulled into a ponytail and skin like caramel against the ice-cream pink of her uniform. Her name badge said ‘Hi I’m Rita’. ‘Is Bobby D around?’ Solomon asked. ‘Bobby D’s dead,’ the woman said flatly. ‘Then who’s the owner?’ She fixed him with her green eyes. ‘If you got a complaint or you’re fixing to sell something I ain’t interested. And if you’re looking to buy you’re a day early. Auction’s tomorrow morning.’ She had Irish eyes, though her honeyed skin showed her people had been here far longer than any European. ‘You’re the owner,’ Solomon said. She shrugged. ‘Until tomorrow I am.’ ‘Then why didn’t you ever change the sign?’ The water jug came to rest on the counter and Solomon thought about the river of iced-water that must have flowed from it over the years, a river that would end tomorrow with the fall of an auctioneer’s hammer. ‘Don’t need my name on the place to know I own it,’ she said. ‘And new neon costs money I ain’t got. You going to order something or not? There’s a cover charge either way.’ ‘Actually I have a proposition,’ Solomon said, loud enough to draw the room’s attention. ‘A wager.’ Rita stared at him like he’d just cursed. ‘Gambling’s illegal in the state of Texas.’ Solomon nodded. ‘In general, yes, but not if it’s classed as social gambling.’ The green eyes narrowed. ‘And what would that be?’ ‘It’s a bet undertaken in a private place such as this, with an element of skill involved, not just chance, where the only person to receive any benefit is the winner of the wager, meaning the house takes no cut.’ Rita nodded. ‘Sounds fancy. You a lawyer?’ Solomon shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘You don’t think so? You don’t know if you’re a lawyer but you’re giving me chapter and verse on the law regarding gambling in the state of Texas?’ She shook her head. ‘Sounds off to me. I ain’t interested, mister. You let me know when you’re ready to order.’ She turned and walked away, banging the water jug down hard on the end of the counter before disappearing through the old-style saloon doors into the kitchen. Solomon’s stomach growled again in response to the smell of food hanging in the air and he took a long drink to try and silence it, the coldness flooding through him and the ice chips bumping against his lips. It would have been better for him if Bobby D had still been around. Men were easier to hook where wagers were concerned, their egos making it hard for them to back down from another man’s challenge. Maybe he’d have to take his chances out on the road again, find another diner that wasn’t owned by an Indian warrior princess with Irish eyes. He drained his glass, placed it down on the counter ready to leave and felt the air shift and thicken to his left as someone moved closer. Then a low voice laced with nicotine and coffee murmured, ‘What kind of a wager?’ Chapter 2 (#udc2541d1-5572-5a87-833a-fff5dccd83bc) Solomon turned and took in the tattooed trucker perched on the edge of the neighbouring stool. He was leaning in and peering up from beneath the brim of his cap, his body language telegraphing his eagerness to swallow the bait Solomon had laid. ‘Wager is that I can answer any three questions you care to ask me.’ The trucker nodded as if Solomon’s answer confirmed what he already knew. ‘Any three questions at all?’ ‘Anything.’ The trucker continued to nod. ‘What’s the stake?’ ‘If I answer correctly you buy me dinner.’ ‘That it?’ ‘That’s it.’ ‘And what do I get if you don’t?’ Solomon slapped his hand down on the counter. ‘This.’ He took it away to reveal the worn quarter beneath. The trucker stared at the silver coin and frowned. ‘Twenty-five cents!?’ ‘Not exactly. Look at the date.’ The trucker leaned in and peered at the numbers stamped beneath George Washington’s profile. ‘Nineteen seventy-six. So what?’ ‘So that’s a bicentennial quarter,’ Solomon kept his voice low as if he was sharing valuable information, ‘minted to commemorate two hundred years of American independence. Much higher silver to nickel ratio than a regular quarter. Feel the weight of it.’ The trucker picked up the coin with fat, oil-cracked fingers then cupped it in the callused ham of his hand. ‘Feels like a regular quarter to me.’ ‘Well it’s not. It’s slightly heavier – and a lot more valuable.’ The silver coin shone dully in the rough hand. ‘What’s it worth?’ ‘A rare coin dealer will give you two hundred dollars for one in mint condition.’ The trucker let out a low whistle then frowned. ‘Yeah but this ain’t mint. This coin just about worn away to nuthin’.’ Solomon nodded. ‘Which is why you’ll only get a hundred dollars for it.’ ‘A hunnert bucks for this?’ ‘Maybe more. Certainly not less.’ ‘And you’re willing to stake it against a fifteen-dollar meal?’ Solomon nodded. The trucker stared at the coin then shook his head and put it down on the counter. ‘I don’t know. There’s a catch. I cain’t see what it is but I know there is one. Has to be.’ ‘I’ll take that bet.’ A skinny man in a rancher’s shirt stepped in front of the trucker and thrust out his hand at Solomon. ‘Name’s Billy-Joe. Billy-Joe Redford.’ Solomon took the hand and shook it. It was work-hardened and strong, hard lines from lanyards worn into the skin. ‘Pleased to meet you, Billy-Joe.’ ‘Now hold on,’ the trucker said, standing up from his stool. ‘I never said I weren’t taking the bet.’ ‘Sure sounded that way to me,’ Billy-Joe peered down at the coin on the counter. ‘What d’ya say this was?’ ‘Bicentennial,’ Solomon replied. ‘Very collectible.’ ‘And worth a hunnert bucks to a collector, you say?’ Solomon nodded. ‘Maybe more.’ Billy-Joe smiled. ‘Sure, I’ll buy it. You got yourself a deal, mister. I’ll stand you a steak if you can answer three questions.’ ‘Now wait a second,’ the trucker dumped his hand on the cowboy’s shoulder and spun him round. ‘You can’t just muscle in on another man’s deal like that. Man was talking to me first.’ ‘And now he’s talkin’ to me.’ The cowboy stepped closer to the trucker and looked up. The trucker was six inches taller and double the weight, though neither fact seemed to faze the cowboy. The silence stretched between them. A loud bang broke the tension and everybody turned to the source. Rita was standing at the end of the counter, a water jug in her hand slopping ice over the side from the force of being banged on the counter. ‘Far as I recall the gentleman was talking to me first.’ ‘Yeah, Rita, but you done passed on the wager,’ Billy-Joe said, still staring up at the trucker. ‘Same way this joker did. Only one that’s shaken the man’s hand on it is me.’ He glanced at Solomon. ‘Ain’t that right, mister …?’ ‘Creed,’ Solomon said. ‘Solomon Creed. And you’re right. You are the only one who has accepted my wager. However,’ he looked at Rita. ‘I do not wish to be the cause of any trouble here. It’s your house, your rules. If you want me to move on and drop the whole thing then that’s what I’ll do.’ There was a groan from the crowd and Rita looked around at the assembled group, their expectations hanging in the greasy air like something solid. She looked about ready to kick everyone out but then a new voice piped up from the back of the room. ‘Let these fellas settle it.’ The crowd shifted and turned to look at the new speaker. He was sitting in a booth on the back wall, reading a newspaper like an old timer, though he couldn’t have been more than thirty. He was compact and solid-looking in a way that suggested hours in the gym rather than hard days working the land. He wore a dark blue, check work shirt that had been tailored to fit and his mouse-brown hair was well cut and slicked back to keep it out of his face. ‘He’s right about the law,’ the man said, slowly folding his paper and laying it flat on the table, like he was accustomed to being both listened to and making people wait. ‘Ain’t no crime if folks want to have a wager in a privately owned house, providing that house don’t benefit in any way financial.’ He looked over at Rita. ‘I say let these boys have their wager. Make a change from hearing the same damned twelve songs on the juke at least.’ Rita stood for a moment, her hand clenched tight around the handle of the water jug like she was maybe thinking about throwing it at him. Then she relaxed and let go of the jug. ‘Do what you want,’ she said, heading back into the kitchen. ‘This time tomorrow none of this will be my problem anyway.’ A murmur of approval rippled through the circle of onlookers as almost everybody in the place now abandoned their meals and clustered round the counter. ‘All right then,’ Billy-Joe said, pulling up a stool and rubbing his hands together like a kid about to tuck into a piece of chocolate cake. ‘Looks like we got ourselves a game.’ He waited for the crowd to settle then took a deep breath and fixed Solomon with his best poker stare. ‘OK, Mister Creed,’ he said. ‘Here comes my first question.’ Chapter 3 (#udc2541d1-5572-5a87-833a-fff5dccd83bc) ‘So my mom’s favourite singer of all time was Julie London. Man, she loved that gal – way more than any of the dudes she ever brung home. Anyways whenever those dudes up and left again she’d always get drunk and play Love on the Rocks over and over – not the song, you understand, I mean the whole damn album. Consequently I know that damn album way better’n any red-blooded man oughta. So my question to you is,’ Billy-Joe paused for effect and a smile crept across his face. ‘What is the name of the fifth track on side two?’ Another murmur passed through the crowd and heads were shaken. If anybody had any idea what the answer might be they certainly weren’t going to own up to it. Solomon ran a finger down the side of his empty water glass and sucked the condensation off it, focusing on the torrent of information rushing through his mind in response to the question, a river of facts about Julie London, her life, career and recording history. He had discovered, in the few days he could actually remember, that information came so easily to him that it was as much of an effort to filter out the things that were not relevant as it was to decide what was. But there was also a bitter twist to this almost bottomless gift of knowledge. Because the one thing he truly desired to know above all else was about himself, and on that subject he knew almost nothing. The only reason he knew his name was because it was stitched into the label of the tailor-made jacket he wore. But if he looked in a mirror he did not recognize the man staring back at him, though ask the stranger in the mirror anything else, anything at all, and he knew the answer instantly: even the identity of an obscure statue in an even more obscure town. ‘“The Man That Got Away”,’ Solomon said. ‘The fifth track on side two of Love on the Rocks by Julie London is “The Man That Got Away”.’ There was a silence punctuated only by murmured questions and the low, steady drone of the jukebox. Billy-Joe stared at Solomon for a long second before his poker face cracked and a smile exploded across it. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘How in the hell do you know a thing like that?’ ‘Is he right?’ people asked in the crowd. ‘Did he get it right?’ ‘Hell yeah he got it right,’ Billy-Joe said, and the room exploded into noise. ‘Looks like you need to up your game, son,’ someone shouted, then he turned to the crowd. ‘And if anyone wants a little side action, I got twenty bucks says this fella’s going to answer whatever questions Billy-Joe throws at him.’ ‘I’ll take that bet,’ someone replied, and the room hummed louder as more bets were placed. Billy-Joe sat quiet and still on his stool, staring at Solomon like he was a puzzle to be solved. Solomon just stared ahead, scanning the menu on the wall and doing his best to ignore the hunger gnawing at his stomach. When the room settled Billy-Joe rubbed his hands together like before. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I figure any man can answer an obscure question about Julie London ain’t likely to be too interested in sports, so let me pitch this one atcha.’ He paused, waiting for complete silence in the diner before speaking again. ‘In nineteen and seventy-eight,’ he said, keeping his voice low, ‘there was a ballgame ’tween the Rangers and the Baltimore Orioles. Now during that game an Orioles fan had a heart attack and was gonna die right there in the stands, only one of the players jumped up off of the bench and saved that man’s life. What I want to know – is the name of that ball player.’ A murmur rippled through the crowd and heads shook. Solomon stared at the menu on the wall and focused on the information pouring through his head in response to the cowboy’s question: Texas Rangers … 1978 season … finished second in the ALW behind the Kansas City Royals … The information began to take shape now, forming vague images like half-forgotten memories as his mind sank deeper into the details. … evening of July 17th … away game at the Baltimore Memorial Stadium … grey skies but still summer warm and close, like a storm was coming … the game is halted in the seventh when a shout goes up behind the Orioles dugout … Solomon’s mind continued to freefall through clouds of facts until they formed images, as if he was remembering something he had once witnessed himself: … the crowd behind the dugout form a circle, their attention on the centre and not on the field. The shout goes out again, clearer this time: ‘A doctor. This man needs a doctor.’ The man who shouts looks around, eyes white and frantic. Another man lies at his feet. Big guy. Not moving. Nobody comes forward. Time slides to a halt … … 1978 … July … Jimmy Carter in the White House … Grease playing to packed houses in the movie theatres … 1978, when ballplayers still earned regular pay cheques and had second careers. The silence is broken. ‘Here,’ someone calls out and there’s movement in the away team dugout as one of the Rangers’ pitchers stands, moves to the edge of the field and vaults over the guardrail. The crowd parts as he climbs the seats and watches on as he drops down by the big guy. This pitcher has one good season left and knows it. He’s in his second year residency at a Pittsburgh hospital. He administers CPR to the stricken fan like he’s done a hundred times in the ER and mouth-to-mouth like he was taught. The fan coughs and groans and the pitcher keeps working steadily, pumping his chest, hand-over-hand, working the heart now he’s breathing again, keeping it going until the ambulance arrives. The fan’s name was Germain. Germain Languth. And the Rangers’ pitcher was called: ‘Medich,’ Solomon said and turned to the cowboy. ‘George “Doc” Medich. He saved the man’s life and the game was resumed. The Rangers went on to win two to nothing.’ There was a pause as the whole room held its breath. Billy-Joe stared at Solomon in disbelief. ‘Now how in the hell did you know that?’ The room erupted into noise and money was waved in the air as more side bets went down. Some still bet against Solomon, but the majority were now with him. Hands were shaken and attention turned back to the dusty stranger at the centre of it all. There was one question left and the cowboy looked edgy, his eyes darting around the room as he tried to come up with a question that might still win him the bet. Solomon stared ahead at the menu. Steak and eggs and home fries, that’s what he would order. Or maybe the special, whatever that was. His stomach growled in anticipation, lost in the hubbub of the room. One more question. Then the trucker stood up with a sharp scrape of metal on concrete and pointed his thick finger at Solomon. ‘I see the angle now,’ he swung the finger round to Billy-Joe and poked him in the chest. ‘You’re working together, ain’t ya? You two’s grifters. This whole goddam thing’s a set-up.’ Chapter 4 (#udc2541d1-5572-5a87-833a-fff5dccd83bc) Billy-Joe spun away from the trucker’s finger and squared up to him. ‘What you just call me?’ The trucker jabbed the finger into his chest again. ‘I said this here’s a con and you two’s workin’ it together. How in the hell else could he answer a question like that?’ Billy-Joe looked up with the same cold challenge as previously. ‘So how’s this con work then, genius? You think we travel around Texas hitting diners so that I can deliberately lose a bet to someone I’m secretly workin’ with? Where’s the grift in that?’ The trucker pointed at the crowd. ‘I bet you got a third guy, ain’t ya, whippin’ up interest and layin’ down some side bets?’ ‘Bullshit,’ Billy-Joe said and bumped his chest against the trucker’s. The trucker pulled himself up to his full height and glared down at the cowboy, holding his ground, the eyes of the crowd upon them. No one saw Rita step out of the kitchen and pop the cash register, though they all heard the crash it made when she slammed it shut again. The hollow clang echoed away in the silence that followed and Rita moved away from the register, looking around the room and making sure everyone felt the full weight of her disapproval. ‘I didn’t ask for you boys to start waving your dicks around over some stupid ass bet.’ She shot a glance to the back of the room where the man in the booth was back to reading his newspaper. ‘But if y’all are gonna start pickin’ fights then I’m puttin’ a stop to this thing right now.’ A collective groan went up in the room and a short, round man in a Coors Light T-shirt stepped forward. ‘Aw come on now Rita, that ain’t fair.’ He held his sweat-stained rancher’s hat in front of him like he was pleading for his soul on a Sunday. ‘Just ’cause these two’s gettin’ all worked up, don’t mean the rest of us have to suffer none. I say let the cowboy ask his last question.’ A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. ‘I still say it’s a con,’ the trucker muttered. ‘Then don’t put any damn money down,’ the man in the Coors Light T-shirt said. ‘But don’t be ruining things for the rest of us.’ The trucker puffed himself up again and turned to face this new challenger as the noise in the room started to rise. ‘If I may,’ a voice cut through the noise, so calm it was as distinct as a shout. All eyes turned to Solomon. ‘Might I suggest a solution.’ He turned to the room. ‘You all want to see if I can answer the last question.’ There was a general nodding and murmurs of agreement. Solomon turned to the trucker. ‘But you don’t trust Billy-Joe here to ask it?’ The trucker shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I do not.’ Solomon looked over at Rita now. ‘And you just want this to be over.’ Rita said nothing, but it was clear which direction her opinion lay. ‘Then why don’t you ask the last question? Everyone knows you here, I assume, so no one will think you’re working with me on some kind of con. So you ask the question, I’ll try and answer it, the wager will end, one way or another, and everyone will get what they want.’ The mutterings started up again and Billy-Joe frowned as he took in the proposal. ‘But if you ask the last question and he cain’t answer it, who gets the quarter?’ ‘You can have it,’ Rita said. ‘And if he gets it right I’ll stand him a meal on the house. That work for ya?’ Billy-Joe nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, sure. I guess.’ He looked up at the trucker. ‘You OK with that?’ The trucker frowned hard as he tried to figure out the new angle and when he couldn’t see one he nodded and sat back down on his stool. ‘And no more damn bets,’ Rita said, lifting the hatch in the counter and stepping out into the main diner area. ‘Let’s get this thing over with so we can all get back to our dull, uneventful days. Can’t handle all this excitement on a Wednesday lunchtime.’ She strode across the floor to the display case of Native American souvenirs, snatched the framed photograph from the wall above it then walked back to the counter. ‘Here’s my question,’ she said, and laid the photograph down on the counter in front of Solomon. ‘Tell me what that says.’ The room went quiet as Solomon looked down at the photograph. It had been taken in a cave, the flash of the camera lighting the centre but falling away to a deep black at the edges. Some of the symbols had caught shadow, showing that they were petroglyphs, carved into the rock not painted on the surface, meaning the message they carried was important. Solomon studied the symbols and opened his mind ready for the usual flood of facts that came in answer to any question. But this time was different. This time the information that came was indistinct and inconclusive, more like a bank of fog than a clear flowing river, and in the silence of the room he caught a whisper, one man confiding to another at the edge of the crowd. ‘He ain’t gonna answer it,’ the voice said. ‘That’s written in Suma and ain’t a man alive as can read it.’ Solomon focused on the symbols, using the word he’d overheard to shine new light on them: Suma … Zuma … nomadic hunter-gatherers … descended from the Mogollon peoples … first mentioned in 1630 in despatches regarding Franciscan missions … allied themselves with the Spanish and gave land for Catholic missions in exchange for help in subduing their main rivals the Apache … the Spanish converted some of the Zuma and betrayed the rest … last known Zuma brave died in 1869 and the native language was lost … scholars believe it may have been Uto-Aztecan or maybe Athabaskan … Solomon tried translating the symbols using each of these languages in turn. Neither made sense. He needed more information. ‘Where was this photo taken?’ he asked. ‘About a mile north of here,’ Rita replied, her green eyes studying Solomon with curiosity. ‘There’s a system of old caves on the edge of this land. Why you askin’?’ ‘Because different peoples have different meanings for things depending on where they come from.’ Solomon held up the photograph and pointed to a symbol near the bottom of the message. ‘This one, for example, the broken arrow. To the Northern Suma it means peace, but to the Western Suma it means a broken promise. Now I’m guessing it is Western Suma, and that’s how this place got its name, but I wanted to check before I answered the question. There is a steak dinner riding on it after all.’ The hum in the room deepened and smiles spread on the faces of those who’d bet on the stranger. Solomon’s eyes drifted across the markings, their meanings emerging clearly now he could filter it through the knowledge of their origin. ‘It’s an agreement,’ he said, ‘between a man named Three Arrows in the Wind and a white man from across the great sea to the east – European, I’m guessing. It doesn’t say the man’s name but he’s represented here by a symbol that looks like the head of a cow or maybe a buffalo.’ Rita stiffened and Solomon looked up. ‘You know who that is?’ She nodded. ‘The conquistador who first came here in 1534 was a man named ?lvar N??ez Cabeza deVaca. Cabeza deVaca is Spanish for …’ ‘Cow’s head,’ Solomon said, finishing her thought. He looked back at the photograph, translating the symbols easily now as his eyes drifted over the petroglyphs. ‘DeVaca did a deal with the chief in this area. He was promised safe passage across these lands, everything from the Snake River in the south, to Two Bears Pass in the west, Three Arrows Cave to the north, and Flat Rock to the east.’ Solomon looked up at Rita. ‘Do those landmarks mean anything to you?’ She nodded. ‘They used to call the Rio Grande Snake River on account of the way it meanders through the land. Flat Rock is now a town, and Two Bears is what they now call the Double Bluff Pass. The caves mentioned are the ones this message is carved in. What else it say?’ Solomon studied the edges of the image where the flash had not quite reached and the petroglyphs fell away into darkness. ‘It looks like deVaca made this pledge in the name of someone else,’ he pointed at a petroglyph disappearing into shadow and only partially visible. ‘See that symbol. I think that denotes deVaca’s chief, but without seeing it properly I can’t say for sure.’ ‘Bullshit!’ All heads turned as the man in the booth rose from his seat, his newspaper abandoned behind him. He walked over to the counter, people stepping out of his way as he came and stopped in front of Solomon. ‘You don’t know what those markings say. No one does. The last man alive that could speak the local Suma dialect died over a hunnert and fifty years ago.’ He looked Solomon up and down like he was a curiosity in a roadside museum. ‘We’ve had people through here trying to figure out what those markings say, people from all kinds of fancy colleges. Now if they couldn’t figure it out why in the hell should anyone believe that you can? I think you’re full of it, mister. I don’t think you know what this says any more than I do.’ Solomon smiled. ‘Well, sir, you are entitled to your opinion. However, as far as the laws relating to gambling in the great state of Texas go, you are not a party to this wager and so your opinion does not matter, legally speaking.’ He turned to Rita. ‘As the person who took over the bet, the only opinion that matters as to whether I answered the question or not is yours.’ Rita looked over at the man from the booth and nodded. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Nobody can prove what these symbols say one way or another so I guess it was kind of a dumb question for me to ask.’ The man from the booth looked pleased, though several members of the crowd did not as they saw their potential winnings slipping away. ‘However,’ Rita continued, ‘seeing as I ain’t the kind of person as would cheat a man out of a meal because I went and asked him a dumb question.’ She turned back to Solomon and pointed at the menu on the wall. ‘Let me know what you want. You just won yourself a wager.’ Chapter 5 (#udc2541d1-5572-5a87-833a-fff5dccd83bc) The diner erupted in noise. Men who’d bet on Solomon whooped in victory and those who’d bet against him shook their heads in disbelief. The man from the booth leaned in and pitched his voice low so it slid beneath the noise. ‘You’re lucky Rita has such a kind and generous heart,’ he said. ‘You try this shit anyplace else in West Texas you’d wind up getting shot.’ He glared at Rita. ‘No wonder this place is on its ass.’ He shook his head and marched off back to his booth. Solomon smiled at Rita and waited for her to notice. ‘Friend of yours?’ ‘Daryl?’ Rita shook her head as if even saying his name was wearisome. ‘He ain’t friends with no one. ’Cept maybe the banks. What you wanna eat?’ ‘Steak, please, as rare as you dare. Also two eggs, fried and sunnyside, and some home fries if I may.’ She nodded. ‘Drink?’ ‘Ice-water would be fine. Can I ask you a question?’ ‘Depends. Do I have to buy you another steak dinner if I give you a wrong answer?’ Solomon smiled. ‘No, this one’s on the house.’ He pointed down at the photograph. ‘The Indian chief mentioned in this agreement, are you by chance a relative?’ Rita nodded slowly. ‘My family name is Treepoint. I think my great-granddaddy changed it in the thirties or forties. I guess Three Arrows in the Wind was too much to fit on a cheque.’ ‘So this land is yours?’ She nodded. ‘Government took all the land in 1854 and moved everyone onto reservation ground in the next county, everyone ’cept my family, that is. They stayed put and opened up a trading post so they could make enough money to live. We should have been called Stubborn as Mules. Anyways, in 1968, when people finally got around to feeling bad about stealing all our land, the Federal government restored title to us on account of there being a Treepoint on the land continuous for over a hundred years. Which means now it belongs to me, till tomorrow morning leastways.’ Solomon nodded. ‘So there never was a Bobby D?’ She shook her head. ‘When my granddaddy opened up the gas station he figured white folks were more likely to stop for other white folks so he made him up.’ She leaned down and studied the photograph, bringing her head closer to his so that the words she murmured would be heard only by him. ‘Does this really say what you said it did?’ Solomon nodded. ‘Yes.’ ‘Can you prove it?’ Solomon twitched his head to the side as more information flooded his mind then shook it. ‘No.’ ‘That’s what I thought.’ ‘For that you’d need to contact a Doctor Andrea Thompson, head of the language unit at the Center for Native American and Indigenous Studies at the University of Colorado. Doctor Thompson and her team recently discovered a new cave system in Colorado near the Arizona border filled with petroglyphs similar to this. They’re calling it the Rosetta Stone of the plains because it’s filled with petroglyphs from different tribes recording a declaration of peace in several languages. Some, like Sioux, they already know. And some they don’t, like Western Suma. But now they can figure it out by comparing it to the languages they do know.’ Rita frowned. ‘Then how come these folks ain’t come back here to take another look at the cave?’ Solomon shrugged. ‘I bet they took plenty of photographs the last time they were here, didn’t they?’ Rita nodded. ‘There you go then. They’ll look at those first. The cave in Colorado was only discovered a few months ago and it’ll probably take them years to work through the archived material they already have on file.’ Rita nodded again. ‘So what you’re saying is the only proof you can give me that what you said is true is some academic discovery no one’s actually heard of?’ ‘People in the academic field of Native American studies have heard of it. It’s big news for them. You should call the University of Colorado and ask to speak to Doctor Andrea Thompson. She’ll confirm everything I just told you.’ Rita smiled sadly. ‘I want to believe you, mister, I really do. Only that quarter you said was so rare it was worth at least a hundred bucks.’ She slapped her hand down hard on the counter and removed it to reveal two worn quarters. ‘I found two more of ’em in the register. So either it’s my lucky day and I just happen to have a coupla hundred bucks’ worth of rare coins in my cash drawer, or Daryl was right and you’re just a smooth-talking grifter looking for an easy meal. Either way what I want you to do is eat your steak and hit the road. We clear?’ She held his gaze for a moment then turned and headed back to the kitchen, leaving the two quarters on the counter. Solomon zeroed in on the dates on the coins, 1976. It didn’t matter whether she believed him or not, he’d already secured his meal, which was what he’d come for. Nevertheless, it bothered him that his one lie about the value of the quarter, a lie that should have had no consequence because he knew he wouldn’t lose the bet, had now tainted all the truths he’d told her. ‘Truth always withers in the shadow of a lie,’ he murmured, recalling something from … who knew where. ‘What’s that you say?’ the man in the Coors Light T-shirt reappeared at his side, a fistful of dollars in his hand and his face shining with victory. ‘Nothing,’ Solomon nodded at the money. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ ‘Nah, man, thank you. Name’s Earl,’ he bundled his cash into one fist and held out his hand. Solomon took it, shook it then picked up the photograph. ‘Say,’ Earl said, leaning in close. ‘How do you know all that stuff? That some kind of a trick or d’ya got one of them, whatya callit, photographic minds or sump’n’?’ ‘Something like that.’ Solomon re-read the message, his mind translating the symbols as his eyes passed over them. ‘You a regular here, Earl?’ ‘I guess. Been coming here for close on twenty years. I run my rig all over the south, delivering pipe mainly. I stop by whenever I’m on the I-10, maybe once a month at the moment. I’ll sure miss it if it closes. It’s up for auction, you know.’ Solomon nodded. ‘So I heard.’ ‘Yep. Damn shame if they close ole Bobby D’s. Anyways, just wanted to shake your hand and say if you wanted a ride anyplace east then I’m your man.’ Solomon stretched his legs, still aching from the miles they’d already walked, and thought of the road ahead, his mind providing exact distances to possible destinations: Corpus Christi 557 miles Galveston 656 miles The Gulf of Mexico was maybe two weeks’ walk away but he could be there by morning if he caught a lift. ‘That would be very kind,’ he said. ‘When you leaving?’ Rita reappeared with a plate in her hand and clacked it down on the counter in front of Solomon. The steak was almost raw with red juices pooling around the fries and eggs. ‘Rare as you dare,’ she said, then she picked up the photograph and walked away. ‘Man,’ Earl said shaking his head. ‘That ain’t even cooked. You go ahead and take your time eatin’ that, you done earned it. I’ll go finish my dinner, count my gains and try to figure out the quickest and funnest way to lose it again.’ He touched the peak of his cap with a nicotine-stained finger and headed back to his table where a half-eaten basket of chicken wings waited for him. Solomon cut into the steak, the juices running red around his knife and fork. He put a chunk in his mouth and flavour flooded his tongue, rich and delicious. Over by the souvenir stand Rita hung the photograph back on the wall. Solomon chewed his steak, the memorized petroglyphs still burning in his mind. He thought of the one showing three arrows and the symbol of a man on horseback and focused on them until the noise of the diner faded and the walls melted away and he sat like a ghost from the future in the middle of a pristine wilderness, before paved roads and power lines, before cars and white streaks in the sky scratched by high-flying planes. He continued to eat and his mind carried him further back to a time before man, when the desert was a field of ice and the slow-moving glaciers carved mesas out of solid stone and crushed boulders to dirt and dust. The land didn’t care who owned it, only man cared about that, they cared so much they fought wars over it, spilling blood onto the ground they sought to possess, and carved bargains made with other men into the fabric of the things they sought to own. ‘You want dessert?’ Solomon blinked and looked up from his empty plate. He was back in the diner, the endless stretch of the plains replaced by the four thin walls of the cinderblock building. ‘A slice of apple pie, if I may. And maybe a cup of coffee.’ ‘Steady there,’ Rita said, sauntering away. ‘You’re going to bankrupt me with all these outrageous demands.’ He watched her leave and saw her ancestry recorded in the blue-black sway of her crow feather hair, and the lean, sinewy stretch of her limbs, tight and supple like a bow string. She was strong and proud, but also bitter. He could smell disappointment and weariness on her as clear as the bacon grease sizzling on the hot plate in the kitchen. Her ancestor had refused to leave this place, digging in and clinging to deep roots perhaps in the vague hope that his fortunes might one day be restored in some glorious future. And here was his daughter of many times removed, still here, the blood link unbroken over all those years. There was some value in that, though Solomon could not be sure how much without reading the rest of the message on the cave wall, the part the photograph didn’t show. Rita returned with a slice of pie and a mug of black coffee. ‘Need anything else?’ Solomon thought about telling her his thoughts but stopped himself. She wouldn’t believe him anyway and he could tell she was yearning to leave. She was young enough to start again and there didn’t seem to be anything binding her here other than family history. She wore no wedding band, and the photograph of a young girl pinned to the board by the cash register, a mini version of Rita, all smiles despite the gap in her front teeth, was possibly the reason she wanted to go, release herself and her child from the blood ties of tradition that bound them both here. Their people had been nomadic once, like all people had been. Maybe it was time to renew that tradition. So he held onto his thoughts and gave her a smile instead. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t need anything else. And thank you for the meal.’ Chapter 6 (#udc2541d1-5572-5a87-833a-fff5dccd83bc) The sun was still high in the sky when Solomon climbed into the oven of the big rig’s cab. He closed the door and felt the usual anxiety rise up at being confined. ‘Mind if I keep the window open?’ he said. ‘Nope.’ Earl settled in his seat and flicked on a small fan clipped to the dashboard. ‘Prefer me a breeze to the air-con anyways and it’s a damn sight kinder on the fuel.’ He twisted the key in the ignition and the truck’s engine roared into life. ‘Where you headed exactly?’ ‘East,’ Solomon said. ‘Galveston, Corpus Christi, Houston, anywhere with ships going to France.’ ‘What’s in France, a lady?’ Solomon opened the flap of his jacket and looked down at the label saying – This suit was made to treasure for Mr Solomon Creed. ‘The man who made this suit for me, hopefully.’ ‘Hell, I know a guy in Fort Worth if you need a tailor.’ Solomon let the jacket flap drop. ‘I need to see this one specifically,’ he said. ‘Long story.’ ‘Well there’s a whole lot of road between us and the sea. Happy to hear it if you’ve a mind to tell.’ Earl pulled out of the parking lot and onto the I-10, the roar of the diesels and rumble of tyres drowning out the high-pitched whine of the desert. Solomon looked north across the scrubby plain to a set of red hills that rolled across the distant horizon like an ocean of stone. Somewhere in that rise and fall was a cave with pictures carved on its walls, a natural document sealing a five-hundred-year-old deal. There was nothing else to see. The land was untouched, undeveloped. He thought about Rita with her Irish eyes, queen of all she surveyed, though not for much longer. He shifted in his seat to look back at the diner in the side mirror. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/simon-toyne/broken-promise-a-solomon-creed-novella/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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