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CHAPTER 7

WE PICK UP two coffees and drive down by the Colorado River. Carlos parks in a gravel area underneath the highway, and the two of us walk along a multiuse path that stretches over the river. The underside of the bridge above us is packed with the nests of cliff swallows, and the birds flit in and out of their gourd-shaped homes.

Overhead, traffic rumbles along.

“So what brings you to Austin today?” Carlos asks, leaning against the railing and looking over the wide river.

Even this early, the sun-shimmering water is full of people floating in rafts or paddling kayaks.

I tell him that Captain Kane wanted to chat with me about the Medal of Valor ceremony. I don’t mention the additional reason the captain called me in. I’d heard that Carlos unsuccessfully applied for the recent lieutenant position. He might not like hearing that we could end up being in the running for the same job.

He congratulates me on the Medal of Valor. I don’t expect him to attend the ceremony any more than he expected me to knock on his office door this morning. Carlos Castillo has a reputation for working alone. He does good work—no one ever complains about his results—but I’m not sure he has a lot of close friends in the Rangers.

It feels awkward to explain why I’ve asked to talk to him, especially since I don’t really know what I’m looking for myself. I decide there’s no better way to explain something than to try, so I start with my encounter with Ava Cruz over the weekend.

“Do you know her?” I ask.

“Twenty-nine million people live in Texas,” he says. “What makes you think I know her?”

“Well,” I say, stumbling over my words. “I… uh…”

“You thought that since we’re both Indians we must be pals?”

I flush with embarrassment. Carlos is the only Texas Ranger in the whole division with Native American ancestry. He knows it. I know it.

“Sixty thousand people in Texas identify as Native Americans,” he says. “You think we’re all Facebook friends?”

He stares at me with a forbidding expression. Then his facade breaks and a big smile fills his face.

“I’m just messing with you, Rory.”

Relief washes over me.

“I actually have met her before,” Carlos says, “but I don’t know her well.”

He explains that he’s often assigned cases that involve Native American crimes but that offenses that occur on tribal land are outside of the Rangers’ jurisdiction.

The assumption that the missing woman was moved off reservation property onto Texas lands might be a safe one in this case, considering the Ysleta del Sur Pueblo—the residential area of the Tigua reservation—isn’t particularly big, only about thirty acres.

He starts to tell me about the federal task force, but I stop him and explain that Ryan Logan didn’t seem interested in working with her.

Still, Carlos gives me the same basic advice as Captain Kane.

“There are already too many cooks in this kitchen,” he says. “I know it’s hard to accept, but sometimes you’re better off trusting that the people involved are doing okay without you. The Rangers can’t get involved in every case in Texas.”

Somehow the recommendation seems more palatable coming from him than my captain. But the idea that the best way to help is to stay out of the way is still a bitter pill to swallow.

Seeing that I’m not quite satisfied, Carlos adds, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll make a call over to the Tigua Pueblo. I’ll offer our help, try to get a little more information on the case. Maybe they’ll be a little more open to the offer coming from me.”

As we walk back along the path toward the truck, bicyclists and runners zip by us, some of them doing double takes, no doubt wondering what two Texas Rangers are doing out here in a popular recreation area.

It’s a beautiful day, and everyone around us is busy releasing endorphins, but I’m in a somber mood. I think it’s the fact that I’m about to be given the Texas Rangers’ highest honor, yet I feel unworthy of it. No matter how many cases you break, no matter how many arrests you make, there’s always more to be done.

Always more crime.

And the truth is I’m also stinging from Ava Cruz’s criticism of the Rangers’ legacy. I tell Carlos what she said and then add, “Why did you become a Ranger, Carlos?”

“To pick up girls,” he says, opening his truck door. “No one gets more badge bunnies than a Texas Ranger.”

I stare at him, shocked, and he smiles that big mischievous grin of his.

“One of these days you’ll be able to tell when I’m joking,” he says.