Border Son

by Samuel Parker

  “We’re just—”

  “We’re on a date,” Camilla said.

  Lomas grinned. “Really?”

  Ed looked at Camilla. “Really.”

  “So it’s just a coincidence that you’re spending the evening with Roberto Ibanez’s mother? The same Roberto Ibanez that spent time in jail with your son in El Paso? The same Roberto Ibanez who is a person of interest in Tyler’s disappearance?”

  “My son had nothing to do with anything,” Camilla snapped back.

  Lomas ignored her. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Ed said.

  “Get out of the car, Ed.”

  Lomas stepped back and walked toward his own car. He leaned against the hood and waited for Ed to join him. They stood facing each other. Ed threw a glance back at Camilla. Her eyes watched the pair in the rearview mirror.

  “I thought we talked about this last night.”

  “We did,” Ed said.

  “I could take you in for interfering with a federal investigation,” Lomas said. “I should take you in just to keep you from getting yourself killed.”

  Ed looked at the agent but didn’t respond.

  “Because that’s how this is going to end if you go off like this. I know you want answers, Ed. I understand that. I’ve seen a lot of parents drive themselves nuts waiting for word to come back about their kids. Young and old. But you’re out of your depth here, and I don’t think you realize that. You’re going into a war zone. It doesn’t run on rules, or at least rules you’re used to. For all you know, she’s driving you to your execution.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “There’s your first problem. You can’t imagine what could happen.”

  Ed thought about that and looked at Lomas. His guts were getting tied. The mysterious car from the night before, the shadowy figure in his window flashing the light in the room. But mixed up in all that was the need to keep moving forward, one step at a time. He looked back at Camilla in the car, the border crossing ahead, the ever darkening sky in the south.

  “You going to arrest me?”

  Lomas pushed off the car, brushed out his pants, and exhaled with a level of resignation.

  “You cross that border, I can’t protect you. You’re on your own.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do me a favor? Whatever it is you’re looking for, whatever it is you think you might find, you call me when you find it.”

  “I will.”

  “These people that Tyler was messed up with, the ones who killed him. They’ll kill you in a heartbeat. That is, after they get the answers out of you that you won’t tell me. They’ll find out why you’re pushing. “

  Ed swallowed. It was as if his throat was closing up on him. He knew if he stood there too much longer, he would succumb to the fear that Lomas was trying to stir up in him. That fear would overpower his irrational desire to see his son, and would drive him a thousand miles from here. Ed stiffened his spine, nodded to Lomas, and returned to his seat in Camilla’s car. She didn’t say a word as she put the car in drive and headed for the crossing, leaving Lomas to stand and stare at them as they drove into Mexico.

  Lomas pulled out his cell phone and considered making a call. He should notify Salazar of what was happening in regard to Tyler’s father. If Salazar found out that Kazmierski was in Mexico, and that Lomas knew about it and didn’t say anything, there would be hell to pay.

  He slowly put the phone back in his pocket.

  Salazar’s goons would move too fast and too brutally.

  The missing load was still out there. Lomas getting a bead on it could greatly improve his position in life.

  Twenty-four hours.

  Twenty-four hours would give Ed some time to play this out a bit more. He’d probably be back in his motel by morning, and there he could press him for information. Maybe even haul him to El Paso to scare some news out of him.

  Lomas returned to his car and sat in the AC.

  He’d wait. For now.

  The score was worth the risk.

  38

  They passed through the checkpoint without comment. The amber glow of streetlights reflected off the windshield as Camilla put the border behind them and drove into the heart of Nuevo Negaldo. Loiterers filled the darkened corners of doorframes and sidewalks, flashing neon escaping from the inner recesses of cantinas. The road widened into a concrete boulevard, and emptied into a large plaza with a monument set up in the middle, a dedication to some hero of the oppressed.

  Camilla turned west, leaving the statue in the rearview mirror. Ahead, the street closed in again, and from an alleyway blue strobes were bouncing off the cinder-block walls of buildings. Camilla was forced to slow down to a crawl as they passed the police scene.

  Ed looked and saw a single police car, officers standing around looking as if they were on break rather than doing any police work. Farther down the alley, awash in a high-beam spotlight, were bodies scattered on the concrete.

  “What the . . .” Ed exhaled.

  “Eyes forward,” Camilla commanded. Soon they were past the murderous passageway and were zigzagging through tight streets into the bowels of the city.

  “Did you see that?” Ed said finally.

  “We do not see anything,” she said.

  “But, back there, in the alley . . .”

  “No, and you didn’t see anything either.”

  Camilla took a couple deep breaths and then addressed him as a teacher would address a young pupil.

  “You must mind your own business here,” she said softly. “Only the bad people end up like that. Only the bad. It’s something that you must tell yourself, all the time. Only the bad. Those who break the law, or do things for the Cartel. If they were not bad, they would not end up dead.”

  Ed looked at Camilla, her face illuminated by the dash lights, giving an angelic glow to her dark skin. “You think that’s true?”

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. It is what you must tell yourself.” She breathed in again and exhaled. “Here, you must think that it is safe for good people, otherwise you would go mad. Crazy. There has to be some reason, doesn’t there? That is what they tell us. Pay no attention to the dead, for they reaped what they’ve sown. Look too long at them, and you will go crazy, or the killers will notice you and assume you are a liability. Then, they will come for you, and your neighbors will think that you were guilty too. Only the guilty die here in Nuevo Negaldo. Yes, that is what you must tell yourself.”

  Ed ventured a question. “And what if that was your son, Roberto, in the alley . . . would you think that?”

  “Roberto is no saint.”

  “I didn’t ask that.”

  Ed thought he saw a drop of moisture form in the corner of Camilla’s eye.

  “No. I would not think that he was guilty. And I would pray that others wouldn’t either.”

  Ed sank back into his seat and they spoke no more.

  The city was unending. The cement store buildings gave way to makeshift housing sculpted on the hillsides from the detritus of generations. Graffiti, trash, and scrap mixed together to create an urban jungle as shallow and haunting as any Potemkin village. Soon Camilla turned onto a wider street and came to a structure that looked like an old hotel. She parked the car and got out, came to Ed’s side, and motioned for him to follow. They went inside, past a snoozing desk clerk, and up the stairs.

  They walked down the hallway past several doors until she stopped before one in the middle. She took a key out of her bag and opened the door.

  “This is where I was told to bring you. There is some food and drink on the table. Stay in the room. This neighborhood is not one that you want to be walking around in.” She held out her hand. “Give me your key to your room in Hurtado. Tomorrow, I will gather your things and move your car over behind the restaurant.”

  The two exchanged keys.

  “And that’s it?” Ed said.

  “That is all I was asked to do.” />
  “Will I see you again?”

  Camilla smiled, her shoulders relaxed. “I hope so.”

  “Me too,” Ed said.

  “I would have liked to have met under different circumstances,” she said.

  “Maybe after all this is over.”

  “Maybe,” she said with a coy smile.

  She stepped to the door, but before leaving, she pulled a pen and a piece of paper from her purse. She scribbled on it and handed it to him.

  “This is the number for the restaurant. There is no use calling me from here, but when you come back, on the other side, you can call for your things. I’ll make sure they are brought to you.”

  Ed took the paper and looked at it. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket.

  “I wish you well,” she said as she disappeared down the hallway.

  39

  Men learn grace from their fathers, which is why there is so little of it left in the world. Mercy? Perhaps a cold mercy, a holding of the fist and a walking away of feet. Seldom the grace of offering an unearned embrace. Of showing a favorable stance to their boys when those boys don’t deserve it. Edward had found it too easy to walk away, and considered himself honorable by not entertaining the ruin of Tyler’s life for a second longer than he had to.

  And now, here he was, in a decrepit room overlooking the squalor of a Mexican border town, pursuing a son he had written off as if he were chasing a ghost. The shacks rolled out to the south, their scrap-metal roofs reflecting the streetlights. The city moved as if by its own will, people and cars and dogs and wind.

  Somewhere in this vast sea of misery was Tyler.

  His boy. His son.

  This was different from Denver and yet the same. Denver hadn’t included armed gunmen and lost Cartel loads, covert phone calls and philosopher-priests. But it was familiar, like a vapor in his memory slowly coming into shape. And for the first time in a long time, Ed started to feel that same sense of despair rising up anew when thinking about Tyler, lost down in this murderous city.

  Tyler’s past deeds, his drug use, his criminal activities, none of that came to Ed’s mind as he stared out into the night. Just the feeling of sadness that his own son was lost.

  It was foolish, he told himself, trying to rationalize these thoughts.

  Tyler was, after all, reaping everything that he had sown. This was the consequence of his own actions.

  Ed believed this. He believed this thoroughly.

  Yet the thought of abandoning Tyler forever was too much.

  Yes, he had turned his back before, but in the corner of his mind, in the subconscious area where all moral truth resides, Ed knew he held the choice to change his mind like a hidden card up a sleeve. He could always answer the midnight phone call, could always post another bail, and could always welcome Tyler back if and when he chose to. He always had a choice.

  In this scenario, however, his choice was taken from him.

  Other people were trying to take his son away from him permanently. Ed wanted the shunning on his own terms, not some barbaric Cartel’s. The idea that his son was living and dying at the discretion of another’s mercy is what brought up the fear, the horror, the anger, and quite shockingly, the sympathy.

  Was he a father anymore? Could he still consider himself such?

  Or by ignoring Tyler all these years, had he abdicated that role?

  Ed moved from the window and sat down at the small table in the corner that Camilla had filled with food. He unwrapped the tinfoil and ate.

  The sounds of the street and the other rooms started filling his ears as his mind slowed down.

  Perhaps he couldn’t rationalize his actions.

  Tomorrow he would see Tyler. He had no idea what he would say to him, or what words Tyler would say back. Or would they just stand there staring quietly at each other? Thinking about that silence scared him as much as any other danger he could imagine.

  40

  The night air was heavy and thick. The desert heat forced its way through the brick and the cracks, turning Ed’s room into a low-grade oven. It was the small hours of the night, the time when criminals start wrapping up their business and honest folk slumber away the last moments before dawn. Ed lay on the bed, arms wrapped around his chest, alternating between a light doze and foggy awareness. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would get no rest in this room, what with the temperature and the things that could be crawling in the corners and shadows. The sweat that leaked out of his body didn’t completely dehydrate him and eventually nature came calling. He stood up, walked to his door, and listened. The hostel was quiet.

  He opened the door and peered down the hallway. It was dark to his right, save for a few waves of light clawing up the stairwell. To his left was the communal bathroom, the graffitied door lit by a streetlight shining through a grimy window above the sink. He cautiously walked down the hall as if on broken glass, fought the urge to vomit at the stench and filth of the bathroom, and relieved himself.

  He tried to wash his hands in the tin sink, and as he stood there, he looked out the window. It was cracked open slightly and the smell of the alleyway it overlooked wafted into the bathroom. Ed finished up, and as he was about ready to return to his room, a movement on the street below caught his eye. He put his hand to the wall and dared to look down from on high.

  If he were Mexican, and more so, a native of Nuevo Negaldo, Ed would have learned the lesson of minding his own business. But he was American through and through, and curiosity compelled him to watch.

  A man was half stumbling, half running down the alley. Behind him, from where he had come, two other men rounded the corner in pursuit. At the opposite end of the alley, another shadow moved and blocked the escape route. The man stopped, turned to his two pursuers, and started mumbling in Spanish.

  The words poured out of him, his voice a tone of pleading and supplication. He was bartering, reasoning, begging. Ed could not understand the language, but he could recognize the tone. The pursuers answered with more confident, belligerent bursts of speech. Back and forth they went, the Latin sounds rising up to his window through the heat and the grime and the night. The two men descended on their victim and rained down blows on his body. The man crumpled to the ground, his vocal resonations turning from words to grunts, to sighs, to moans.

  The beating continued for an eternity, the men kicking and stomping until there could be nothing left in the man to break. They stopped, pulled the body toward a wall, threw some trash on him, and walked away.

  Ed slowly moved back from the window, afraid that even the sound of his breath would alert those below to his presence. When the group of men had made their exit, Ed turned down the hallway and hurried back to his room. Once inside, he locked the door and sat in the chair in the corner, looking out the window at the city below. His sweat had run cold and he was left shaking in the dark.

  41

  Tyler stood from his cot in the stone room. The radiant warmth of the stones was unabated at night. The cell had the feel of a sauna and he needed some air. The dull ache in his shoulder made sleep impossible, his brain alert and racing with the newfound freedom from chemical influence. He stepped up the stairs to the door, opened it, and peered out into the church. It was empty. Gray moonlight filtered through the windows, shining down into the aisle leading to the altar, illuminating the whitewashed stone. He walked across the silent space, his bare feet on the tile, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

  He was an interloper across a sacred plain.

  His left arm felt ten pounds too heavy, as if he were lugging a weighted pack on one shoulder. The gauze and tape pulled at the skin where it had dried with blood.

  Tyler moved slowly, struggling, working out the muscles that had stiffened during his bedridden time. The walls would spin and then settle, then spin again.

  He moved to the side where a table of candles stood. There were coins deposited in a tray, burnt ends of sticks, melted wax. He thought of tak
ing some of the money, but the statue of a woman with a raised hand stared down at him from the wall and he thought better of it.

  He had seen her image before, tatted on many cholos. Roberto had her image on his right forearm. His gun hand. She would have been looking down on him when Roberto fired the shot in his back.

  What a turn of events his life had taken.

  With his strong hand, Tyler reached behind him and felt the scar in his back that he had received in the El Paso jail. He remembered that searing pain when the knife went in. He remembered the pain as it healed and eventually became just a mark on his body. The bullet wound in his shoulder felt similar. He knew he would be okay. Felipe had said that Roberto was an excellent shot. Tyler considered lighting a candle for his faux executioner.

  Taking the knife for Roberto all those years ago had turned into a lucrative decision. It had made him some money. And now it had come full circle and saved his life.

  All he had to do was get to America and all would be good. He’d be set up. That is . . . if the load was still out there. It was big enough to set him up for life. It was too bad about Ignacio, but that was part of the risk. They had both known it.

  Three trucks had gone over the border that night. They drove lights out, creeping across the desert single file, Tyler and Ignacio in the rear. The lookouts on the hill radioed to them, directed them through the valleys, letting them know where the border agents were. An hour in, they were on their own, Tyler easing off the accelerator until the two vehicles in front started to drift away, the dust kicked up masking the trail behind them, giving Tyler and Ignacio the cover they needed to turn off when their marker appeared.

  They had driven this route before, had planned this for the right time.

  Planned for when the load was big enough to risk it all.

  Tyler drove west, to one of the isolated rises that jutted from the desert floor, up to an opening in the side of the hill. There was an entrance, an old silver mine abandoned a hundred years ago. Ignacio got out, and Tyler wedged the vehicle in, the rock walls scraping against the quarter panels, and he brought the truck to a stop inside. He crawled out the driver’s window, over the back, to the mouth of the cave.