Border Son

by Samuel Parker

  “No?”

  “I am grateful for all you have entrusted me with. I would never do that.”

  “Yes, yes, I have heard these words from others many times before. But sooner or later, there is always the temptation—”

  “Never from me.”

  “Maybe. But then again, I can’t have loads go missing through my plaza. It makes me look weak. It makes me look vulnerable. Do you think I am weak, Salazar?”

  “No, señor.”

  “Do you think I am vulnerable?”

  “No, señor.”

  “Do you think I am forgiving of incompetence?”

  Salazar said nothing. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. It had been a long time, but he felt his hand begin to shake as he pressed the phone to his ear. A bead of sweat ran down his temple.

  “Who were the couriers, Salazar?”

  He told him. He told the boss why he had chosen Tyler and Ignacio. Tyler, for his American citizenship, his appearance. Ignacio because of his loyalty. He told the boss how the two had made countless runs before without incident. He told him how the path was cleared well in advance, which border agents were patrolling the sector, which rancher he had paid off to get the trucks through. The location of the drop point. He told the boss everything.

  “And you trusted them?”

  “Yes.”

  “They told you they would never steal from you?”

  “Yes . . .” Salazar whispered, his own words coming back to him, now ringing foolish.

  “Find that load, Salazar. Find it soon. If you do not, I will need to find someone else to run my plaza.”

  The phone went dead.

  Salazar put his phone away. The cigar in his hand had burnt down, but in his anxiety he had crushed it between his fingers.

  He stared out at his city and saw it slowly slipping from his grasp.

  49

  The waves of campfire light filtered through the single-pane glass of the window above Edward’s head. He could not sleep, and after watching the glow move hypnotically in the dark, and tiring of the slow snoring of the other men in the bunkhouse, he stood and walked outside.

  The owner sat in a lawn chair out in the yard, his dark face illuminated at times by the fire, then disappearing again. Next to him was a cooler, in his hand a cerveza. A radio sat in the dirt and from it played a melody of accordion and horn music that to American ears was synonymous with the mysterious country to the south. The owner eyed Edward as he made his way to the fire, and when Ed arrived, the owner stood and produced another chair, which he placed across the pit from his own. Ed sat and his eyes went from the stars overhead to the dancing flames and back again. Eventually the silence was so overwhelming that the owner reached into the cooler, pulled out a cold bottle, and tossed it to Ed.

  “Thanks,” Ed said.

  “De nada.”

  Ed popped the cap and took a small sip.

  “Those men inside, you know them?” Ed said.

  The owner sat silent and calculated his words. “No. I don’t know them. But they are like so many others who have passed through. And there will be more tomorrow.”

  “You see a lot?”

  “Always.”

  The fire crackled and embers rose into the sky, ascending like small imitations of the stars above them.

  “Thanks for letting us stay.”

  “Like I said, Felipe asked, so I said yes.”

  Ed nodded and took another sip.

  The owner seemed to be wrestling with himself. He appeared as a man with a burning question but who also knew full well that his curiosity would do nothing more than give him an answer that he did not want to have. The silence between the two men felt like an iron weight that wanted to be cast off.

  “That other one,” the owner finally said, “he your boy?”

  “Yes.”

  The owner nodded.

  “What about you, any kids?”

  “Yes. I have a son.”

  The two drank from their respective bottles.

  “He live here with you?”

  The owner shook his head. “He’s in the north, with his mother.”

  “You see them much?”

  “Not as often as I’d like, but yes. Your son, he is the reason you are out here. I know that. What other reason could there be,” the owner said, more to himself than to Ed. “What other reason would you have not just gone through Juarez, or Nogales, or Nuevo Negaldo.”

  Ed eyed the owner as the Mexican continued with his mental conversation.

  “You need to get him across without eyes seeing him. That makes him dangerous. That makes you both dangerous. These other men will leave tomorrow and they will be gone. Or if they are caught and deported, they will come back again to make another crossing. But you two, your presence will linger here, and that is dangerous to all of us.”

  “We can go now, if that is what you want.”

  The owner came back out of his trance and looked at Ed. His eyes reflected the fire, but there was no malice in them, just the look of a man who had seen much.

  “No. You are here. Better that you had not come, but there is no changing that.”

  The owner stood, grabbed another piece of dried wood, and placed it on the fire. In another time they could have been two cowboys on the frontier, relaxing after a long day’s ride.

  “I can see why Felipe helped you. There is a brotherhood amongst fathers, though his children are not his own. I can see that. I can understand what you are doing. It’s why I help these men that come here. They go north for the same reason. Same reason as you. Some of their sons are there. Some of them are back south. They attempt the crossing to sacrifice for them. I did it for my boy. There is no life here. Not anymore. Only death and the masters of death. Life cannot grow here, and so these men go searching to find life and pass it to their sons in some form.”

  “Up until a week ago, his life was none of my business,” Ed said.

  “Until a few hours ago, your life was none of mine,” the owner said.

  “How hard is the crossing?”

  “It’s difficult, but not impossible.”

  “He’s hurt. Ty . . . my boy. His shoulder.”

  “It’s why you’re here, I guess. He needs to keep up or they’ll leave him behind.”

  Ed nodded and put his beer down on the ground. “I guess I better get some sleep then. I’ll be lugging his pack for him.”

  “Good night, americano.”

  Ed left the owner by the fire where his silhouette glowed demon-like in the high desert.

  50

  It was impossible to know what hour it was in the morning when the call went through the bunkhouse for all to rise and get outside. A flatbed pulled into the camp with the sound of a machine about to embark on its last operation. The migrants filed out into the dark, securing a spot on the vehicle, some sitting cross-legged, others stretching out. Ed followed his son out into the blackness, climbed aboard, and sat amongst the others. The truck jerked into gear and set off into the wastelands.

  They watched as the bunkhouse slowly faded from view, swallowed by the never-ending horizon which could have stretched untouched to the ends of the earth. The owner sat where Ed saw him last, next to the campfire, his feet on the cooler and his hat pulled low over his eyes. He would sit there in Ed’s memory until the end of time.

  The ruts and rocks of the road jostled the men about, but they swayed in cadence with the rolling country. Only Ed struggled to balance himself with each lurch of the truck. He had never learned the skill of riding bareback on a steel machine. The men were driven under the stars, far away from any man-made lights. Out where man had given up the idea of setting down roots.

  Time passed and the moon moved toward the western mountain range.

  The truck drove on.

  Ed looked at the faces of his fellow passengers half painted in the moonlight. Most looked out into the wilds, lost in thought. One man lay dozing against the cab, his cowboy hat held in hi
s hands, finding sleep as easy as a baby in a rocking cradle. Ed locked eyes with another man who just sat there with a half grin on his weathered face.

  Ed didn’t remember the man from the bunkhouse. He must have come on the truck. He was caught in the other’s trance when his son nudged his shoulder.

  “He asked me why we’re here,” Tyler said.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Not much.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Julio,” Tyler said, and with the sound of his name spoken, the man nodded his head and kept the same sadistic grin on his face. “He’s the coyote.”

  “The what?”

  “Coyote. The guide. He’s taking us across the border.”

  Julio slowly turned his head from Edward and spit out into the passing country.

  “Once we get across the wire, we’ll lose them,” Tyler said. “I don’t trust him here on this truck, I’m sure not going to trust him out on the trail.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?”

  “The others are fine. They’re nobodies. Farmers. Laborers. It’s him I don’t like. Pretty sure he can figure out why we’re here. Probably thinks there’s money to be had by us. Bounty, reward, something.”

  “You think there is?” Ed asked.

  “Not for him. If he manages to get us turned over to Salazar, he’ll be shot just like us. They won’t owe him anything. Doubt he thinks that, but it’s what they’ll do.”

  Ed nodded slightly and kept his eyes on the road behind him.

  The truck turned abruptly, almost throwing several of the men off the back. It burned a path across the hardpan and then came to a stop. Julio stood and started to shout in Spanish, pushing several of the men to get up, on their feet, vámonos. They all dismounted and gathered in the brush, waiting for the man to lead them to the promised land. Ed gathered both of their packs and followed Tyler at the back of the group. The truck turned in the dust and disappeared, a similar scene as the one that had brought them to the migrant shelter.

  They walked for a short time, crested a ridge, and headed toward a mesquite thicket on the downward slope.

  Julio shouted out more commands and the men spread out, taking up plots of ground under the limbs, each to their own thoughts. Julio took the highest perch, sitting by himself, the others sprawled out, waiting for the sun to crest the eastern hills.

  “What are we doing?”

  “We are waiting for daylight to cross those hills there. On the other side, we’ll hole up until evening, then make the crossing at dark.”

  Ed looked at Tyler for more explanation.

  “They can’t just drop these guys off at the wire. Mexico and the US are both pushing out space on both sides of the line. We’re about ten miles south of the crossing. It’s better to walk those miles when you can at least see where you’re stepping. Then, once it’s dark, you’re all set to go.”

  Ed nodded, the realization that this was so planned out coming as a shock to him, even more so that Tyler knew the system as well as he seemed to.

  “Happens every day. In fact, I’d bet there’s several groups within a couple miles of us,” Tyler went on.

  “Each one led by a guy like Julio?” Ed said, motioning slightly toward the coyote, who continued to stare at him from his perch.

  “Yeah. There’s no shortage of them.”

  Ed tried to relax on the hard ground. His body was already hurting, and the idea that this was just the beginning slowly started to make itself known in his mind.

  51

  It was morning twilight when they heard commotion on the ridge above them. An older man and a young boy walked down from the hilltop carrying with them several jugs of water. The old man had a cowboy hat on his head, long black hair, and beads around his neck. His white button-up shirt was pressed and seemed to glow in the dark, making his descent easy to track. His boots planted firmly into the hillside with each step. The boy accompanying him walked meekly behind him like a small dog, handing out water containers to the disheveled group. Words were exchanged in Spanish between them. The old man walked over and squatted next to the nearest migrant, exchanged a bit of conversation, and then proceeded to perform a blessing over him. Once done, he stood, shook the migrant’s hand, and went on to the next one.

  “He’s a priest,” Tyler said.

  “Yeah, I figured that,” Ed said.

  To Ed, it was starting to seem that Mexico was filled with only bandits and holy men. Perhaps they were one and the same.

  The priest stood and walked up to Julio. The coyote was still commanding the high ground above his flock of border crossers. As the old man started the ritual, Julio shook his head and waved the holy man away. Instead of a blessing, the priest held out a jug of water, which Julio took without complaint.

  The holy man made his way down the slope and stood before the two gringos. His face was puzzled and in his deep-set eyes it was apparent that he was both confused and a bit amused. He spoke rapidly in Spanish, but his intonation made it clear that he was asking a question of Ed. Ed nodded, and the man slowly launched into his rehearsed uttering, moving his hands over the space above their heads, blessing the two on their journey al norte.

  The priest finished and walked down the hill, disappearing into the brush. The young boy, now empty-handed, sat on the ground and rested his feet, waiting for the priest to return. The migrants stood and followed the priest, all except for Julio, who remained seated, watching the procession from his perch. Ed and Tyler followed the others.

  About a hundred yards down the trail where the hill ended in a dry arroyo, they found the priest standing in front of a makeshift shrine, the others standing behind him, their heads bowed in prayer.

  “Toribio Romo,” Tyler whispered to his father, “the saint of border crossers.”

  Ed looked at his son.

  “Supposedly, if you get lost in the desert, Romo appears to rescue you and helps you find a job in the US.”

  “They think this helps?” Ed asked.

  “They’ll take any help they can get. There are shrines all over. Toribio ain’t so bad. The ones who pray to Santa Muerta are the ones who give me the creeps.”

  Ed looked at his son again as a question.

  “Death.”

  They both looked on as each of the migrants produced small trinkets from their packs.

  “This land is haunted by saints,” Tyler said. “The narcos pray to Malverde, these guys to Toribio. But the nasty ones worship Muerta. Our lady of death. Violence is a religion, and she is their holy mother.”

  “Do you get into all this?” Edward asked.

  “It comes and goes. When Roberto shot me, I prayed to whoever out there might be listening.”

  The migrants lined up and began laying down small offerings on the shrine. When they stood, the priest handed them a little card. On it was a picture of Toribio. A sanctified baseball card. The old man handed one to Ed, who looked at it and put it in his pocket.

  The priest led the procession back up the hill to the makeshift camp. Dawn had arrived and the holy man and the young boy disappeared above the ridge to wherever it was that they had come from.

  Ed watched them leave and then turned to see Julio staring at him, the same old sadistic grin on his face. It made him uneasy. The man had less the countenance of a coyote and more that of a vulture. Julio got up, put his bag on his back, and led the way down the arroyo, past the shrine, and north to the distant hills.

  They all followed quietly, each to their own thoughts.

  52

  Roberto had laid low at his mother’s house for several days and he was as restless as ever. By now, Tyler should be on his way to America. He was now in the past. In a couple days it would be behind them. Everything would be back to normal and his stupid act of keeping a gringo alive would be lost to history.

  He didn’t sleep that well, his body tossing and turning, his thoughts racing through every possible fallacy in his plan. How he could be exposed.
How he could be found out. Perhaps this was his new life, wondering at every moment if Salazar and the Cartel had discovered that he’d double-crossed them. The drive out to the airstrip almost pushed him over the edge, his anxiety making him sick. He was becoming paranoid. If he was stoned, he could blame the drugs, but he was stone-cold sober, and the only thing driving his hysteria was the fear of a bullet smashing his skull when he least expected it.

  It was just after dawn when his cell phone buzzed on the table next to his bed.

  “Yeah,” Roberto said.

  “Roberto, outside. You need to come quick,” Miguel said.

  “What is it?”

  “Outside. I’ll tell you when you come out.”

  Was Miguel going to be the one to end it? Would he take more than two steps out the door before his friend blew him away? At least he had the courtesy to do the deed outside his mother’s house. Roberto grabbed his gun and tucked it in his pants.

  He peeked through the front window. The street was empty save for the old Buick and Miguel wedged behind the steering wheel. He stepped outside and felt the first rays of day hit his face and nothing else. Miguel waved him over, to hurry up and get in.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s your uncle.”

  “What happened.”

  “It’s bad, bro. They did him bad.”

  The two headed for Iglesia de Señor de la Misericordia, Miguel aggressive on the corners as he weaved through town. He had received a call on his cell from one of Los Diablos. They drove through the crowded streets until they reached the church. A large group of people who had begun their day heading to work had traded that idea to form a crowd in front of the gates of the church.

  Miguel pulled the car over and Roberto was out and running before they came to a full stop. Miguel stayed behind as his partner broke through the mob of gawkers. Roberto knew what he would find when he saw the crowd, but he was not prepared for the excess that Salazar’s men had gone to.