Diego crouched low and peered at the scene again. He watched Cutbirth return to where Rosie Montoya stood, her brown face losing some of its color. Rosie had removed her backpack and Cutbirth picked it up and heaved it into the thick brush not far from where he had thrown the paddle.
“Please don’t hurt me, Mr. Cutbirth,” Rosie repeated. “I’ll do anything you ask. Sexual favors, perhaps.” She tried to smile seductively. “With all due respect, I see the way you look at Sissy and Mrs. Sanchez…especially Mrs. Sanchez. I know you have…needs, Mr. Cutbirth. Sexual needs. And you stopped at that whorehouse….”
Cutbirth threw back his head and laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I want, Mojado. A quickie right here in the middle of nowhere.”
Rosie fell silent.
Diego felt his own body shaking with a sick panic.
“Father Padilla vouched for you, Mojado,” Cutbirth said. “Is my parish priest a government informant or did you trick him?”
“I tricked him,” Rosie confessed quietly. “He has no idea I’m working for the government.”
“And the money, the forty grand. The government provided that?”
Rosie nodded.
“What does your Bible say about betrayal?” The question had been delivered with a sinister tranquility.
When Rosie didn’t reply, Cutbirth said in a loud voice, speaking each word distinctly. “Tell me what your Bible says about betrayal! You seem to be an expert on Biblical sayings, so let’s hear it!”
Rosie spoke in little more than a whisper and Diego strained to make sense of her words. “‘Then Judas, who had betrayed him, when he saw he was condemned, repented himself, and brought again the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders, saying, “I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood.” And they said, “What is that to us?”’”
Cutbirth smiled. “Very good. You do know your Bible. I’m impressed.”
The light south wind was steady and Diego could hear every word distinctly.
“You have to believe me when I say I will not betray you a second time,” Rosie pleaded. “I, too, have betrayed the innocent blood, but I will not do it again.” A curious smile quivered on her lips. “I could be a double agent. I could find out where the bounty hunters are located. What their plans are.”
“You won’t betray me a second time,” Cutbirth said. “First time, shame on you. Second time, shame on me.” He paused, thinking. “Who were you talking to? Who’s your contact?”
Rosie did not hesitate. “The San Francisco National Police Chief, Manuel Oliva. He knows all about you, Arnold, er, Mr. Cutbirth. He’s tired of you smuggling people across the border. He says it’s becoming just like the underground railroad that was used by Negro slaves before the Civil War to escape to the North and freedom.”
“Underground. He’s got that part right,” Cutbirth said. “What did you tell him?”
“Only that we were in Missouri, and that his bounty hunters had lost the trail,” Rosie said.
“That’s it?” Cutbirth questioned, his animalistic glare squarely on her. “You didn’t mention anything about a cave?”
“I didn’t get a chance,” she said quietly. “But it doesn’t matter. The bounty hunters plan on killing everyone before you get to the Demarcation Zone.”
“I’m not surprised,” Cutbirth said. He paused, and then said, “Did you steal Little Mother’s pain patches?”
“No, I swear,” Rosie said, shaking her head. “I had no reason to steal them.”
“Do you know you did?”
“No.”
“How did the bounty hunters find us? How did they know we were headed to the Mark Twain National Park?”
“Just like we talked about, there’s a tracking device on your motor home,” Rosie said. “It was fastened to the rear bumper the night before you left San Francisco. I think Uno attached it.”
“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Cutbirth moaned.
“The National Police believe this might be your last trip across the border. They know if they want to catch you, they’ll have to do it now. They’re tired of you slipping through their fingers.”
“They’re right. This is my last trip.”
“And there’s something else.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Will you promise not to kill me?”
“Let’s hear it, I said.”
“There’s another tracking device attached to the bottom of Emily’s backpack,” Rosie said. “I attached it early this morning.”
“Who has the locator?”
“The bounty hunters and the National Police.”
Arnold Cutbirth stood motionless. He made a blowing sound through his nose.
Rosie extended her open palms, summoning Cutbirth’s indulgence. “Mr. Cutbirth, I’m begging. Please don’t hurt me. I needed the money for my daughter in San Bernardino. Her husband left her with two babies at home. My grandbabies. She’s about to lose her house to the bank. I was going to use the money to bail her out. You have to believe me. These are difficult times in which we live.”
Diego’s uneasy feeling was now a nagging portent.
Cutbirth ordered Rosie to stand with her back against a nearby tree. He tied her hands behind her back, and then wrapped the rope around the tree a half-dozen times. It bound Rosie’s torso and waist and legs to the tree. He pulled the rope tight—it cut into the fabric of her clothes and skin.
“You know I have to do it, Rosie,” Cutbirth said in a low malevolent voice.
“No, you don’t have to do it,” Rosie begged. “You don’t.” She began to weep.
Diego watched and listened. He could smell the foul odor of vomit rising up in his stomach.
“I suppose I could cut out your tongue, Mojado,” Cutbirth said. “Then you couldn’t tell the bounty hunters my plan. I expect they’ll be along any time now.”
“Yes, cut…cut out my tongue, but don’t…don’t kill me.” Sweat rolled down Rosie’s plump cheeks to merge with her tears.
“But then you could write, so I’d have to cut off both your hands.”
Quit taunting her, for Christ’s sake, Diego thought.
“Yes, anything, just don’t kill me. I told you about the tracking devices. I could be a trusted ally….”
Cutbirth suddenly had a knife in his hand. It appeared as if out of nowhere. Diego watched in frightful silence as Cutbirth stepped over and grabbed Rosie by her hair and raised her head. She closed her eyes and uttered a startled cry of fear. With his other hand, Cutbirth laid the wide blade on one side of her throat. The blade glimmered in the dim light of dawn.
“Sorry, Mojado, but it has to be this way.”
“Stop, there’s something else!” Rosie cried. “Something else you need to know!”
“You’re out of time, Rosie.”
“No, no, I swear. When I tell you, you’ll thank me.”
“Say it.” Cutbirth continued to hold the blade against her neck.
“You have to promise not to kill me,” Rosie said, her voice quivering. “You won’t even want to kill me when I tell you. It has to do with the law about taking rabbits dead or alive. It’s about the new rules of engagement. I swear to you—”
“Sorry, Mojado, that dog won’t hunt.”
Cutbirth pushed the blade deep into the right side of Rosie’s throat and swiped it across her neck in one swift and violent motion. Rosie’s jugular vein and carotid artery had been severed, and two fountains of blood spewed from the open flap of skin. Cutbirth jumped back to avoid being drenched.
The first thing that struck Diego was Rosie’s eyes. They were as wide and wet as any human eyes he had ever seen. They were almost cartoonish. Except there was nothing remotely amusing about what had happened, and Diego turned away with a dry heave, his muffled spasm masked by the horrifying sound of Rosie’s gargled, choking scream. It seemed to go on and on and on. His stomach muscle cramping into a hard fist, Diego gagged on another dry heave. Terror-shaken, his pan
ic had turned to agony—Rosie’s screams continued to echo through the woods—and he covered his ears.
Bad shit happens.
Crouching in the bed of ferns, Diego waited a full minute before taking his hands away from his ears. Rosie’s gargled screams had ceased. He peered through the window of stems and leaves. She stood lifeless tied to the tree, her body slumping against the rope, her head drooped onto her chest. Blood had soaked into her T-shirt and shorts, and ran down both bare legs.
Cutbirth was nowhere to be seen through the tiny window of foliage, and Diego rose up slightly. Off to his left, down by the river, Cutbirth was on one knee at the water’s edge cleaning his knife, his back to Diego.
Drawing an anxious breath and trying to clear his head, Diego crawled out from beneath the overgrowth of ferns, and ran back up the trail toward the others, the unspeakable sound of Rosie choking and gagging on her own blood splashing around inside his head. It was a vile sound he would never forget.
Diego had covered about half the distance when he turned off into the woods and stumbled down to the river. The first rays of sunshine had penetrated the forest, and the long, bright shafts of light made odd geometric shapes between the trees. Diego crouched at the river’s edge and splashed water onto his face. His nausea had been replaced with sorrow and he fought the sob that was caught in his throat.
***
Five minutes later, Diego walked up the path and rejoined the group.
Adriana said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s the heat,” Diego said.
“Is Rosie okay?”
“Yeah, she and Cutbirth were talking. I didn’t want to interrupt them.”
He could still hear Rosie’s pleas and her wet screams.
Cutbirth joined them minutes later. It was not yet 7:00, but the air was already sauna-hot. Cutbirth’s coveralls were soaked to the bone and the sweat cascaded down his caveman face and back. Everyone jumped to their feet as Cutbirth approached.
“Where’s Rosie?” Adriana asked, looking past Cutbirth, her eyes tracing back along the narrow woodlands trail.
Diego had not revealed what he had seen. He had decided he would never tell the story, not unlike his sad secret about Raul Perez.
“She won’t be joining us,” Cutbirth said in a businesslike voice. He unscrewed the cap from his canteen and took a drink. He next tipped his canteen and splashed his face with water.
“What do you mean, Mr. Cutbirth?” Adriana asked, eyeing him strangely.
“I mean Rosie Montoya was a mole, Little Mother. I caught her leaving a sign for the bounty hunters.”
“I knew we had a mole!” Yong yipped, kicking the dirt.
“Easy, Yong,” Sam said, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Oh, this is just wonderful!” Henry crowed. “Just fucking wonderful!”
“Please don’t use the F-word in front of Emily,” Sissy said.
“Whatever,” Henry complained.
“What kind of a sign?” Yong asked.
“What difference does it make?” Cutbirth said impatiently. He seemed in no mood to defend his actions. “She was a mole. A government mole.” He clipped his canteen onto his belt. “Leave it at that.”
“I’m afraid I can’t leave it at that,” Yong said, locking eyes with Cutbirth. “I refuse to be a party to murder.”
Sam looked at Yong, then at Cutbirth, his expression dimming. “You didn’t kill her, did you, Mr. Cutbirth? Tell me you didn’t kill her.”
Rosie’s screams continued to ricochet wildly in Diego’s brain.
Alarmed by all the talk of killing, Emily stepped behind her mother. She peeked out guardedly at Cutbirth.
“The bitch was sticking a paddle in the mud,” Cutbirth said, glaring at each of them. “She knew the bounty hunters would be back looking for us. She was leaving them a sign. She was on her cell phone giving her contact all the details when I arrived. Must I remind you? It’s dead or alive for rabbits. This is a game. It’s called survival of the fittest.” He paused, and in a quiet voice said, “I have no desire to have my neck stretched by a hangman’s noose.”
Yong said, “We didn’t see a cell phone when she emptied her backpack.”
“She probably kept it in her bra,” Cutbirth said.
“Did she take my Z patches?” Adriana said.
“She said she didn’t,” Cutbirth said. “I believe her.”
“What made you think she was a mole?” Yong asked.
“When you’ve done this border-crossing as many times as I have,” Cutbirth said, “you develop a sixth sense about people. She failed the sniff test.”
“Who was she talking to?” Yong asked.
“Who do you think she was talking to?” Cutbirth said bitterly. “The National Police.”
“Are they close?” Henry asked, looking back down the trail. “Did she give them our location?”
“She was talking to the National Police in California,” Cutbirth said. “She was talking to her handler, and no, she didn’t give them our location. I busted her before she had a chance.”
Diego decided to speak. If he remained silent, Cutbirth might suspect that he’d seen him cut Rosie’s throat. Diego didn’t want Cutbirth to know.
“What about a tracking device,” Diego said. “Did she know anything about that?”
Cutbirth said, “She said Uno attached one beneath the rear bumper of the Winnebago before I left the city.”
“Jesus, Cutbirth, the National Police want you in a bad way,” Diego said. “A mole, a tracking device, and two bounty hunters.”
“There’s one other thing….” Cutbirth stepped over to where Emily stood behind her mother. He picked up her dolphin-stenciled backpack lying on the ground at her feet. He held the backpack up and removed a small metallic slug attached to the bottom. He held the slivery slug out for everyone to see. “Rosie planted this tracking device on Emily’s backpack this morning.”
“I knew there was something fishy about that Montoya woman,” Henry said. “You can’t trust Mexicans.”
The stress of the past three days was beginning to infect each of them—it was like a rotting corpse and Diego could almost smell the odor of decay—and Yong responded with a clenched fist in Henry’s face. “How about Asians, you racist bastard? Can you trust them?”
“You tell me, Yong,” Henry said, his mouth drawing up into an ugly snarl.
“Enough!” Cutbirth cried, glaring at the men. “Rosie won’t be talking to anyone.”
No one spoke. Somewhere in the forest a crow cawed. A second crow answered.
And then, from a distance, came the unmistakable whirl of helicopter blades slicing through the dense morning air. Cowering, everyone looked up at the sky. The stomach-churning reverberations grew fainter and fainter, and in a few moments the sounds of the forest returned.
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