‘Shut the fuck up.’ Iwata glared at him, then turned back to Diego. ‘Now, look. It’s easy. You just hold it like this –’
‘See you in LA.’ He broke into a sprint.
‘Diego!’
His head was down, his arms were pumping, zigzagging across the desert.
‘Son of a bitch.’ Iwata wheeled out from behind the bluff and fired in the direction of the shooter. He gave it three seconds then fired again, but the barrel slid open. He was empty. In the adrenaline, he had forgotten to check his rounds. Diego was halfway across.
‘Diego!’
His face was red with determination, he was running as hard as he could. The bullet hit him in the cheek. Diego staggered, then foundered, then fell. His body quivered. And he was still.
Iwata screamed, hammering the empty pistol against the rock. It made snack snack snack sounds in the silent desert afternoon.
A little after nightfall Iwata slipped out behind the bluff and braced himself for the shot. Nothing came except a cold, buffeting wind. The old man was silent, the smell of flesh already notable in the air. Iwata hurried past him and reached Diego. Through the bullet hole in the side of his face, he could see fillings. Iwata put his hand on Diego’s face and shut his eyes, his eyelids cold as pebbles.
Returning to the walnut tree where they had taken refuge earlier, Iwata desperately gorged on water. He saw the cactus field off to the left.
‘Hello?’
No answer.
Iwata got closer. ‘Hello?’
‘We’re here.’ The woman’s voice was small.
Iwata waded into the cacti, the thick spines ribboning through his flesh. He reached into the prickly chaos for the boy. Santi began to scream as the movement cut him, but he was soon out. Iwata washed the boy of blood and filth, then applied disinfectant and plasters.
‘It hurts!’ Santi wailed.
‘I know, son.’ Iwata wrapped him in blankets and set him by the tree. ‘Now I’m going to go after your mami, okay? Stay right here.’
Breathing deeply, Iwata again waded into the cactus field, the cuts worse than before, fresh ones ripping into old. He reached the woman. There was foam around her mouth. She was convulsing.
‘Are you hit?’
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t breathe.’
Iwata knelt down and ran his hands over her but felt no wound. ‘You need to drink.’ He eased the woman up and saw a crushed bark scorpion beneath her. Kicking it away, he laid her back down. She bucked for a few seconds and then seemed to ease. He washed away the froth from her mouth and tried to grasp for some solution.
‘San— … Santi …’ The woman grunted.
‘He’s fine. He’s going to be fine.’
‘You … plea— … plea— … He’s fi— … five. Don’t leave … him. Don’t …’
‘All right.’ Iwata looked at the horizon. ‘I’ll take him.’
The woman grabbed his hand and nodded furiously, her eyes fixed hard on him. Then the nodding stopped and her grip slackened. Iwata whispered a prayer and closed her eyelids.
In her pockets he found the boy’s ID card. His name was Santiago Buendía. Taking Cookie’s digital compass, Iwata noted the coordinates down. They would be needed one day.
Then, checking the horizon for any sign of the white truck, he picked Santi up. ‘Come on, son. We have to go.’
For miles and miles, the boy cried for his mother. The wind sang through the cacti, their stems bobbing in delight.
Iwata carried a sleeping Santi on his shoulders through the darkness, trembling, bleeding but adamant that the boy would get out of this place. The saltgrass danced with the wind. The cold hurt and smelled of sweet four o’clocks. The towering saguaro cacti loomed. A pocket mouse scurried over some rocks. Santi laid his head on Iwata’s crown and he held him tight by the ankles, as though a lifebuoy. Every so often, he would check over his shoulder for the men in the white truck. There was no sign of them; as if they had been imagined.
Iwata’s body was a wreck, but he felt something strange inside, something unfamiliar – an intense warmth, a determination. And in that moment Iwata realized he had a new reason to go on. To protect this boy.
At midday they stopped under a rocky outcropping for shade and water. Iwata gave the boy the last of the tuna flakes. The water was almost gone.
‘I’m tired.’ Santi spoke with a full mouth.
‘How about a story?’
‘What kind of story?’
‘Which do you like?’
‘It depends on my mood.’ Santi cocked his head. ‘What’s that over there?’
Iwata followed the boy’s gaze. In the distance, there was a strange crucifix. Then another. Then another. They had been in the desert for four days and three nights. They had been burned. They had been shot at. Between the hunger and a throbbing headache it took Iwata a moment to realize what he was looking at. Telephone poles.
They ran out from beneath the outcropping, across the salty moonscape and over the crest of a scraggy slope. Below them, the telephone poles flanked an old back road.
Whooping with joy, Iwata and Santi rushed down the slope. Across the road, there was an old service phone. Without stopping to thank the stars, Iwata dialled Callie Mendoza’s number.
‘Hello?’
The relief of that single word demolished him. ‘Callie … It’s me.’
‘Kosuke? My god, where are you?’
Iwata began to sob.
Callie Mendoza pulled up outside 3375 Descanso Drive a little after 6 a.m. She carried a sleeping Santi up the stairs to the apartment, then went back down for Iwata, who could barely stand. She put the boy to sleep in the bedroom, leaving the door open. Then she sat next to Iwata on the sofa and held his hand.
‘What now?’ she asked. ‘Do you even know?’
‘No.’
Callie put her head on his shoulder. He was already asleep.
Over the next few days Iwata searched for Mara Zambrano. She was tangled up with John Smith, one way or another. And she was in danger, whether she understood it or not. But Mara was nowhere to be found.
Iwata returned to Club Noir, but nobody there had heard the name. He tried other trans bars, then hostels, shelters, emergency housing resources. He looked under bridges, in abandoned trains, old water towers. He searched storm drains, Skid Row, the mountain forests. Sometimes, through the window of a restaurant, Iwata would see a shoulder or a strand of blonde hair that would make his chest swell. Sitting at level crossings, as a train thundered past, he would swear he had seen her face in the blur. He walked into hotel lobbies with the feeling she had just been there. In empty crack dens, he traced the walls with his hands and his fingers would come back rich with the scent of her.
In the evenings Iwata returned home to Descanso Drive and spent time with Callie Mendoza and little Santiago Buendía. They played games, practised English, watched TV. Happy families from the outside looking in – absurd bliss.
But Callie’s mood changed. One week after she had saved Iwata from the desert she left with Santi to stay with her sister. Iwata understood. There was no sense in getting comfortable in their bubble. Bubbles popped.
When they were gone he tidied the apartment and felt their absence. The open window let in the distant hum of city life. He saw his Spanish CDs on the table, the newspaper ad for the Japanese singles night his mother had sent him, the sweet bay plant in the corner.
But after groping through the darkness for John Smith, blundering through Ciudad Cabral and surviving the desert, those domestic mementos felt like the version of Iwata that never was, the Iwata that had fooled himself into happiness.
Iwata realized now that he only ever was, and only ever would be, a cutting tool, an instrument of discovery. I’m sorry, but you’re a born cop. McCrae had been right.
As if seizing on his return to solitude, the phone rang. Lost in thought, Iwata answered.
‘Hello again, Inspector.’
‘… Mara?’
‘Who else.’
His heart thudded. ‘Where are you?’
‘Don’t ask me anything, just answer one question. Do you want to know the truth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then write down these coordinates.’
Iwata fumbled for a pen and scribbled them down. ‘Mara, we need to talk.’
‘Once you’ve reached those coordinates, you’ll need to head back to the Tucson–Ajo Highway heading east. When you come to San Humberto, make the turning and you’ll reach a place called Cactus Café. Get there by tomorrow afternoon. Oh, and if I were you? I’d be ready.’
‘Ready for what?’
‘Goodbye, Inspector.’
‘Mara, wait –’
The line was already dead. Iwata looked at the coordinates and hastily scribbled directions. Hanging up the phone, he dialled another number.
‘Mingo, it’s me.’
‘Hey, Yojimbo. How’s –’
‘Listen, I need a gun. And I need it today.’
25. Huxley, Arizona
The sun was rising and Iwata was back in the desert. After renting a Toyota 4Runner and collecting the gun from Mingo, he had left Los Angeles and driven through the night. The road this far out was old, its cracked yellow centre lines running far into the horizon. On either side, there was nothing more than empty, benign scenery. But Iwata saw the desert differently now, like looking at a calm sea and knowing it could swallow you whole.
Following the coordinates Mara had given him, Iwata turned off-road and rumbled into the desert in low gear. He didn’t know what he was driving into, answers or a trap – though Mara had promised him the truth, both seemed equally plausible.
A few miles later Iwata came to a small stream. There was a figure lying next to the water. Getting out of the truck, Iwata looked around then knelt down to examine the body. The man had been young, probably no more than twenty, wearing camouflage clothes and an LA Dodgers hat that had fallen off. No belongings, nothing to identify him.
There were two bullet holes. The first was much larger, clean through the shoulder blade. The second was at the nape of the neck, a black, powdery, circular, burning stain around the wound.
Contact shot. An execution.
Iwata stood and surveyed the land. He saw tyre tracks that led down from a hillock to the east, then carried on south past the body.
‘They shot you from up there … With something high-powered …’ He swept his finger along the tracks and stopped at the stream. ‘Then came down to finish you off.’
Iwata thought about the two men with the white truck that had attacked his own group. Were they responsible for this body also? And if so, why? Familia Cabral snipers protecting their trafficking routes? Bandits? Border vigilantes ‘defending’ their country?
Iwata got back into the 4Runner and tapped the wheel. Mara had given him specific coordinates, and the tyre tracks that ran past the body seemed to be heading in the same direction.
A quarter of an hour later he stopped again. He had arrived at a small scrub forest too dense to drive through. The sound of the engine sent a volt of vultures screeching up into the air. Iwata got out and checked his location against the coordinates. He was close.
Gun in hand, Iwata fought his way through the branches and came to a clearing awash with colour. Bright T-shirts, jeans, orphaned shoes and hundreds of empty bottles: Sunkist, grape soda, Squirt, Jarritos, Tamarindo Sol, Coca-Cola, Pepsi. But between the foliage the most prominent colour was red. Blood. Bodies. Spent shells glinting gold in the sunlight. Now there was the smell; somehow it was cold, an unholy mix of putrid meat and shit.
Covering his face, Iwata stepped deeper into the scrub. There was a sound, strange and restless. It became a loud roaring, like a freeway. In the next clearing he saw a mass of black flies buzzing angrily around the massacre – open wounds, open mouths, open eyes. The bodies had all fallen face forward, hands at their sides. The backpacks had been heaped in a corner, pockets hanging open. Money had been taken.
In the madness, Iwata realized he recognized some of the victims from the migrant refuge. They were all wearing the wristbands according to blood type that had been given out by the medical team. All of them were the same colour – red.
Iwata forced his vomit back down and staggered back to the 4Runner. He checked the coordinates Mara had given him again. This was the place. She had promised him the truth, yet he had found only death. Perhaps she would explain at the meeting place.
The Cactus Café turned out to be a dusty little roadside diner with a neon sign that declared it open twenty-four hours a day. A sandwich board outside had been adorned in colourful chalk flowers and a phrase in cursive:
THERE IS NO O’ODHAM WORD FOR WALL
Iwata parked in the lot. Getting out, he squinted up at the sun. The midday heat was brutal. In the little phone box at the back of the gas station, he found the number for the local police department and called anonymously. He reported multiple homicides in a shrub forest, gave the coordinates and hung up.
Iwata turned towards the diner, looking for Mara already. He was early but she was unpredictable. He almost missed the white Ford Raptor with the green stripe. But there it was. It was instantly familiar, gleaming white in the sunlight. This was the vehicle he had seen up on the hill the other night, the one belonging to the snipers. What Iwata had not seen was the blue eagle symbol and the words beneath it:
BORDER PATROL
Glancing around, Iwata circled the truck. The registration plate had the seal of the Department of Homeland Security. Crouching down, he saw the dirt on the tyres was fresh, the same rich orange as on his own. On tiptoes, he peered into the bed of the truck. Inside, there were spent shell casings. Blood smudges.
‘Shit.’
Iwata chewed his lips for a moment. Mara had promised the truth. She had not said she would meet him. First, she had given the coordinates. Second, the diner. Was she saying the first led directly to the second?
Iwata approached the diner and peered through the window. He pretended to read the menu board as he scanned the room. The place was busy: families, workers at lunch. Mara was nowhere to be seen. At the back there were two men in dark green Border Patrol uniforms. The larger one was blond, blue-eyed and large-chinned. The patch on his shirt read: COUSINS. The smaller man had dark hair, his eyes hidden behind aviators. He was ignoring his partner as he tugged on a thin moustache. His patch read: ORTEGA.
Iwata slunk out of view. There’s blood and bullets in their truck and they stop for cherry pie and ice tea? It all felt off. Still, Iwata had seen their faces now. He knew their vehicle. It was just a question of waiting.
Iwata watched Ortega and Cousins for six hours. They drank coffee, smoked and checked out the waitresses. They obviously weren’t there for each other’s company. Iwata figured they were waiting for something or someone. He floated the idea they were waiting for Mara.
At 4 p.m., however, the smaller man got a call. They hurried to the truck and screeched out of the lot, hitting the freeway at speed. Iwata followed. The rented 4Runner was generic and these men weren’t the sort to be checking behind them.
They drove north for half an hour until they made a turning.
Iwata overshot, gave it two miles then turned around. He took the same turning as the border-patrol truck. It was a small, uphill road without any kind of signage. At first dusty and full of holes, after half a mile the tarmac suddenly became liquorice-smooth as it dipped downwards.
Out of nowhere, a town appeared. It was in a desert basin unseen from the freeway, wedged in between mountains. The town-limits sign had no slogan, no motto, no information beyond its founding year of 2010 and a population of just a few hundred. It read:
HUXLEY, ARIZONA
26. Nightlight
Iwata drove slowly on to the main strip and stopped the car. Huxley was spread thin, the desert visible through gaps between houses and buildings. He scanned the street but saw n
o one. Nobody jogging. Nobody walking a dog. Nobody sitting on their porch enjoying the sunset. Windows were dark. Drapes were closed. Businesses shut.
Yet the streetlamps were on. The gas station at the end of the strip was illuminated. Although, looking around now, he realized there were no cars whatsoever. It seemed as if Huxley had been abandoned, yet the buildings looked new.
Iwata circled the town twice in search of an explanation, some trace of normality. He found none. On the south side of the town the houses seemed less new. What Iwata noticed first were the faux balconies, little wooden artifices. Then he considered the houses themselves. On closer inspection, they seemed like flimsy, nonsense houses. The lawns were overgrown, the driveways were cracked, the roads too. It was as if Iwata had stumbled on to a movie set that nobody had remembered to dismantle. All the windows on this street were dark. There was no noise, no movement; no signs of day-to-day life.
Iwata got back in the car and pulled a U-turn, heading back towards the main strip. He would start knocking on doors if he had to, but he wasn’t leaving Huxley without an explanation. As he made a left the border-patrol truck squealed up behind him.
Iwata stopped the car. There was an uncertain silence now, only the sound of his breathing and running engines.
The one Iwata recognized as Cousins got out and approached the window. Up close, he was clean-shaven and muscular. His eyes roved through the 4Runner before finally settling on Iwata himself.
‘Evening.’ There was a warm drawl to his voice.
‘There a problem, Officer?’
‘No problem. Only you look a little turned about.’
Iwata smiled sheepishly. ‘I’m kind of lost.’
‘Okay.’ Cousins circled the SUV, his eyes flicking down to the tyres. ‘But, uh, how come you’re lost here?’
‘Thought there might be gas.’
‘Down an unmarked service road?’ Cousins looked at the fuel gauge. ‘And you must be a careful driver. You’re plum two-thirds full.’
‘It’s a big desert. Anything could happen.’
‘Well, I guess that’s about true.’ Cousins smiled acridly then stood up straight. ‘But there ain’t no gas here, sir. So please go on back the way you came now.’
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