* * *
—
AMADOR SAID THE ATTACK was the work of the mayor and his wife, who’d always been associated with the narcos. The mayor had started off as a simple street vendor, selling watches from the United States, and his wife had won a small local beauty pageant, years ago. They were royalty in Ojinaga now, owning several stores there and a second casa in Lomas de Chapultepec, in Mexico City. Carmelita was less sure, but to Chayo it made no difference who’d attacked the buses, or why.
None of that would return Castel or his other friends.
None of that would give Neva back her smile.
* * *
—
FOUR DAYS AFTER THE ATTACK, a picture appeared online first, and then was picked up by all the news.
It was everywhere, inescapable.
It showed a boy on a pile of garbage, half buried in mud. His clothes were pulled up, torn off in some places, and deep cigarette burns tattooed his chest and stomach. There were purple bruises around his throat, and his hands and feet had been severed.
There was a tennis shoe soaked in blood sitting empty and upright by an outstretched, handless arm.
His face had been peeled off, removed. His ojos had been taken as well, scooped out, and his ears were gone.
He’d been tortured and mutilated and thrown in a trash heap on the outskirts of Ojinaga.
He was faceless, nameless.
But he had the distinctive shaved head of a normalista from the Escuela Normal Rural Librado Rivera.
* * *
—
IN THE HOURS AND DAYS immediately following the attack, a few of the normalistas who’d survived came out of hiding, and it seemed that everyone in the world was still looking for the others. But after that picture, no one else returned.
The final number of students who’d disappeared was nineteen.
But not all who survived came out of hiding. Not Chayo. He recognized the tortured boy in the photograph, the tennis shoes and the ruined clothes.
He didn’t need the missing face to know it was Batista.
* * *
—
SHE COULDN’T SPEAK, but she didn’t have to.
Neva wasn’t crying anymore, but lay still and silent on the small bed Carmelita had made up for her. The old woman brought tortillas for him and soup and water for her, but Neva wanted none of it.
She just stared into the darkness, seeing and unseeing, and let Chayo hold her.
Amador moved their one tiny TV in for them to watch, alone, but Chayo only searched for American shows, like the ones Neva had talked about before. They lay there together in the TV’s faint glow, let it flicker over them like the light of faraway stars, and he whispered to her for hours. Stories about growing up in Blanco and fishing with his papa, and the smell of blood from a newly birthed calf; how it was always his job to help the animal stand on its spindly legs, and the sound of its first live breaths against his chest.
Eating fresh zarca, pulling it apart with his fingers beneath a midday sun, and the way the juice stained his fingers for days.
Drinking from a well his uncle had dug, how the water from it was always so cold and came from a deep part of the earth that no one had ever seen. He had believed there was something magical about it and maybe there was.
Smelling the stew his mama would make from xoconostle peels that was sweet and sour and burned all the way down his throat.
When Neva had first walked up to the bus—smiling, laughing—he’d thought to himself that he’d carry her all the way to Chihuahua City and back, to be with her. And although he’d carried her through the streets to safety, until his arms and his legs and his heart had nearly given out, he understood now that he still hadn’t carried her far enough.
He had many, many more miles to go.
All the while he was telling her stories, he was also watching the TV; all those bright and beautiful images of another world, another place. Somewhere safe, where she’d always wanted to be.
He left their darkened room long enough to talk to Amador, to explain what he wanted to do, and ask Amador if he could help him. There were a few things he needed, and although he’d already asked too much of the couple, and probably put them both in danger, there was no one else.
There was no other way.
Amador sat silent for a long, long time, before finally nodding.
When he told Carmelita what Chayo was planning, the old woman started to cry.
* * *
—
CHAYO HELD NEVA’S HAND in his own and told her one final story.
About a boy and a beautiful girl and a long, hard journey. But the girl didn’t have to worry, the boy would carry her the whole way if he had to.
Neva couldn’t speak, but she didn’t have to, either.
Her eyes said everything, and Chayo understood.
SEVEN
America was exhausted, mentally and physically, but she couldn’t leave the bodies behind, so she accompanied them up to the Hancock Hill Medical Center.
She’d imagined how hard it was for Marco Lucero to see his first corpses floating in the river, but even she wasn’t prepared to see them spread out on those metal tables in neat, cold rows in the morgue, their wounds stark and ugly and bloodless.
As awful as they had appeared in the water, they looked barely real now.
She stood at the swinging doors a long time, unsure if she could go in.
“There’s no reason for you to stay for this,” Texas DPS crime scene technician Ron Delaney said, standing too close to her. Ron had taught one of her classes in Austin, and they’d both been surprised to find each other again on the banks of the Rio Grande in the Big Bend. After Doc Hanson had officially signed off on the bodies, it had been left to CST Delaney to coordinate the evidence collection and recovery of them on scene, and he’d gone out of his way to allow America to watch him work, carefully explaining in clipped sentences everything he did. He was a tall man, with thinning hair and an unfortunate mustache, and other than the obvious habit of trying to hide his thick silver wedding ring, she liked him. He’d been gentle with the dead, paciente was the word that came to America’s mind—almost reverent—as the hours had worn on and they’d had to work in the mud under the hot glow of the light stands. He never sped up or took a long break, giving each one his full attention.
Danny had been there, too, for a while, helping her and Delaney and the other technicians. He didn’t have the same interest in forensics that she did, but he’d wanted to be there with her all the same. Then he got called out again to a fight at Mancha’s, a place she knew all too well, and he and Till Greer had ended up wrangling three drunks, two broken car windows, and one stabbing. Other than the occasional text message, she hadn’t seen him since.
It had been a hard twenty-four hours for both of them.
“Look, I don’t think your ME is in any hurry, to be honest. I know there’s another pathologist on the way to help with this, but they’re not going to get started on the postmortem for another couple of hours.” Delaney turned the ring on his finger—it was a lot harder to hide when it wasn’t covered by the blue nitrile gloves they’d both worn at the scene—and checked his watch. It was gold-colored and big, with green digital numbers, and she could read the time: 5:00 a.m. She had been out at Eddy Rabbit’s trailer all night. “So, you know, you should go home, too, get some sleep. I can call you if it’s anything important,” Ron said, a little too hopefully.
“No, it’s fine. I think I’ll wait here. I couldn’t sleep now anyway.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Sí.”
Delaney turned his ring again, then gave up on it. He was covered in the same dry river mud as she was, and was just as tired. The lights in the morgue were far too bright, too demanding. He squinted beneath them, looking at her. “You’ve ne
ver attended one of these postmortems?”
“No. But I think I should. At least once. I think it’s important, and I don’t even know why.”
He smiled, thin, barely there. He rubbed at some mud on his shirt as if he could make it go away, only making it worse. “Because you want answers. You want to understand. But even with all the tests and exams, they never say anything, you know?” He motioned at the bodies. “Not anything that matters. It’s impossible to ever understand how they end up here, how they end up this way. I’ve done this for ten years, and I never have. Trust me, once will be enough.”
“I hope so,” she said, trying not to stare at the pale, smooth face of the young boy who now, for some reason, reminded her of Caleb Ross.
But she hadn’t seen Caleb in five years. She had no idea what he looked like now, how he might have changed.
Ron looked away, embarrassed. “Hey, look, I’m sorry about this . . . I’m worn-out. Five bodies at one time, it’s a lot to take in. That was a tough scene.” Then he added, “But you know, they’re all tough in their own way.”
“No, it’s fine. It really is. Entiendo.”
Ron stared down at his boots, still embarrassed. “Well, since I can’t offer you any answers, how about some coffee down in the cafeteria?” He tried a smile, still awkward, but at least genuine. “We got some time to kill . . . if you know what I mean.” He watched her, waiting for her to laugh. “Yeah, that’s an old CST joke. Gallows humor. Most folks find it funny. Kills ’em every time.”
America smiled back, letting him know that it was all okay. “Sure, that sounds good.”
* * *
—
THE PATHOLOGIST STARTED with a complete external examination of each body, talking quickly into the hanging microphone above his head, noting the old scars and faded tattoos and the variety of damage that had been inflicted on the dead: bullet wounds, sharp vertical slashes attributed to a heavy-edged weapon—something like a machete or large knife—and then the work of the weather and the river and the predators that prowled its banks.
Pictures were taken, a camera clicking away.
The internal exam started with a Y-shaped incision at the shoulders, meeting at the sternum and working down to the pubic bone. Mottled skin was pulled back and separated to reveal glossy ribs and a distended stomach. The entire whiteness of the rib cage was removed to get to the neck and chest organs, which were taken out and weighed and examined.
Trachea. Thyroid gland. Parathyroid glands. Esophagus. Lungs. Thoracic aorta.
Heart. Corazón.
Each heart looked far too small to have beat within the body that held it, and tidal blood washed down the tables, disappearing into metal drains.
The blood was red and then black in the cold air.
Bullets and metal fragments were pulled into the light, washed with water, and set aside, gleaming in the hard, unforgiving light.
After that, the abdominal muscles were dissected and separated: intestines, liver, gallbladder, kidney, reproductive organs.
When these things were cut free they appeared colorless, faded, and discarded beneath the overhead lights, as each body was turned inside out and put on display.
Finally, the pathologist moved to the scalp, cutting it away from the skull and pulling it forward.
When the young boy’s face was removed, America had to turn away, run from the room, realizing then that she’d been wrong—he didn’t look so much like Caleb anymore, but rather Rodolfo, as she remembered him from when she was a little girl.
Ron Delaney, though, had been right all along. This boy, naked and exposed and carved open, was never going to say anything again.
And seeing it all once was enough.
* * *
—
DELANEY CAUGHT UP WITH HER OUTSIDE, standing in the parking lot. She hadn’t smoked in a long time, but thought she could use a cigarette now.
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s hard. It still is for me.” This time, Delaney kept a respectful distance. “You won’t see a full report for another few days, but it’s pretty obvious what happened. Someone shot and stabbed those men and dumped their bodies in the river. At least two someones, maybe more, although there’s no way we’ll know until we get ballistics and all that. We didn’t recover any shell casings last night where we found the bodies, but I think it’s worth a second look. No guns in the trailer, either, but that doesn’t mean anything. Those fibers we recovered from their clothes might match the burlap in the kitchen, we’ll see. Then there are those radios . . . My guess is they were muling drugs across the river, and somehow crossed the wrong people.”
“I’ll need the photographs of the faces. To see if Eddy Rabbit’s girlfriend recognizes them, or he does.”
“I’ll make sure you get those.” Delaney hesitated. “And if you want my official opinion about the report, or want to talk about the results or anything, just call me.” He fished around in his wallet and found a card, gave it to her. As she read it, he raised his hands. “Promise, all business. The state prints those things out. I don’t get a chance to use them too often. No one ever seems to want them. Not many repeat customers.” Another one of his bad jokes.
“Gracias. I do appreciate your help.”
“No problemo . . . and that’s the only Spanish I know.”
“That’s not even real Spanish,” she said, but did so with a smile. She was beginning to appreciate Delaney’s quiet competence and horrible sense of humor. He’d called it “gallows humor,” and although she didn’t know the English phrase, she understood well enough. Delaney’s attitude reminded her—painfully—of Ben Harper. She would never ask, but she wondered about Delaney’s wife, or if he had children. What were they doing on a sunny morning like this?
He took a deep breath, like he was clearing his head of his own thoughts. Maybe he’d been reading hers from a moment before, because he reached into his coat pocket and took out a crumpled pack of Marlboros and a blue plastic lighter. He lit one, offering it to her first, but after a long pause she shook her head.
“I knew you were smart,” he said, drawing hard and then blowing smoke skyward. “These things will kill you.”
He studied the end of the cigarette, watching it burn. “I saw you really looking at the one decedent, the boy. Like I said, it doesn’t get any easier, you know? I kind of thought it would, but it doesn’t. Particularly when you see a kid laid out like that. He was what, seventeen, eighteen? He was probably following an older brother or dad or uncle, trying to be a man. What a damn waste.”
Just like Rodolfo, she thought.
He drew hard again on the cigarette. “It’s not supposed to, I guess. When it does, it’ll be time for me to find a new line of work.”
“Not supposed to what?” she asked, putting his card away, and reaching over and taking the cigarette from his fingers. It helped keep her hand steady as she put it to her lips.
Delaney looked up into the sky, his hands now in his pockets, watching their shared smoke chase itself and fade into nothing. “Get any easier, Deputy Reynosa. It never gets easier at all.”
EIGHT
Garrison arrived late in the afternoon, having driven all the way down from El Paso. He’d gotten lost twice, and Chris was standing on his porch waiting for him, drinking his second beer, when he finally pulled down the long gravel drive. Chris had been reluctant to invite Garrison out to the Far Six—it had already been a long forty-eight hours, and he’d always hoped to keep his work and home separate, even after realizing no such separation could exist—but Mel had agreed it was better than anywhere in town, or worse, the department. Chris’s deputies, Tommy Milford more than the others, liked to talk shop with anyone who’d pull up a stool at Earlys or the Hamilton (except for Amé, who hardly talked to anyone). The agent’s presence in Murfee would fuel even more stories than those already being shopped around since the disco
very on the river yesterday, though Chris had made no official announcement about it, and had asked the local media to hold it close for another day or so.
Chris wasn’t ready to answer official questions from the Daily about Garrison or Eddy Rabbit or anything else.
He didn’t have any answers.
It had been about a year since he’d last seen Garrison in person, when they’d met in that cemetery in El Paso and he’d talked to the agent about the Earls. Garrison hadn’t looked great then, and getting out of his dust-covered car, Chris hated to see that he looked worse now. He’d picked up more weight and his hair had gotten grayer. He’d grown a beard, and it hugged his face in a salt-and-pepper shadow. He was carrying a folder and wore tan slacks and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but no coat and tie, and his duty weapon was settled on his hip in a scuffed paddle holster. Everything about him looked heavier—those clothes, that gun—as if he were carrying a great burden. He even came up the porch steps slowly, stopping to take in the view, shaking his head.
“Jesus, you’re way out here.” He got to the top of the steps and extended a hand, and Chris was glad to find that at least his grip was still strong. Determined. “Is this where you found Rudy Ray . . . Rodolfo?”
Chris finished the last of his beer and set the bottle on the porch rail. “No, that was over there, near Indian Bluffs.” He pointed east to a mesa purpled by the late-afternoon sunlight, a shadow of a shadow. “This is where Duane Dupree and I met that plane.”
“The plane . . . you mean where you were shot?” Garrison said. “Damn near killed?”
“Yeah, damn near that.”
Garrison looked back and forth across the scrub, taking it all in. He scanned it as if he were searching for something: something hidden, something he’d forgotten. An explanation, maybe, although Chris knew there wasn’t one out there. “It all looks the same to me, Chris. I don’t know how you keep from getting lost out here.”
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