This Side of Night

by J. Todd Scott

  She was a mystery, but he wanted to believe that because of her, he’d solved one or two of his own.

  Danny slid back down next to her, gently, cradling the beer so it wouldn’t spill. He wasn’t going to sleep, though, still troubled by the sudden fear that had gripped him in Eddy’s trailer yesterday. It wouldn’t let him go, and when he’d closed his eyes earlier, he’d had a brief, vivid dream of Afghanistan . . . the first real one in years. He didn’t want to sleep if he had to relive any of that.

  He was fine just sitting here, letting her sleep for them both.

  And maybe Amé was dreaming for them both, too.

  Her fingers reached out, searching, touching his leg, as if making sure he was still there.

  Making sure he was real.

  Just for a moment, and then they were gone.

  TEN

  I was back east when that attack happened in Ojinaga, so it’s taken me some time to catch up with the situation. My boss put me in charge of managing our intel collection, and we’re actually making progress,” Garrison said. “Even getting direct reporting from the Mexican government itself, which is highly unusual. They’re embarrassed, the whole thing is a worldwide humiliation. They know we’re sitting over here listening to their side of the border, and they want our help.”

  “You’re talking about all those students in that attack?” Chris said, taking another mouthful of his fresh beer. “What are you hearing?”

  Garrison leaned in. “Okay, you remember how just before Sheriff Ross died, the border was in turmoil, right? Two cartels, Nemesio and the Serrano Brothers—Los Hermanos Serrano—fighting over control of the smuggling routes through Chihuahua and the Ojinaga corridor. This happens all the time. We saw it in Juárez, Nuevo Laredo, you name it. There’s a truce for a while, an agreement, and then someone breaks it or tries to strong-arm the other and all hell breaks loose. Ross probably got caught in the crossfire of something like that. We always suspected Ross was working for Nemesio, mainly because of the Rudy Reynosa connection, but who knows? Ross may have been working with both cartels, or cheating them both. Personally, I think he got greedy, and it got him killed.”

  “Whatever Ross was into also got Rodolfo Reynosa killed.”

  “True. And Rudy was definitely working for Nemesio.”

  “And you.”

  Garrison nodded. “Fair enough. Look, we’ll never know exactly what happened back then, but the dynamic today is the same. It’s always the same. Bad guys over there fighting for control of their assets here.” He pointed at the scrub around them. “This is where they make all the money, Chris.”

  “Fine, makes sense. But this is all ancient history.”

  “Not that ancient.”

  Chris shook his head, conceding the point. “And what does any of this have to do with killing students, kids?”

  “That little war between the Serrano Brothers and Nemesio never really ended. It’s been going on, all along, below the surface. Guerrilla warfare. New battlegrounds, new tactics. The prevailing wisdom is that one of those cartels purposely ordered that attack to draw a forceful response from the Mexican government. It was a setup, something so horrible even the politicians couldn’t ignore it. No one could. No different from the bodies they leave stacked in the streets or the big banners they hang from the bridges over there, what they call a narcomanta. The bus attack was a threat, another bloody message the cartels love to send each other and the Mexican government. Right now, the full strength of the Mexican federal law enforcement and military is sweeping through Chihuahua, looking for scalps. Message received, mission accomplished.”

  “So this was all done just to blame the other?”

  “Three dead, six injured, nineteen vanished. All teenagers. It’s all over the news. The whole world is watching. Someone will go down, and we believe Nemesio is set for the fall. They’ve held on to Ojinaga longer than anyone else, but now, finally, their grip is slipping. I’ve seen some reports that indicate the Serrano Brothers are all over this area now. The bus attack may be the final push.”

  “And by ‘this area,’ you mean right here, the Big Bend.”

  “Exactly. There are purges and reprisals going on all along the river now. Another bloodbath. Like Juárez, like 2009. You found five dead bodies yesterday, you may find ten tomorrow. Just another narcomanta, Chris. A message. A warning.” Garrison closed his eyes like he was tired, going to sleep. But he opened them again and kept going. “Everyone talks about the U.S. War on Drugs, but if there is a war, it’s right over our shoulders, right over the border, where the cartels are waging this never-ending battle against each other. Like those bodies that washed up yesterday, like those students from a week ago. Those are the real casualties.” Garrison paused and stood. He put his hands on the wooden porch rail, looking southward. “You told me one of those men you found looked young, right?”

  “We don’t have the ages yet, but yes, one of them looked like a kid, no older than those students, I guess.”

  “Both Nemesio and the Serrano Brothers have been using younger and younger drug mules for the last year or so because they know our federal legal system won’t prosecute minors. They just get kicked back across the border, ready to be used again. That’s the sort of people we’re dealing with. The sort who exploit kids on purpose, and kill them by mistake.”

  “Okay, I get it. But what’s the real point? Why are you here now?”

  Garrison sat down again, moved closer. “One of the highest-ranking members of Nemesio is a man we know only as Fox Uno.”

  Chris hid a grim look behind his beer bottle. Took a long drink. “You know, I’ve heard the name.”

  “Everyone has. He’s a legend around here, on both sides of the border. He and his brother learned the business from all the old-time narcos, Shorty Lopez, La Vibora, and Pablo Acosta Villarreal, known as El Zorro de Ojinaga—the Ojinaga Fox. Pablo Acosta, along with Fox Uno’s brother, was gunned down in 1987 in a cross-border raid by the FBI and Mex Feds. Fox Uno picked up the pieces and started his own cartel with Acosta’s surviving men, calling it Nemesio, allegedly in honor of the brother who died. We think Fox Uno also took his nickname as some sort of tribute to Acosta, but who knows where these guys get their cartoon names from. Anyway, he’s since become kind of a Godfather figure along the border. For three decades, nothing has happened in Ojinaga without his blessing. However, he’s been on shaky ground for a while now. He’s old, maybe sick, not quite as sharp as he used to be, and he’s got several lieutenants and allegedly a son eager and ready to take over. Plus, he’s been locked in this bloody, never-ending struggle with the Serrano Brothers, who’ve been successfully encroaching on Nemesio smuggling routes in Ojinaga and the Big Bend. Our informants suggest this whole attack on the students was aimed directly at Fox Uno, to put him on the run and take him off the board once and for all.”

  “Is it working?”

  “That we don’t know. Time will tell. He’s a cagey son of a bitch, a survivor like a fucking cockroach. He’s lived a long time in a business with a notoriously short life span.” Garrison stopped, counting the gathering shadows. “Chris, why do you think Darin and Morgan were so interested in Rudy Reynosa?”

  “He had information about Duane Dupree and Ross, about corruption here in the Big Bend . . .”

  “Sure, it was easy for Rudy Ray to snitch on Dupree and Ross because they were all working for Nemesio, for Fox Uno. But it was more than that. They believed Rudy Reynosa was related to Fox Uno.”

  Chris understood then why Garrison was giving him this history lesson about the Big Bend, about the cartels, and why he’d driven all the way down here to deliver it face-to-face. “Right . . . and this is where we circle back to America. You always start and end there, do you know that? This is nothing new.”

  “Rudy Ray was snitching not only to get free of Nemesio, but to help his sister, too. Deputy Reynosa
. He was very clear about that. Why do you think that was?”

  “A brother worrying about his sister? That’s not suspicious. At all. And it’s certainly not a goddamn crime.” Chris took a deep breath. Amé had confided in him all about her brother and her family, and Garrison’s suspicions were right—Fox Uno was America and Rudy’s uncle. She’d even told him about a boy named Máximo from Ojinaga, a Nemesio sicario, who she’d arranged would kill Dupree—the man who murdered her brother and buried him in a field; the predator, monster, who sexually terrorized her for more than a year after that.

  Fox Uno had sent Máximo to save his niece and avenge his nephew.

  So Chris knew all about her history, a hell of a lot more than Garrison ever would. He also knew Amé and believed in her as much as Garrison believed in his agents.

  “This is different this time, Chris, it really is. I wanted to warn you. In the wake of that attack, we’ve moved assets and priorities. The Mexican government is granting us some access we didn’t have before. Remember I mentioned purges, reprisals? Men who’ve worked for Nemesio for years, men we consider high-value targets, are suddenly clamoring to get over that border to the U.S. to buy themselves a few more days of breathing. They’d rather take their chances with us, with the same American justice system they fucking despise, than stay on the ground in Mexico. They’re trying to trade what they know for their safety and that of their families, just like Rudy Ray. And we’re going to listen . . . to whatever they have to say.”

  “And now you’re afraid you’re going to hear something about Amé.” Chris laughed, the final piece slipping into place. “Not just her, though. It all ties together, right? My reluctance to track down drug smugglers, the fact that my ‘numbers’ are lower than Chuy Machado’s, whatever the hell that means. Fox Uno’s long connection with the Big Bend. You always talk about how this is ‘my area,’ but you don’t mean that at all, and never have. He owns it all, and maybe that means he owns me, too. Like Fox Uno, I just picked up the pieces from Sheriff Ross. Started all over again.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Damn it, you didn’t have to.” Chris stood. “You drove a long way to insult me to my face. I hope you enjoyed dinner, because I think we’re done here.”

  Garrison stood as well, giving Chris some room. Stars were now high above their heads and the new night was between them, going darker by the moment. “If I hear something about Deputy Reynosa, about Murfee or the Big Bend, I’m coming to you first, Chris. I think I owe you that much. Hell, I know I do. I’m only asking the same of you. If anything happens out here, anything at all, you let me know first, too. I don’t want either of us to be surprised.”

  “This is for my benefit?”

  “If you have to look at it that way, yes. You’re not going to believe this, but I don’t want to be right. I don’t want Deputy Reynosa to get hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt. This place has cost both of us too much fucking blood.”

  “True, but it’s not the Big Bend, not these mountains or the river or the land itself. It’s just people with blood on their hands. Always. Goddamn people. Ross and the Earls and this Fox Uno. And us too, with our badges and guns. Maybe us most of all.”

  Garrison pointed at the folder he’d left by his chair. “That’s the real reason I drove out here. It’s everything we have on Fox Uno. Everything meaningful, anyway. If he is who we think he is, then that information is also about Deputy Reynosa’s family. I’d be fired for giving that to you, since some of it’s DIA, NSA, and CIA classified intel. All the alphabet agencies. Hell, I’m not even supposed to have some of it, but I thought you should. Read it, burn it, whatever.”

  “You hope it’ll change my mind.”

  “I hope it’ll open your eyes.” Garrison reached in his pocket for his car keys. “My personal cell phone is written in there, too. I’m not the enemy, Chris, and I never have been.”

  “The last time you gave me a folder like that, it held a dozen photos of men I’d shot. Men I’d killed, right here at the Far Six. I was in the hospital and it was the first time we’d ever met in person, before I was sheriff. I might not have the office much longer. Maybe you should have waited for the next guy.”

  Garrison hesitated, looking at the keys in his hand. “When I was driving in I saw the signs for Bethel Turner. He’s putting on a full-court press, huh? Facebook page, lots of media stuff.”

  “Yes, he is. He’s outspending me, what, three to one, at least? I’ve got some support from some of the ranchers, they’ve been generous . . . and . . . well, it is what it is. We have a debate next week, sponsored by The Murfee Daily, the Big Bend County Junior College Criminal Justice Student Association, and something called the Big Bend Crime Watch Group. We’re holding the debate here, at my old high school. You should come back for that. It’ll be fun.”

  “I take it this so-called crime watch group is not your biggest fan?”

  “I took over for a man who was revered in the Big Bend under bloody circumstances that remain, at best, suspicious. In the past year, a decent chunk of Murfee burned down and two of my deputies were killed on my watch. I’d say there are some legitimate concerns.”

  Chris gathered up the bucket with melting ice and empty beer bottles. It was still cold and heavy in his hand. “Hell, would you vote for me?”

  Garrison didn’t respond, his long silence answer enough. As much as the agent angered him, Garrison was right. They’d always be bound together by what had happened with Sheriff Ross. It gave their relationship fierce, sharp edges, making it at times nearly impossible to hold, but neither was ready or willing to let it go.

  Garrison finally said, “Chris, you have done some good here. No matter what happens with the election, try to remember that. And try to take care of that family of yours. Melissa and Jack are beautiful. Even if the Big Bend doesn’t need you, they do. They always will.”

  Garrison extended a hand, and after an uncertain pause, Chris reached out and shook it. He didn’t agree with him, but he did respect him. “I appreciate that. I do. And I’ll try. Speaking of family, you said that you were back east? Were you visiting your daughters, maybe catching one of those field hockey games?”

  Garrison shook his head as he stepped off the porch. Chris thought that, if it was possible, he’d aged even more since he’d come up to them only a few hours earlier. Garrison paused at the bottom, tossing his keys up and down. His expression was a map without any landmarks, featureless. Barren.

  “No, I wasn’t. I was visiting Morgan Emerson. That’s all.”

  ELEVEN

  Danny was afraid he’d been dreaming again, as he woke up fast to a small sound.

  Something soft, secretive, coming from the front door.

  Fortunately, Amé was already awake, her gun in her hand.

  * * *

  —

  THE DREAM HAD BEEN FULL of dead men.

  You never forgot the smell of a fresh corpse.

  Each one had been chanting Danny’s name in Ashkun, and he was back in that small village of Rumnar, in Nuristan Province.

  “Nuristan” meant Land of the Enlightened.

  Each of the dead wore a pakul hat and their skeletal hands had reached for him, pulling him down, their rotted bodies draped with crawling, buzzing flies.

  They were dead because Danny had killed them, killed them all.

  They’d dragged him back into the bloody earth with them where he belonged, and dirt had filled his eyes and his mouth . . .

  * * *

  —

  AMÉ MADE A MOTION to him in the darkened apartment, indicating she was going to step out wide, near the window by the door. Danny found his holstered Colt on the end table next to the couch and drew it quietly, down by his leg. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, falling asleep upright next to Amé on the couch, but the last thing he remembered clearly was standing in the tiny k
itchen, drinking a beer and looking out the window.

  His reflection.

  Truck lights.

  That had been at least an hour ago, maybe more.

  The apartment sat above Modelle Greer’s detached garage, the house itself tucked away in Murfee’s version of a historic neighborhood, not too far off Main Street. It was a neighborhood of wooden houses, watered yards, and small trees: sweet acacia, Emory oak, piñon pine. If Danny’s and Amé’s trucks weren’t parked out under that big juniper that shaded one side of the garage, someone might not even know there was an apartment here.

  It was out of the way for a reason.

  Amé crouched down low, moving toward the window. She was in her jeans and a dark tank top, barefoot. Danny was in his jeans, but shirtless. The tiny apartment was always hot even with the Arctic King AC unit in the bedroom window running on high. It just never quite reached the front room, and tonight was no different. He didn’t have time to search for his shirt, though he felt naked, exposed, but did grab at an extra magazine from his holster belt on the ground and saw across the shadowed space between them that Amé had two spare mags tucked in the back of her jeans.

  Trapped in that apartment, he snapped back to that moment in Eddy Rabbit’s trailer, how he’d felt trapped there, too. Buried down in a small space, like a hole in the ground . . . like a coffin.

  The dream was full of dead men.

  Goddamn, he’d been dreaming again of Afghanistan. He’d tried so hard not to fall asleep . . .

  He was already sweating a river and it had nothing to do with the shitty AC. He swore he heard flies where there weren’t any, almost brushed a phantom one away.

  It was the second time in two days that the old fear had grabbed him. He needed to find a way to get free, and get his shit together.

  Fast.

  Then his left eye fizzed, static coiling through and around him—a great gray wave higher than his head—and it went out like a bad light.