He kept coming back again and again and again to that young girl who’d stood outside Mancha’s and asked for his help. Who, now years later, was still in desperate need of it, even if she didn’t believe that anymore.
Was it just about her, though, or also that young deputy he’d once been? A boy both foolish and serious enough to make a girl promises as large and immovable as the mountains that surrounded El Dorado and the Big Bend.
Impossible to scale . . . impossible to keep.
But that boy, that deputy, had made them all the same: I’m going to do everything I can.
* * *
—
GARRISON TOLD CHRIS what he’d learned, and what he was now starting to suspect.
Unlike his visit out to the Far Six, he didn’t circle around it or make any effort to be delicate or diplomatic. He came right out and asked Chris if he’d been lying to him.
“Has Fox Uno tried to reach out to Deputy Reynosa?”
Chris shut the bedroom door and sat down on the bed and closed his eyes. “No, no, he hasn’t.”
“I’m not screwing around, Chris. I mean it. This idea that he might have slipped over the border isn’t quite as crazy as we all might have thought. We’re going to have to look at it.”
“You mean, you’re going to have to look at it.”
“Fine. Yes, me. Please, Chris, hear me out. These are not people to fuck with. Fox Uno is ten times the monster Ross was. There is nothing he is not capable of. If he somehow made it to Murfee, someone will come for him, the way they came for you. And remember, Chris, you were no one then, a rookie deputy in a pissant town no one had heard of or cared about. Look at what they did to you, and then imagine what they’ll be prepared to do to get to him. Imagine what he’ll be prepared to do to save himself. It doesn’t matter if it’s the Serrano Brothers or Nemesio or someone else. They will finish what they started down in Ojinaga . . . what Ross and the Earls started. They will burn you and your entire town to the ground if they think you’re in the way.” Garrison took a deep breath, gathering himself. “Chris, it doesn’t matter what’s happened up to this point between us. I don’t give a damn about any of that. But I can’t help you if you lie to me now. So I’m going to ask you one more time, is Fox Uno in the Big Bend with America?”
Chris opened his eyes and stared at a photo of Mel and Jack on the nightstand. She was holding their son and sitting in his mother’s rocking chair. He’d taken the picture three days after Jack was born, his first day home.
In the picture, there was sunlight falling on them, lens flare like a halo. Mel was smiling down at Jack, and her hair had been caught by a touch of the wind, hiding her eyes.
Through the thin bedroom door, he could hear Amé and the rest of them entering the house.
“No,” he said at last, getting up off the bed.
“Would she tell you if he was?” Garrison asked, his voice edged, sharp.
“Yes, she would.” At least that wasn’t a lie.
Garrison breathed into the phone again. “Then I guess the real question is, would you tell me?”
But Garrison hung up, without waiting for an answer.
Neither of them had anything more to say.
FORTY-SEVEN
Chris had just finished up his call with Garrison when Mel came into their bedroom to find three guns laid out on their bed.
The first was the twelve-gauge Remington Versa Max shotgun they got last Christmas to keep permanently around the house. It was still new; Chris had barely had the chance to put many rounds through it, and Mel had not shot it at all. It was a big gun, with a twenty-six-inch barrel, and it looked even bigger propped up on their pillows.
The second was the Browning A5 Mel had bought for Chris, the one she’d had cut down and modified to make it easier for him to carry right after he’d been shot. He’d recovered well enough that he could use the full-size Remington, but still carried the A5 with him whenever he was on duty. She’d had the barrel and stock engraved and etched with the mountains and sun of the Big Bend, an expense she was still paying off, but the gun was beautiful, if you could say that about such a thing.
Chris had shot John Wesley Earl with the A5. He hadn’t died, not then, but had only been paralyzed from the waist down. He was murdered, while under federal protection at a prison hospital, by a suspected member of the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas.
The last was Chris’s first gun, his duty pistol: his Colt M1911. Colt had been the preferred weapon of the Big Bend Sheriff’s Department since Chris first put on the badge, but he’d given his deputies the latitude to carry whatever make and model of handgun they preferred. He was carrying the Colt when he nearly died here at the Far Six; he’d killed three men—sicarios—with it. Still, it was unnerving to see the Colt naked and exposed like this, since it was normally tucked away in his holster. He hadn’t drawn it in her presence in years.
“This is supposed to make me feel better?” she asked, staring at the guns on their bed and shutting the door behind her. She’d tied Rocky up out back so he wouldn’t go crazy with the house full of strangers, and Jack was still asleep in his nursery.
Everyone else was standing in her kitchen.
Chris looked up, guilty. “I want you to take something with you when you go to Javy’s.”
“Chris, that’s foolish and it’s a lie. Javy’s probably got three times as many guns. He’s an actual hunter. You got those out for you.”
Chris ignored her. “Amé’s here?”
“Yes, they’re all here, including Danny, all waiting for you. But you’re trying to avoid telling me what Joe Garrison said. Why did he call, Chris? You don’t hear from him for months at a time, and now he’s visiting and calling twice in a week? He knows, doesn’t he?”
“He suspects, I guess. He’s an investigator, so he’s investigating.”
“But you still didn’t tell him, did you?”
Chris didn’t say anything for several seconds, looking down at the guns on the bed—their bed, where they’d planned their future and made love and slept together with Jack. She knew he was wondering if his decision now was one of those moments they both would regret; if it was a splinter that would work its way under the skin of their marriage. If it was something they’d always feel there, raw, just under the surface.
She didn’t know, and neither did he. He turned back to her. “Let’s get you and Jack packed up and out of here. I think I finally hear Javy’s truck pulling up the drive.”
* * *
—
BUT MEL WASN’T READY to get pushed out the door of her own home.
She had a few more things she wanted to do and say.
First, she went back into the living room, Chris trailing behind her, and pinned down Amé and Danny, ignoring Fox Uno, who was looking at some of the leftover election yard signs stacked in a pile and the mountain view beyond the windows.
“I told myself I was going to hold my tongue, but I’m not. Not in my own house. I know I can’t stop any of this, but I won’t let you put that girl in harm’s way. She’s not staying here. She’s coming with me.”
Chris tried to put a hand on her shoulder. “Mel, she’s Fox Uno’s daughter. We can’t—”
Mel shook him off. “We’re not having a discussion. If she stays, Jack and I stay. Otherwise, after you’ve done whatever insane thing you’re doing here, we’ll bring her back or meet you wherever you want. Once it’s safe, and only then.”
Danny spoke up. “She doesn’t speak much English.”
“Javy can translate. We’ll be fine.”
“Mel, don’t do this, please,” Chris said. “Just let me handle this.”
“I am letting you handle it. But listen to me, loud and clear, I’m taking care of that girl, because the rest of you aren’t thinking straight. I’m not sure you’re thinking at all.” Mel next wheeled on Amé a
nd Fox Uno. “You tell that murdering son of a bitch over there his daughter is coming with me.”
Fox Uno had forgotten the view outside the window and was now returning Mel’s glare, a slight smile on his face.
“He speaks English well enough,” Amé said. “I think he understood you.”
“Good, then I don’t have to say it twice.”
Of all of them, Danny looked the most ashamed. He had taken off his hat when he came into the house, and had been clutching it nervously in his hands, turning it round and round. He now propped it on Zita’s head. “Ma’am, she really likes ice cream, strawberry. I’ll get her things.” He added, “I’m sorry about this. I hope you know that.”
She did, and she believed him. “Good, Danny, thank you. Javy will be knocking on the door any second. I’ll make sure we pick up some for her.”
Finally, she brought her attention back around to America. “Now I’m going to get my son. Deputy Reynosa, do you think you can come back here and help me for a second?”
* * *
—
THEY’D KNOWN EACH OTHER almost as long as Chris had known her, but Mel had never had many conversations with Amé, and none of them alone. There was a time when a younger Mel would have been furiously jealous of the beautiful girl and Chris’s relationship with her, but that time was past, and Mel wanted to believe that younger version of her had passed on as well, or at least had grown up some. She would never understand the closeness between Chris and Amé, the protectiveness he felt for her, but she’d never been threatened by it.
Until now.
Amé stood in the doorway of Jack’s darkened nursery with her arms crossed, as Mel started to fill a diaper bag for Jack.
“Can I have one of your cigarettes?” Mel asked.
Amé looked over to where Jack lay asleep in his crib.
“No, don’t worry, I’m not going to light it up here. I haven’t smoked since I knew I was pregnant. Chris would kill me if he thought I’d started up again, but I think I’m going to need one when I’m at Javy’s.”
Amé reached in her back pocket and pulled out a soft pack, and handed it over to her. “I was supposed to quit, too, a while ago. How did you know?”
“The smoke,” Mel said, as she took the pack and shook out a couple of cigarettes and slipped them in Jack’s bag. “I smelled it on your clothes.” She pulled the baby up out of his crib. He hardly made a sound and didn’t wake up.
“Do you think you want kids someday?” Mel asked, as she added a few more diapers, hiding the cigarettes beneath them. As she juggled Jack and the bag one-handed, America came over and started to help.
“No lo sé. I’ve never thought about it.”
Mel knew that was a lie. Every girl thought about it at least once, one way or the other, and there was no right or wrong answer. There didn’t even have to be a final answer. Mel had been convinced for years that she didn’t want to be a mother, until all of a sudden she did. It was a lightning strike. It took the right time, the right place, the right love.
“It changes things, Amé, it truly does. In ways I can’t describe. I’ve heard it said you don’t realize how much you can love someone until it happens. And I’m not just talking about the baby.” She kissed Jack’s head, and then turned and gave him to Amé, who slowly, reluctantly, took him. It was obvious the girl had never held a baby before, and Mel helped settle her arms around him. It reminded Mel of how awkward Chris had been the first time.
“He loves you, do you understand that?” Mel asked, but Amé didn’t say anything, didn’t know who she was talking about or how to respond. “Chris. And Danny, too. He’s so obvious about it you can’t walk into a room with him and not trip over it. They’re both standing out there in my living room because they love you, each in their own way. That’s the reason, the only reason. I know that, and so do you.”
America looked down at the baby in her arms, her hair falling into her face, but still didn’t say anything. Mel hadn’t realized just how young the girl truly was until now. She’d seen so much, been through so much, and still . . .
Mel saw in her the same girl who’d followed her own daddy to Galveston and Midland, bouncing around the Permian Basin. A girl who’d made a hard life in the shadows of trailers and shitty motels, beneath the constant fire and smoke of the oil rigs. A girl who’d somehow made it through to something better.
She saw herself.
“That means you’re the only one who can put an end to this. No one else is going to change their minds, except you. Love is that powerful, that goddamn strong, and you don’t even have to be a mother to know that. It’s like a gun, and just as dangerous. I think that’s something women like us learn early, in a way a man never does. I hope to God you know what you’re doing here, because those men out there won’t stop unless you do.” She let Amé hold Jack a bit longer, while she went to get something out of her purse. She’d grabbed it earlier, and although she’d contemplated using it herself a dozen times, she couldn’t do that to Chris.
They’d have to find a way to work that splinter out on their own.
But Amé still could, and Mel hoped she would.
She folded the small paper into an even smaller square and tucked it carefully inside the cigarette pack she’d been holding on to. Then she pressed the pack into Amé’s hand as she took Jack from her.
“Hold on to those cigarettes. I think you’re going to need one yourself.”
America looked at the pack, before slipping it into her back pocket. “He’s beautiful, your son.”
Mel smiled and gathered up her bag. It was time to go.
“Thank you. I think he’s going to grow up to look just like his daddy.”
FORTY-EIGHT
CHAYO & NEVA
The men had quietly slipped in behind them, moving up from the river as they had, and caught them two hours after they crossed over.
Chayo heard something, wheeling around in time to bring the ancient rifle up as if it were loaded. It was awkward in his hands, like it would fall apart if he shook it or gripped it too hard, but it held together, for now. And at least it kept his hands steady, as he aimed it at the two men who’d appeared out of the scrub.
The first was tall, all right angles. He looked like one of the espantapájaros Chayo had seen on the farms in Blanco—an ugly thing made of straw and wood and newspapers and bits and pieces of other old things.
But this man wasn’t made of newspaper, his bare arms covered in ink, tatuajes. Because of the sweat beaded on the man’s skin, reflecting the flattened sun, Chayo couldn’t tell exactly what the tatuajes were supposed to be. Most of them were scrawled in blue or black, giving him a sooty appearance, as if he were permanently dusted in ashes. He wore a sleeveless shirt that hung down far past his waist; his thinning hair was covered by a bandanna, and big sunglasses wrapped around his wasted skull.
There was a machete in his waistband.
The other was shorter, but just as thin. He had a Delfines del Carmen baseball cap, with its purple dolphin and green C, and sunglasses similar to his companion’s, but his were mirrored, so Chayo could see himself and Neva reflected. This man had a red bandanna twisted around his neck, and an open-necked shirt revealing two rosaries—one metal, one wood—dangling against his chest.
He had a gun, a large black one, aimed at Chayo.
Coyotes.
Or worse.
Neva took a half step behind Chayo, as Tatuaje stared at her from behind his darkened glasses, breathing hard.
Baseball grinned, showing two silver teeth and many blackened ones. “It’s okay, my friends, no problem here. We don’t want trouble. Maybe just talk, then we all go on our way.” He spoke in Spanish and licked his lips between every couple of words, glancing back and forth between Chayo and Neva. In the mirrors of his sunglasses, their image wavered back and forth. Appearing, disappearing.
“We can help you. We can guide you. We’ve done this many times. It’s dangerous here without true friends. Bandits, Border Patrol, snakes.”
Chayo shook his head. “No.”
Tatuaje took a step closer, his hand stroking the length of the naked machete at his waist. He laughed at something and nothing at all.
Baseball sighed, looking at the ground at their feet. “You do not understand. Walking here is like breaking into a man’s home. It is a beautiful home, filled with pretty things. All that you see is owned by this man, so you must knock to enter. You must be invited, or you must pay for the privilege, and you do not look like you have much money.” He turned slowly to Neva. “But there are other ways to pay.” He waved the gun up and down her body. “We are the ones who guard the house for this man, for Fox Uno. Are you here to take Fox Uno’s pretty things?”
“I do not know what you’re talking about. We have nothing,” Chayo said. These men were not simple coyotes; either they were real narcos like they said, working for this Fox Uno that Chayo had heard of, that everyone in Ojinaga had heard of, or they were even worse: bajadores, those who preyed on both human and drug smugglers—stealing their drugs, taking the money the immigrants had saved for years to start their new lives, assaulting the women. Both had backpacks and canteens, they were unwashed and unkempt. Chayo could smell them, and they had been in the desert for a while. They probably had a camp on each side of the river.
They were right; they were the ones who guarded the house.
Tatuaje spoke up, laughing and smiling wider. “There’s always something . . .”
“He is right,” Baseball agreed, scratching his nose with the gun’s barrel. “It is simple. We are not bad men. We will give you food, some water, and point you the safest way to go. For this we will take ten minutes with your girl. She is ugly, but she will do. Ten minutes for the rest of your life? That is nothing, my friend. Nothing at all.”
This Side of Night Page 28