He also told her something he never revealed to Sheriff Cherry or his deputies, about the men they tracked down after exploiting Fox Uno’s phones. Garrison’s agents had discovered that Fox Uno had been hiding two SIM cards in his boots, using them to make encrypted calls on a rare Blackphone to Arizona and California during his entire stay in Murfee. Based on the intel request Garrison had put out to the surrounding states, coupled with some high-level phone-tracking analysis, they eventually located three men hiding out in a hotel in Gila Bend, Arizona. They were Barrio Azteca gang members driving a rental car, and inside the car was a bag containing several new phones (including another Blackphone), $250,000 in cash, three guns, and handwritten notes and maps to Deputy Reynosa’s apartment in Murfee and Chris’s ranch at the Far Six.
They’d made the maps based on Fox Uno’s directions, and even as the first shots were being fired at the ranch, they were already on their way to the Big Bend to pick him up.
It never mattered if America Reynosa survived the hell at the Far Six or not. She was already dead.
That’s because the men were also carrying two sets of licenses and passports.
One for Fox Uno, in the name of Rodolfo Reynosa, and the other for a girl about Zita’s age, in the name of America Reynosa.
Deputy Reynosa had risked everything to save her family and help her uncle, and he’d been willing to sacrifice her, all of them, for next to nothing at all.
The price of a passport.
As Garrison talked, he held Morgan’s hand, and although she couldn’t cry anymore since her tear ducts had been so badly damaged, he knew she would if she could, but she was also smiling the whole time, too.
* * *
—
HE SAID IT WAS ALL OVER.
DEA couldn’t get rid of him now, not with the high-profile nature of Fox Uno’s arrest and his role in the Fox Uno debriefings, but eventually he would be moved aside, and then asked, politely, to put in his papers. And he was fine with that, because it was way past time and he was more than ready. There was nothing else he needed to do, and he sure in the hell wasn’t going back to Texas again.
Ever.
* * *
—
AFTER HE LEFT MORGAN IN HER COOL ROOM, he sat in his rental car down the street and undid his tie and cried all the tears she couldn’t.
Before he’d walked out, he put his badge, #5725, in her scarred hand, closed her fingers around it, and refused to take it back, no matter how hard she’d tried to hand it to him.
All these years, it had been so important. Maybe the most important thing, but he didn’t need it anymore.
It truly was over.
* * *
—
THE RENTAL CAR came with satellite radio, and he flipped around until he found a station that played those old soft-rock songs he liked. He had nothing but time to kill, since he wasn’t due back at the airport for four more hours.
For the first time in a long time, he had nowhere to go, nothing to do. That fire and darkness that had haunted him for so long, that had first taken shape in a field outside Murfee, Texas, had finally and forever slipped away.
An old Gerry Rafferty song came on, “Baker Street,” and he couldn’t help smiling—a refrain about the sun and brand-new mornings; about finally going home.
He had the rest of his life ahead of him, and no goddamn idea what to do with it.
And that was okay.
He wiped his eyes, feeling foolish, then turned that radio up as loud as it would go.
He was meeting Karen and the kids in Potomac. Angie was coming down from Juniata, and they were all going to drive down to Williamsburg together since Megan had a field hockey tournament, some sort of weekend invitational, and he’d promised to see it.
They were waiting for him.
He was going home.
VI
This was the only time Martino had met Diego Serrano in person, and if he believed before that the man had only sounded like his father, now—up close—he looked like him, too: the same flat stare and thick hands and simple clothes. Diego Serrano carried himself as if he’d walked in from the fields, and when he sat down on the stool that had been put out for him so he could look Martino in the eye, he stank of sweat and beer and dust and cigarettes.
Diego Serrano smiled, showing stained teeth.
He took Martino’s hands, which had been tied down to the chair with barbed wire, and held them gently in his own.
* * *
—
DIEGO’S MEN HAD FOUND HIM hiding in the bathtub in a small apartment in Chihuahua City, and brought him here to this warehouse next to the Aeropuerto Internacional General Roberto Fierro Villalobos, after they’d killed six of his men in a brazen mid-morning shoot-out (another ten had given up without firing a shot). After taking him, Diego’s men hadn’t bothered to hood him or blindfold him—it didn’t matter if he knew where he was or where he was going, which was far more frightening than the abduction itself—and the thin corrugated walls of the warehouse shook and rattled every time a plane took off.
Until Diego arrived, Martino had offered each man a fortune to put him on one of those planes, but they’d all refused. And they had only hit him once.
They’d grabbed him only two days after the disaster in Murfee, Texas, when he was still trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Not only had the sicarios and Xavier failed to kill Fox Uno—Xavier never knew the bag he was carrying contained a bomb, although in the end he might have suspected—his father had somehow ended up alive and in U.S. federal custody.
It was an epic disaster. A colossal, fucking mess.
But it hadn’t been Martino’s failure alone, because there had been a second set of sicarios there at the ranch in Texas who’d gotten in the way—a team of corrupt U.S. cops—and Martino Abrego Cabrera had not sent those men.
That had been Diego Serrano’s doing: a hedged bet against Martino’s plan, or some crazy idea of Diego’s. Perhaps, even, a bid to wipe Martino’s fingerprints off the killing of Fox Uno. Who knew anymore? But the only way those rogue policía would have known to be at that ranch was if someone had told the Serranos where his father was hiding, and that someone could only have been Gualterio.
So it didn’t surprise Martino to see that fat traitorous pig appear in the shadows behind Diego, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarillo and laughing with his former captors, men who days before had answered only to Martino.
The truth of it was, they all answered to Diego Serrano now.
They were all traitors, one way or another.
* * *
—
DIEGO WAS TALKING TO HIM, but Martino was trying not to listen.
Diego had put on leather gloves over his gnarled hands.
Martino knew what was coming next, even if he’d only ever seen it on video.
Diego said something about his name, Tiburón, and how he was going to enjoy pulling this baby shark’s teeth out, one by one.
The men behind him laughed, including Gualterio. Martino had already seen the pliers spread out on the aluminum foil, along with the other tools.
Gualterio’s day would come soon, too. He’d have his own chance in this chair.
Diego Serrano was a sudden eclipse, blocking out the sun, and he turned the whole world black beneath him.
* * *
—
MARTINO TRIED TO REMEMBER the last time he’d seen his father, the last conversation they’d had, but couldn’t.
He had no idea what they had talked about or where they’d been.
Instead, he remembered the cool touch of Xavier’s skin against his own, the feel of the man’s mouth against his—the way they’d held each other in the dark beneath the sheets, and how it had been as safe as anywhere he could remember.
He drifted back to the ocean view at Manzanillo and
the color of the water there—all those impossible sunlit colors, and the towering blue waves crashing against the white sand.
He tried to imagine himself sitting on one of the planes he could hear crossing overhead, flying somewhere, anywhere.
Para volar.
It was the same dream a boy named Chayo Lozano Vidal had held on to when Martino’s men had attacked his bus in Ojinaga, although Martino would never know that.
The great noise of those jet engines, and the beach waves in his memory, was not enough to drown out the laughter from Diego and Gualterio and the others, or the metallic coughing sound of the chainsaw.
Martino closed his eyes and put himself on that plane and was finally flying away, as Diego Serrano bent over him and made the first of many cuts.
* * *
—
TWO DAYS LATER, the video was uploaded to the internet.
The whole world watched.
VII
DUSK
America and Danny were supposed to meet Marco and Vianey—sort of a double date—but the other couple hadn’t arrived yet, so they waited outside the ice cream place, at the same small tables Danny and Zita had sat at a month ago.
That day, America and Sheriff Cherry had been walking with Fox Uno across the street, watching their reflections in the store windows.
America thought it was too cold for ice cream, but Zita had insisted, and she was laughing now with Danny, showing off the cowboy hat he’d bought her in Nathan so she’d stop taking his. It looked good on her, natural, and although no one knew exactly what was going to happen to her next, for now she was staying with America, and America had come to enjoy having her around. Danny definitely did, and made a big show of buying her presents. It was hard for him to say no to the girl.
Maybe he just understood her.
Zita woke up some nights crying, chased by dark dreams of her time with Fox Uno and the things she’d seen, the same way Danny’s sleep had been troubled. He’d started seeing Dr. Harlow, finally talking about his time in Afghanistan, about things he’d only hinted at to America, and that had been going well. So well that Zita was going to do the same. With America translating for him, Danny promised he’d go with her and sit next to her and hold her hand the whole time if she wanted. He told her it hurt at first to talk about such things, but the more you talked, the easier it became, and the less they bothered you. Although it seemed natural to try to forget and bury all the bad things that happened to you, all those horrible memories, it didn’t really work that way. You couldn’t ignore them or bury them; instead, you had to get them out of you, like the venom of a snakebite. If you didn’t work to heal them, they only made you sicker and sicker over time.
Those bad memories became poisonous dreams. They poisoned everything and everyone you loved.
The sun settled and shadows stretched down the street. The lamps on Main Street were coming on, one at a time. A cool glow, like a dozen tiny, distant stars. Her ribs and shoulder still hurt from the bullet she’d taken. Her vest had stopped most of it, but it had nearly punctured her lung. Most of her chest was still a purple bruise, tender to the touch, and it would be a long time fading.
She’d spoken with Agent Garrison a few times since that night. She’d told him everything about Fox Uno, all the conversations they’d had after he came to Murfee. Garrison had promised his people were looking for her mama and her papa, but so far there’d been no word on them. Fox Uno had been truthful in his debriefings so far, but he hadn’t been any more helpful. No one knew where they were, or if they were alive.
Garrison had also sent her back that horrible silver gun, and she and Danny had driven it out together to the place where Sheriff Cherry had found Rodolfo’s body, the place where she’d almost shot Fox Uno, and buried it there as deep as they could.
Danny had said maybe she should talk to Dr. Harlow as well, and she’d said she’d think about it.
He’d told her to think about it hard, and then he’d kissed her, helping her wipe the dirt from her hands.
She’d kissed him back, held on to him, and they’d stood there together like that for a long time.
You couldn’t ignore or bury them . . . if you didn’t work to heal them, they only made you sicker and sicker over time . . .
Even good memories, like those America had of her mama and her papa and her brother, could turn into bad dreams, too. All the doubt, the unknowing, the regret. The sadness and loss.
Those memories could be just as hard to heal from.
Maybe when Danny took Zita to Dr. Harlow, she would go with them to check it out. Even if she wasn’t ready to commit to anything like that, not yet.
Just as she wasn’t committed to responding to Ron Delaney, who’d e-mailed her a bunch of information about the courses she’d need to take if she wanted to pursue forensics. He’d explained that DPS was always hiring and that he’d help her with the coursework any way that he could. She had saved the e-mail, but looked at it only every now and then.
She settled on the bench, with Danny next to her and Zita between them. Zita was chattering a mile a minute and Danny was laughing along with her, still not understanding much of what she was saying, and he had his arm stretched out around them both.
This was the second time they’d made plans with Vianey and Marco, who appeared to be getting serious. Vianey had confided in America that Marco was thinking about leaving the department and going back to school, to be the doctor he’d always wanted to be. He hadn’t decided yet, but it was on his mind.
After the Far Six, he wasn’t sure he was cut out to carry a badge and gun.
Across the street, a young couple she didn’t recognize was getting into a car, one that looked like her brother’s old Charger. This one was black, too, all beat up, with some remnants of old green paint. Rodolfo had painted his car with green snakes, and had kept it perfectly clean. He used to spend all Saturday washing and polishing it, so he could drive it over the river for a night in Ojinaga.
She remembered that . . . him waving good-bye to her, smiling, before he left.
The girl kissed the boy and then walked around to the driver’s side and got in. She had the window down, and she was laughing as they drove away.
She was happy, free, and America knew exactly how she felt.
As they disappeared up the road, America could see reflected in the window of one of the stores behind them—the librería—a thin young man in a dark leather coat, with longish hair. He was staring at her, looking right at her, and even in the fading light, he was familiar to her. He matched Marco’s description of the man who’d asked questions about her in Earlys, questions that had prompted the sheriff to move them out to the Far Six. But it was more than that. All she had to do was think back, imagine the man in the window glass younger still, wearing a hooded sweatshirt instead of a leather jacket . . .
Lying flat in the back of his Ford Ranger, watching clouds move.
Sharing another endless cigarette, laughing.
A couple, like the pair who’d driven away.
Even good memories . . . could be just as hard to heal from . . .
Caleb.
Marco and Vianey walked up, blocking her view, and by the time she got up from the bench, nearly pushing past them, the young man was gone.
Danny was right next to her, too, asking her if she was okay. After Fox Uno, he was always on guard, always watchful. She still woke up sometimes to find him pacing, checking the windows and doors, and then she had to go to him, hold him, and pull him back into their bed.
Now he was scanning up and down the street, hand unconsciously on the gun at his hip, trying to see what had taken her attention.
Caleb.
She took one last look, shaking her head, and after a gentle touch to the Saint Michael pendant on her neck—reminding herself that Ben would always be there, too—she laced he
r fingers tight in Danny’s, turning him back to the lighted window of the ice cream shop.
Back toward Zita and Marco and Vianey, who were watching them both, trying to figure out what was going on.
She laughed and told them all it was okay.
It was nada.
She just thought for a moment she saw someone she’d once known long ago, but that was impossible.
It was only the lengthening shadows of a brand-new night, and those fading memories of the sun going down.
It would come up again tomorrow.
It always did.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’ve spent nearly a decade wearing a badge in the Southwest, and I’ve seen the best and worst from both sides of the border. If you shared a couple of beers with me now, you might come away thinking those years have left me somewhat jaded—cynical—and you wouldn’t be wrong. Maybe there is no way they couldn’t.
For the longest time, I also thought those years left me beyond shock, beyond outrage.
I was wrong.
On a rainy night in September 2014, buses carrying undergraduate students from the Raúl Isidro Burgos Rural Teachers’ College in Ayotzinapa, Mexico, came under automatic-weapons fire from masked gunmen—some alleged to be municipal police officers—at an intersection in the small town of Iguala, 120 miles southwest of Mexico City.
During the ensuing attack, which spanned multiple locations and several hours, three students were killed outright—the youngest, fifteen years old—while forty-three others were marched off their buses and herded into waiting police vehicles and disappeared.
They haven’t been seen alive since.
It was a particularly horrific crime in a conflict where horrors are endless. Despite worldwide condemnation, no one can say with any certainty why those buses were targeted. No one knows who ordered the attack or who, exactly, carried it out. There were investigations. There were clues and theories and even a few arrests, yet maddeningly few answers.
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