Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  “I believe you,” Sole said.

  “Good.” Stu resealed the seam that hid the overhead arsenal. His usual, easy smile returned to his face. “Now let’s hit the road.”

  An hour later, they had crossed the border at McAllen and were headed south on Highway 97 out of Reynosa. Sole retrieved the shotgun from the overhead and rested the butt on the floor between his feet.

  He was happy to be assigned to the milk run with Stu. Mixing things up with hijackers on behalf of K and Z Trucking was not in his plans. This was a recon patrol, nothing more.

  He was a Georgia boy. Ask him about the Appalachian Mountains near Dahlonega, the black water swamp along the Florida line, or the barrier islands off the Atlantic coast, and he could provide an accurate assessment of conditions, but you couldn’t fill a thimble with what he knew about Mexico.

  He needed to understand the lay of the land down below the border. The job with K and Z was the perfect cover.

  With any luck, he figured to have things scoped out and a plan in place after a few runs south. Until then, Stu was decent company and a useful tour guide.

  42.

  So Many Secrets

  The walk back to her house seemed lonelier than usual. Isabella moved absently past the bungalows and assorted residents sitting on their stoops to get some air before the heat of the day set in. Most lifted a hand in greeting or nodded at her passing.

  “Mornin’, Isabella.”

  “Mornin’, Mae.”

  “Mornin’, Isabella.”

  “Mornin’, Uncle Charlie.”

  “Mornin’, Isabella.”

  “Mornin’, Rose.”

  And so on.

  Before Bill Myers’ arrival in Creosote, she passed them every day after the breakfast crowd left the café. Lately, she stayed open a while longer, hoping for a chance to talk to the new drifter who had taken up residence in the old driller’s shack. Sometimes she stayed all the way through until the lunch crowd came in.

  Most of the locals winked and nodded and were happy for her, though some had reservations about this Bill Myers fella who nobody knew a damned thing about. Who the hell was he to drift into town and then take up with their Isabella like he belonged here? Their protective instincts were natural. Isabella had grown up around them, had been partly raised by some of them after her father died.

  Still, they wanted her to be happy. There wasn’t a soul in town who didn’t feel a pull in their heart when she strode past their bungalows four times a day. Twice going to the café and twice heading home. It wasn’t any sort of life for a woman with the fire to live that burned in their Isabella.

  So, they waved as she passed and held their thoughts to themselves. The religious ones whispered a prayer for her that this Bill Myers person, whoever he was, could make her happy, and if he didn’t, well he would have to answer to them.

  Tires crunched the gravel behind her. She stepped to the side as Sandy drove up in his pickup.

  “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

  “Just headed back to the house before the lunch crowd comes in.”

  “I see.” He smiled. “No Bill Myers around to keep you preoccupied, huh?”

  “What makes you think I’m preoccupied?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Sandy grinned and flipped the hair off his forehead with a finger. “Maybe the way you sit there at the counter all moony-eyed, waiting for him to show up every day.”

  “Is that what you think? That I’m moony-eyed?”

  “Sure looks that way.”

  “Well, for the record. I sit there because after all these years … my whole life … in Creosote, there is finally someone I can have a conversation with about something other than cows, fishing, hunting, or how the dust worked its way into the crack of their ass.”

  “Okay.” Sandy nodded, laughing. “We’ll go with that. You’re just happy to have someone around with conversational skills equal to your own.”

  “Sums it up, pretty well,” she said, laughing with him. “And where are you off to? Somebody need some work on their car?”

  “Going to McAllen to pick up some parts, then a stop.” He leaned out the window and lowered his voice so that the neighbors on the stoops wouldn’t hear what he had to say. ”Going to visit someone … a girl.”

  Isabella’s jaw dropped open, and then she smiled. Her son was at the age when he should have a girlfriend, even several girlfriends. He was smart, made people laugh, easy-mannered, and she didn’t mind saying so herself, he was a good-looking young man.

  “I’m so happy,” she whispered, leaning toward him so that his secret would be between them. “Anyone I know?”

  “No. Not likely anyway. I met her at Krieg’s place when I took the ATVs back.”

  The smile faded from her face. “Krieg’s place?”

  “Yes.” He grinned, remembering the exact moment he laid eyes on Jacinta. “She was on the guesthouse porch with Claire Toussaint.” His smile widened as hers faded, and for once, his powers of perception failed him in the excitement of telling her about the girl he had met. “She is beautiful, Mom. Long brown hair, almost black really. Brown eyes that make me think I could get lost in them.” He shook his head as if searching for the words to describe Jacinta. “And her laugh is like music … the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.”

  It had seemed like such an empty prayer, all the times she had prayed that her son would find someone—a girl, a woman, to go away with and become a man, have a family, do the things that other young men do. And now, when the answer to the prayer finally arrived, dread filled her chest. If this was how God answered prayers, it was clear he had a mean streak in him.

  “That’s wonderful, son.” It took all of her effort to keep the smile on her face.

  Shit! How could she tell him that the girl of his dreams belonged to Tom Krieg and would become one of his whores, no doubt, already was one of them.

  “Relax,” Sandy said, seeing the concern in her eyes. “I know I have to be careful around Krieg. I won’t do anything rash. I’m just going to call on her, maybe see if she wants to go to a movie down in Brownsville or have something to eat.” He smiled. “I’d like you to meet her.”

  “That would be nice,” Isabella whispered, her heart breaking over the pain she saw in her son’s future. “Do you know who she is? Where she came from?”

  “Probably a relative of Claire’s. That’s why I have to get a move on. Who knows how long she’ll be staying here before heading back to school or wherever she came from.” He looked into his mother’s eyes. “I can’t let the chance to meet her slip away without trying.”

  “Okay.” Isabella nodded, torn between spoiling his excitement over his first love and telling him the truth about the girl’s status in Tom Krieg’s world. In the end, she did not have the heart to ruin the moment for him. “I’ll look forward to meeting her.”

  “Good.” Sandy put the truck in gear. “Now I’m going to go see … oh, I never told you her name, did I?” He grinned. “It’s Jacinta … beautiful, isn’t it?”

  He rolled away, careful not to kick up dust on Isabella. At the end of the road, he gunned the engine, honked the horn, and sped away, the dust churning up across the prairie.

  “Looks like Sandy is excited about something,” Charlie Faust called from his stoop, hoping to get the inside information from Isabella.

  “I guess it does.” Isabella forced herself to smile and continued walking to her house at the edge of town.

  Her mind whirled. There were so many secrets, so much that he didn’t understand, so much she couldn’t tell him. She had resigned herself to the fact that some secrets were hers to carry for life.

  43.

  Rats

  “Get in.”

  The rust spotted Chevy El Camino could have been a classic north of the border, restored and tricked out for display, making the rounds of car shows around the country. Here it was just another nondescript, dusty work vehicle that did not draw attention.


  Pepe Lopez leaned across the seat toward the open passenger window and repeated his command, smiling this time.

  “Get in. I’m putting together a load. I need your help.”

  Father Alfonso hesitated. They were on a side street a block off the Boulevard Francisco Madero, a busy part of Torreón. It would not do for a parishioner to see him get into a car with a known coyotaje like Pepe Lopez.

  “Get in,” Lopez encouraged with a smile. “I can see the street. No one is watching.”

  “Yes … but it’s just that …” Alfonso’s head turned, his eyes searching the street for someone who might come along.

  His encounter with Benito Diaz made him more than a little suspicious of Lopez’s motives. Their usual manner of communication was through the confessional. Lopez would pay a young man to go to confession. A message would be whispered to him through the grill, giving him a time and place to meet, a private place, away from prying eyes. Always, Lopez stayed out of sight and was careful not to have them spotted together

  Did Lopez know of his involvement with Diaz and the hijacked shipment? Was that the reason for stopping him on the street like this? No, he thought. He could not know. He had only been away from his parish for a few hours, and Lopez was nowhere around then, probably out cleaning up the mess at the scene of the hijacking.

  He gathered up his courage. Lopez was here for some other reason, probably to tell him of the hijacking and to warn him to be careful in arranging the next shipment. He looked down at him through the open car window.

  “Whatever the reason, Pepe, it is not good to break protocol like this. It is dangerous. Send your boy to confession and give me a place and time. I will meet you there.”

  “You speak very reasonably for a man who is sweating so much.” Lopez smiled. “Get in.” He lifted a nine-millimeter pistol from the seat and pointed it at Alfonso. “Now.”

  Hands trembling, Father Alfonso pulled open the El Camino’s door and sat in the passenger seat. He stared straight ahead, afraid to look at Lopez and the pistol pointed at his face.

  “Put these on.” Lopez held out a pair of handcuffs. The good Sargento Garcia had provided him with several sets over the years of their association, for use in special situations.

  “But … why?” Alfonso paled as Lopez dangled the cuffs in front of his face. “Pepe, what is wrong that I should put these on?”

  “Maybe nothing.” Lopez shrugged. “Maybe something. Until I find out, put these on, one around your wrist and one through the armrest on the door.” He lifted the pistol and pointed it at Alfonso’s face. “I won’t say it again.”

  The priest complied, and Lopez wound his way through the city streets until they were out in the country. For over an hour, he drove into the hills, passing through several small villages. As they exited the last one, Lopez pulled onto a dirt road that was barely more than two tire tracks and drove another hour. When he stopped, they were as far from civilization as was possible in this region of Mexico.

  Alfonso said nothing, though the sound of his weeping rose in volume the farther they drove. It was the incessant sobbing that convinced Lopez that Alfonso was the traitor, as he had suspected. He might have complained about being taken away in such a manner, shouted for help, or cursed Lopez for daring to molest a priest. Instead, he wept like a woman from the moment the handcuffs ratcheted closed on his wrist.

  Lopez braked at the crest of a hill and got out. The pistol was tucked in his belt. Alfonso watched through the spotted windshield as he lit a cigarette, leaning against the fender smoking calmly as if they were on a picnic outing.

  When he was finished, he flicked the butt into the brush and came to the passenger door. Lopez yanked the door open, and Father Alfonso tumbled out onto the ground, his arm still cuffed to the armrest.

  “Here.” Lopez tossed the handcuff key into the dirt beside Alfonso. “Release yourself.”

  “No … please don’t … no.” Alfonso was blubbering now, tears streaking his dusty face. He begged, “Please don’t kill me. I am a priest.”

  “Hah,” Lopez sneered in disgust. “I don’t give a shit who you are. Priest or saint, it makes no difference to me. We are going to speak together. After that, we will see. Now, take the handcuffs off and stand up like a man for once.”

  It took several tries for Alfonso’s trembling fingers to guide the key into the lock on the cuffs. Finally, he stood up and faced Lopez, his sobbing reduced now to an occasional tearful gasp.

  “I know you were the one,” Lopez began.

  “No.” Alfonso shook his head rapidly, on the brink of breaking into tears again.

  “No? Then why haven’t you asked me what I mean?” Lopez smiled. “There is only one reasonable explanation for this. You already understand because you are the traitor who gave someone the information about the last shipment.”

  “No … please, Pepe. I would never betray you.”

  “Really?” Lopez snorted a disgusted laugh. “Like you would never betray the young women who came to you for help, only to send them to the gringos to be sold. Don’t make me laugh, Priest.”

  Alfonso lowered his head, his shoulders shaking again with his sobs. “Please don’t kill me.” He whispered, barely able to make the words leave his throat.

  “Whether I kill you or not, is up to you.”

  Alfonso lifted his head, the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes. “What is it I must do?”

  “You will tell me who you are working with. Leave nothing out.”

  Alfonso spoke for half an hour, recounting his encounter with Benito Diaz in the church, the plans for the hijacking, the gathering at the shack in the desert, the old man who gave up his life for the others.

  “So, you see, Pepe. They came to me … threatened me … I did not seek to betray you.” He held his hands out, palms up to demonstrate that he had merely surrendered to the inevitable. “I had no choice.”

  “Yes. I see.” Lopez lit another cigarette and considered Alfonso’s story. A thought came to him. “You say this man Diaz forced another to pull the trigger and kill the old man.”

  “Yes, another.” Alfonso nodded. “After, Diaz said we were one with them. It was a terrible thing to see.”

  “And this other, what was his name?”

  “I never heard his last name, but Diaz called him Mario.”

  “Mario.” Lopez’s eyes narrowed. He knew of only one Mario who worked with Krieg and Zabala. “You may yet live a little longer, Priest. Get in the car.”

  They retraced the route back to Torreón. On reaching the outskirts of the city, Lopez slowed and told Alfonso to get out.

  “If you speak to anyone about our meeting, you will die, and it will be slow. I will cut your heart out while you live for you to see.”

  “I swear to you, Pepe. No one will know.”

  Lopez drove away. Alfonso walked the streets toward his parish.

  People passing wondered at the priest who walked and sobbed. “He must weep for our sins,” someone said. Others nodded and remarked that Father Alfonso truly was a man of God.

  As he drove, Pepe wondered how Krieg and Zabala would take the news that there were two traitors in their organization. In the back of his mind, he also wondered what he would have done if Diaz had taken him first instead of Mario Acosta and Father Alfonso.

  For all his threats to cut out the priest’s heart, he knew the answer. He was no better than they, no more loyal to Krieg and Zabala.

  The money he made from their business was excellent, but he was most loyal to breathing and remaining alive. If the others were rats, he was one too, he admitted, and like all rats, he would do whatever was necessary to survive.

  44.

  Close

  “Relax.” Stu Pearce leaned against the shady side of the truck, using his pocketknife to quarter a tomato he had taken from one of the crates the farmhands were loading in the back.

  Sole paced the ground around the farm shed where Stu had parked the truck for loading.
Shotgun under his arm, he eyed the surrounding fields and hills.

  “Thought I was supposed to be the security man on this run.”

  “You are, but nothin’ is gonna happen here.” Pearce shrugged. “Or anywhere else, for that matter. This run is a piece of cake. I’m tellin’ you, there’s nothin’ to worry about.”

  “No?” Sole turned from watching the road leading to the farm. “Why?”

  “It just ain’t. That’s not the way they operate … those that might want what we’re hauling.”

  “They hit a load of avocados, right? So avocados get hijacked but not tomatoes. Didn’t realize hijackers were so particular.”

  “Hmm,” Stu said without commenting further and popped a juicy section of tomato into his mouth like candy. “Nothing like fresh ‘maters,” he said, changing the subject. “Reminds me of the ones my mama grew in the garden when I was a tyke.”

  “Don’t you worry about getting some bug in your gut down here eating unwashed produce?” Sole asked as Stu chewed and smiled.

  “Used to,” Stu said, using the back of his hand to wipe a trickle of juice from the side of his mouth. “The Montezuma revenge got me a few times when I first started comin’ down here. Not anymore.” He shrugged and focused on cutting another section of tomato.

  “Didn’t know you could be immune to the shits.”

  “Look around, and you’ll see them Mexes drinkin’ the water and eatin’ the food off the vine just like this. Don’t seem to bother them. Reckon they worked up an immunity early on. Me too, I guess.” He laughed. “But I hear the young’uns make some nasty diapers for their mamacita’s before they get to the immune stage.”

  “Well, if you say there’s nothing to worry about, I guess I’ll just wander a bit and scope things out.”