by Glenn Trust
She decided it was good not to be lonely, and one day she told Sole. He agreed and kissed her, but that night as she slept by his side, a chill went through him. He had something to lose again.
***
Sandy’s days seemed interminably long when he could not visit Jacinta. Ranchers and cowhands regularly stopped by his shed at the café to drop off various pieces of ranch machinery and vehicles for repair. At any other time, he would be grateful for the work. Every dollar he earned was going into a bank account in Laredo. One day, he would use the money to make his way out of Creosote and take his mother with him if he could pry her away from the café.
And he would take Jacinta. He would convince her to come with him. He wondered if she was a traditional Mexican girl. Would he have to ask for permission in the old world way? Who would he ask? Tom Krieg?
There were still many questions surrounding their relationship. He had managed a couple of times to steal away for a quick visit to the Krieg ranch. Always, she seemed delighted to see him, but they couldn’t really talk much with Claire Toussaint constantly hovering in the background.
Once he asked if he could come by in the evening so they could take a ride. Claire had been about to say something, but Jacinta motioned her away and then turned to Sandy and declined firmly, saying that she was busy most evenings. She was grateful for the invitation, but it would not be possible.
His obvious disappointment tugged at her heart, and she added quickly, “But you can come to visit in the day sometimes, like this. I want you to come by whenever you are able.”
Sandy’s face brightened a little at that. He was about to ask if it was because there was another she was seeing, but he thought better of it.
Soon, he thought, he would come for a real visit. Spend a day with her. Then they would get to know each other, and she would be able to trust him.
***
Teamed with Stu Pearce, Sole made the rounds of the farms in north-central Mexico and became familiar with the locals. In particular, they always made the run to the farm south of Monterrey where Sole always found a moment to chat with Juan Galdo.
It was a training and assessment period to determine if he could be trusted to handle K and Z’s most precious and profitable cargo. Unknown to him, Pearce was required to sit with Krieg and Zabala in their office every time they returned and report on his conduct. They fired questions at him.
“When will he be ready?”
“Soon, I think.”
“How soon?”
“Hard to say. He don't talk much,” Pearce would reply.
“So why do you say he will be ready soon?”
“Because he don’t talk much.” Pearce had shrugged. “He don’t blabber on about things, and he seems to be pretty solid. Makes himself at home among the farmers. They respect him, and if it matters,” Pearce summarized. “I’d trust him in a fight.”
Krieg and Zabala exchanged a nod and dismissed Pearce. The question was, could they trust him in their fight. Eventually, Zabala suggested they keep him on the farm runs and save him for the big operation that was coming.
Krieg agreed, and they spent their days planning their counterattack on Diaz. A great deal of time was consumed putting together the trap that would end his threat permanently. Bill Myers would get his baptism by fire when they sprung the trap. If he didn’t work out, he’d be just one more body in the road.
***
The weeks passed quietly. The interlude was an end to loneliness and a time of peace for Sole and Isabella; a time of anxious love and stolen moments for Sandy and Jacinta; a time of preparation for Tom Krieg and Raul Zabala.
Then the interlude came to an end, and the world changed for everybody.
47.
Still Breathing
“The reason for your visit to the United States?”
The Border Patrol agent spoke perfect Mexican Spanish, an indication of his heritage and not education.
“Just here to visit my sister and her family in McAllen.”
“Address?”
Pepe Lopez gave his sister’s street address in McAllen and handed his Border Crossing Card issued by the State Department along with his Mexican driver’s license out the window. The card served as a temporary visa and allowed Mexican nationals to enter the United States legally.
The agent gave it a perfunctory glance. Of greater interest was the database readout on his computer screen that let him know that the vehicle made frequent trips back and forth across the border, never overstayed the legally authorized time, and Pepe Lopez had never been involved in any known criminal activity. He handed the card back.
“Can’t stay any longer than seventy-two hours and no farther than twenty-five miles from the border.”
“I know.” Pepe smiled.
He had no intention of staying any longer than he had to, although his visit would take him more than thirty miles from the Puente Internacional Anzalduas—Anzalduas International Bridge. But then, he knew from experience that the border agents would have no way of knowing this.
After a brief visual inspection of the old El Camino, he was waved through. The crossing was routine for people living and working on both sides of the border. As long as they followed the rules, Mexicans with business or family in the States made the crossing without problems, in the same way, Americans going in the other direction visited Mexico.
It was the illegals who created the concerns for the norteamericanos. Pepe smiled. They were also the ones making him a wealthy man.
The drive to the K and Z warehouse took a little over half an hour. On arrival, he parked outside the office building and entered. Ella, the receptionist, looked up and smiled.
“Pepe, haven’t seen you here in a while. It's not time for the count, is it?”
“No, no.” He shook his head and leaned on the counter that served has her small desk. “I have some business with Tom and Raul. I called and told them I was coming.”
“Well, it’s good to see you.” She picked up the phone and punched the intercom for their office. “Pepe Lopez here to see you. Right.” She nodded and hung up.
“They said to come on back. You know where it is, down the hall.”
“Thanks, Ella.”
Pepe walked down the short hall to the office, wishing it was longer. He was not at all sure how this meeting would play out, and a knot was forming in his stomach with every step. When he stood in the door, Krieg looked up and waved him in without speaking.
“Sit down, Pepe,” Raul Zabala said.
“What do you have?” Krieg was not in the mood for Zabala’s usual pleasantries.
“I found the traitor.”
“Who is it?”
“Alfonso.”
“The fucking priest!” Krieg roared.
“Are you sure of this?” Zabala asked calmly. “This is a serious matter, and to accuse a priest, we must be certain.”
Pepe fought to keep a look of incredulity from creeping across his face. Was Zabala serious about his surprise that it was the priest? Did he really think this supposed man of God who was willing to sell young girls into a life of slavery was above becoming a traitor to preserve his own life simply because he wore a cleric’s collar?
He kept his thoughts to himself and replied simply, “I am certain.”
“Start talking,” Krieg snapped.
Pepe recounted his meeting with Alfonso and the confession he forced from him then added, “There is another.”
“Who?” Krieg and Zabala spoke in unison.
“The new one … Acosta.”
“Son of a bitch!” Krieg’s fist slammed down on his desk. “I want him dead! I want them both dead!”
“Patience,” Zabala said mildly. “We want our enemies dead, right?”
“Goddamned right!”
“Then we must use the traitors to our advantage.” Zabala leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head in his usual relaxed position. “I have an idea.”
Another hour pa
ssed as they discussed Zabala’s plan. As they went through the details, Krieg calmed himself and focused his mind on the revenge he would take on Benito Diaz.
“You understand what to do?” Zabala asked Pepe when the discussion ended.
“I understand, but you should understand that it may take some time until they fall into the trap.”
“As long as they fall in.” Zabala smiled. He stood to indicate the meeting was at an end. “What are your plans for the evening, Pepe?”
“A quick visit to my sister in McAllen, in case the Border Patrol sends someone to check. Then drive home in the morning.”
“Give my best to your sister.” Zabala sat, and Pepe took the cue to leave the office.
“Leaving so soon?” Ella said as he passed by the reception desk.
“Yes. Only time for a quick visit.”
“Well, get home safe, Pepe. See you next time.”
“Next time.”
Pepe smiled and walked out to his car. It had been a successful meeting. He was still breathing.
48.
More Disagreeable Dead than Alive
“Looks like the carp have been having a feast.” Sheriff Paul Dermott squatted on the bank of the Rio Grande peering into the shallow water and reeds along the shore.
“How long do you think?” Emmett Brewer stood behind him, staring down at the body of Lucky Martin.
“Not long,” Dermott said. “Judging by the decomposition just a couple of days. Most of the damage is from the fish feeding on soft tissues.”
“Yeah, that and the bullet holes in his head.”
“Yeah, there’s that.” Dermott gave a wry smile and looked at Deputy Brainerd, standing a few feet away. “Better fish him out, Claude.”
“Okay, Sheriff.” Brainerd signaled to two junior deputies who grimaced and moved toward the water.
They wore waders and latex gloves, and their faces showed that they were none too pleased to have the assignment to go in after the body. Even in death, Lucky Martin had a way of pissing people off.
With Brainerd standing nearby, ready to do the sheriff’s bidding without actually doing any work, Dermott and Brewer scanned up and down the riverbank for signs of human life on either side. There weren’t any, only the usual waterfowls and nesting birds feeding and foraging along the water. If they were aware of the dead man, it was because the decaying body had provided an abundance of tasty morsels in the way of suckerfish, larva, and insects.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Brewer asked.
“Probably, but you go first.”
Dermott climbed higher up on the bank to get away from the body and the cocktail of gasses filling the air as the deputies turned and tugged at the corpse. The mix of hydrogen sulfide, carbon dioxide, methane, ammonia, sulfur dioxide, and hydrogen created a stench no human ever got accustomed to, although to the scavengers feeding on it, the aroma was like steaks on the grill. Every carrion-eater in scenting distance would be on their way to grab their share of the buffet.
“Alright, I’ll go first.” Brewer nodded. “This is about the same spot where the shots were fired across the river at the Mexican family.”
“It is,” Dermott agreed.
“Any idea if Lucky Martin owned a Winchester?”
“He did.” Dermott nodded. “Used to compete in the Sheriff’s Annual Turkey Shoot with it. Never won but always made a big deal about the sights being off or some other bullshit excuse. But ….” Dermott paused to emphasize that he was not going to just buy into Brewer’s theory. “Most everyone around here has one, or a similar firearm, and a lot of them are .30-30 caliber. It’s a handy multipurpose round.”
“True enough, but most everyone isn’t floating face down in the Rio Grande with a bullet in his head.”
“Actually, it’s three bullets.” The deputies had dragged the body onto the bank. Dermott pointed at the back of Lucky’s skull. “Three holes … three bullets.”
“I stand corrected,” Brewer said. “Three bullets in the back of the head which can only mean one thing.”
“Yep,” Dermott agreed. “Someone wanted Lucky dead.”
“Yep. So we’re on the same page on.”
“Depends on what page you’re on, Emmett. Did someone want Martin dead? Sure as hell looks that way. That’s where the page stops for me … at least, for now.”
“Fair enough. Mind if I add my two cents worth?”
Brewer understood that Dermott, despite any political connections that went along with his job, was also a good law enforcement officer. He wouldn’t be hurried into drawing a conclusion until he had some evidence to go on and would not allow any relationships he had with the locals to influence the way he did his job, once he got to doing it.
“Don’t mind at all,” Dermott said. “Fire away. Just don’t expect me to buy into any theories just yet.”
“Way I see it, there’s only two reasons someone would want Martin executed like this.”
“Go on.” Dermott listened while his deputies began the process of photographing and collecting what evidence they could find on the corpse.
“It might be a revenge killing. Someone getting even for the Mexican who was shot.”
“Maybe,” Dermott nodded his agreement and pointed at one of the deputies standing beside the body. “Check his pants pockets.”
The deputy’s grimace was discernible through the surgical mask coated with Vicks VapoRub he wore to kill the stench.
“The second possibility,” Brewer continued, “is that someone put Lucky up to the shooting and now wants to make sure he can’t talk about it.”
“Uh-huh, that’s definitely a possibility,” Dermott said and turned from the body to face Brewer. “But there are a couple of other possibilities, Emmett.”
“Alright, my turn to listen.” Brewer crossed his arms and waited, his posture sending the message that he would not be easily convinced that he was wrong.
“There’s always the possibility,” Dermott began, “that on the day in question, ole Lucky was the unluckiest son of a bitch in Salvia County and came down to the river to fish, or scout out a hunting spot and happened on someone who was up to no good. Might have been border crossers or drug smugglers or poachers, who knows, but it might have absolutely nothing to do with the Mexican who was shot.”
“That would be highly coincidental, and as you said, it would make Martin the unluckiest son of a bitch around. What’s the other possibility?”
“Whether he was unlucky or not, we know for a fact that Lucky Martin was definitely the meanest son of a bitch around. He had enemies … a lot of them. Could be that one of his enemies lured him down to the river, or tracked him down here, and ended his pathetic life for personal reasons … again, unrelated to shooting at the Mexicans.”
“Hmph.” Brewer was unconvinced, and his arms remained crossed over his chest.
“Take it easy, Emmett.” Dermott smiled. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, only that we have a lot of investigating to do before we get to a conclusion.”
“Fair enough.” Dermott was right, of course, and Brewer knew it. “Mind if I stay in the loop on the investigation.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dermott said, his nose wrinkling as the deputies rolled the body over on his back and decomposition gasses hissed from his open mouth, adding to the foulness of the air. “Damn! Who would have thought Lucky Martin could be more disagreeable dead than alive?”
49.
She Wept for the Girl
The truck raced along the gravel drive and slid to a stop in front of the main house. A cloud of dust swirled, hiding it from view. Tom Krieg came into view, striding across the lawn, eyes blazing, emerging from the dusty haze like Satan from the smokes of hell.
Claire turned from the window, concern in her eyes. “He is coming.”
Jacinta's face flushed red. The look in Krieg’s eyes meant that he would want one of them tonight, and lately Jacinta had been the focus of his attention.
“No matter what he says or does, you must remember this,” Claire said, taking hold of Jacinta’s arms and turning her until she looked into her eyes. “You must say nothing about the boy, Sandy.”
“But …”
“Nothing!” Claire hissed her eyes blazing. “You must understand. As bad as you think your life is now, it can be much worse. If he finds out that that boy has been visiting … that he was talking with you as if …”
“As if what?” Jacinta shook her head. “We did nothing wrong. We talked. Talking is not wrong. How can he be upset that we …”
“Listen to me!” Claire was desperate. Krieg was approaching, almost at the steps to the porch. “Do not mention the boy or what he said. Only trouble can come from that.”
“But I like him.” Jacinta shook her head. “I don’t want to be here.”
“Shut up!” Claire’s desperation turned to anger. “You belong to Krieg now. You must accept this. Life will be better when you do, but you must never tell him about the visits from the boy. If you do, it will be bad … for both of us.” She shook her head wishing that Sandy Palmeras had never come to the ranch. “Promise me!”
“I promise.” Jacinta nodded.
It had been a shitty week. The visit from Pepe Lopez. Discovering that the priest and Mario Acosta were working with Benito Diaz. Planning a way to stop Diaz. Having Claude Brainerd deal with Lucky Martin. And the shit kept piling up.
Unlike Raul Zabala, Tom Krieg did not possess the ability to accept and adapt to rapid change in an almost lackadaisical way. Each deviation from the norms in his life was a pinprick, and the accumulation of pinpricks had driven him into a rage.
But he knew how to take the edge off his rage. He strode across the lawn to the guest house, feeling the aching urge rising in his loins. Each thrust, every slap, would be a bit of salve to ease the day’s maddening stings.