by Glenn Trust
“She had a visitor today.” Doyle Krieg came around the side of the guest house as his father reached the porch.
“What?” Krieg stared at his son, annoyed that he had interrupted his thoughts of pain and pleasure. “What did you say?”
“A visitor … the new girl had a visitor.”
“Who?” Krieg’s eyes blazed.
“The half-breed … Sandy Palmeras.” Doyle smiled at the rage rising in his father’ eyes. “He’s been around a few times.”
“A few times and you’re just telling me!” Krieg faced his son, fists balled and Doyle took a step back. “What did he want?”
“He sat with her.” Doyle smiled and nodded at the chairs on the porch. “They talked together … looked like a couple of lovebirds.”
Tom Krieg pushed past his son and mounted the steps. His work finished, Doyle retreated around the side of the house.
Inside, Claire heard them speak through the window. She grabbed Jacinta by the shoulders frantic to give her a final warning.
“Whatever he does, do not fight him. If you fight, it will only be worse. Please, little one, you must understand this.” She pulled Jacinta close in a hug.
There was a crash. Tom Krieg stood in the door, a towering, glaring monster, ready to destroy whatever and whoever defied his will. Without speaking, he stepped into the room and pulled Jacinta away from Claire’s clinging embrace.
His hand clamped around her arm, he dragged the girl across the lawn to the main house. When she tripped and fell, he continued dragging her over the ground, ignoring her cries of pain.
Claire sat by the window, her hands clenched in her lap, watching, afraid to move or speak. When Jacinta hesitated before the door, Krieg physically threw her into the house, slamming the door behind. From her chair, Claire could see the windows of the house rattle and shake. She tried not to think of what was happening behind the closed door.
“I tried to warn her,” Claire whispered. “I tried.”
Then she wept for the girl.
50.
Cut!
“You’re up.” Isabella shuffled into the kitchen, wearing only a tee shirt. She yawned and stretched and blinked her eyes at him, smiling. “I smell coffee.”
“I was up early.” Sole sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee, taking in her tousled, sexy beauty. “Coffee isn’t as good as yours, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” She shook her head, yawned and leaned over to plant a kiss on his lips, then took his head between her hands and looked into his eyes. “Thank you for being here with me now.”
“Thank you for letting me be here. These last weeks have been …” He paused searching for the right word. “Special.”
“Special for me too,” Isabella said, pouring coffee into a cup and taking a sip. Her face wrinkled. “You’re right. Not as good as mine.”
They laughed together. He looked at her, and the guilt crept over his face. Isabella saw it.
“What?” She put the coffee cup down and sat across the kitchen table from him.
“There’s something I have to do.” He looked down at the table.
“What? Spit it out, mister.” She tried to smile, but it wasn’t a very good effort. She sensed that things were about to change. Whatever followed him from his past had finally caught up.
“Never mind.” She reached out and put a finger over his lips. “I know you have to go away and do something today. That’s why you’re up early. I heard you get up … expected you to be gone.” She smiled. “But you’re not gone.”
“I’m not gone. I was waiting for you.” He nodded. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I feel human again, thanks to you.” A cloud came over his face. “It’s just that …”
“I said hush … no explanations. You have something to do today. I don’t require an explanation, and I won’t pry. Just one question.”
“What?” He looked up from the table.
“Will you be back when you’re done?”
“Yes.” He said the word, looking into her eyes, meaning it and hoping it was true.
“Good then.” Her smile broadened. She leaned over to give him another kiss. He turned his head up, and her tongue lingered against his lips.
Then she walked from the room, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be here when you get back.”
***
He had been back to the tomato farm three times. On the first two visits, Juan Galdo said that his drug-dealing, cartel cousin was busy but that he was going to set things up for them to meet as soon as possible. Sole had decided it was a dead-end, and he wasn’t as close to making contact with Los Salvajes as he had initially hoped.
On the third trip that changed. Juan excitedly told him that his cousin Bernardo was willing to meet with him and see if they could make a business arrangement. They set a date and time for the meeting, and Juan reminded him to bring the five hundred U.S. dollars. Today was the day.
He drove and tried to focus on the mission, but thoughts of Isabella filled his mind. Her shape, the touch of her leg against his in the night, the kiss at the table over coffee, every sensation filled his memory, and he found himself smiling.
The little voice from his memory spoke and giggled.
Someone is happy today
He had to admit it. He was happy.
The remote border crossing at a dusty village on the Rio Grande appeared ahead. He had to force himself out of his happy reverie. It was time to get to work.
“What is your reason for visiting Mexico?” The Mexican border guard leaned over, comparing the image on his passport card to his face. “Mr. William Myers?”
“Business. Going to check on some tomatoes south of Monterrey.”
The guard squinted at him. “I know you. You have crossed here before, in one of the trucks from Krieg and Zabala.” The guard handed his ID back and smiled. “You go to check on tomatoes for Krieg and Zabala, yes?”
“Yes.” Sole nodded.
“There are always tomatoes south of Monterrey.” The guard laughed. “I hope you will tell your jefes that I have been helpful.” He pointed to the name tag on his shirt. “Border Agent Luis Vida has helped you on your crossing today, right?”
“That’s right. I’ll be sure and tell them.”
“Excelente!”
Sole took the passport card, and Agent Vida stepped back, smiling broadly.
“Buen día señor!” Vida called after him.
Sole put an arm out of the window, waved as he pulled away, and settled back for the three-hour drive to Monterrey. Winding along a back road, he passed through a few dusty villages where locals raised their heads curiously at the North American driving by then looked away. His presence there might be innocent, a tourist risking the drive alone through the Mexican backcountry or he might have other reasons for being there. Either way, centuries of experience had passed on the sound tradition of minding their own business.
Eventually, he came to Mexican Federal Highway Number 54 and made the turn to the south. The route took him through the Monterrey suburb of Ciudad Apodaca.
This was a scouting mission, in advance of his meeting that night with Juan Galdo’s cousin, and Sole paid close attention to his surroundings. He had no idea where the meeting was to take place, other than somewhere in the vicinity of Monterrey. It seemed prudent to see the lay of the land ahead of time.
He watched the people on the street. Did they appear safe? Did they hurry along, avoiding communication with others or with strangers like an American from across the border? Were the streets deserted? Did gang members huddle on corners as they often did in cities north of the border?
The answers to these questions varied depending on the neighborhood or colonia he explored. By Mexican standards, the risk of being the victim of violent crime in the Monterrey area was only average, but an average risk in Mexico did not necessarily mean the same thing as in the United States.
Sole knew that every city has it
s dangerous sections. Wander into the wrong parts of Detroit, or Cleveland, or Atlanta for that matter, and the results could be devastating. The problem in Mexico was the difference between safety and imminent danger was a relative thing and often a matter of chance and not always location.
He wound through the side streets, assuming that wherever the meeting took place, it would be in one of the shadier neighborhoods. With one hand, he retrieved his Colt from under the seat where he had hidden it while crossing the border and tucked it into his rear waistband under his shirttail. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to carry a weapon while seated, but it was instantly available if required, and that was what mattered most at the moment.
From Ciudad Apodaca, he moved deeper into the heart of Monterrey, noting the touristy safer areas before seeking out the seedier barrios. If things went the wrong way, he would need an escape route and would not have time to pull out a map. For several hours, he crisscrossed the city’s colonias, exploring and making mental notes of the quickest way to the highways leading out of the Monterrey and back to the relative safety of the U.S. border.
In the afternoon, he drove south out of the city on Highway 85. There wasn’t much left to do now except meet Juan and bring him back to Monterrey to make contact with his cousin.
He drove through an area surrounded by green mountains. His mind wandered. A sense of the surreal overcame him as images flashed through his brain.
The face of the informant, Luis Acero. The investigation into a drug-smuggling operation. Shrimp boats on the Atlantic. A helicopter ride. A nervous senator.
The bodies of his wife and children.
He shook his head. The images kept flashing through his mind like the frames in a film, and he was just an actor playing his part. At any moment, a director might shout “Cut!”
He wanted to hear the word, but there was no director, and there was no moving on from the images. John Sole might be one of the actors in this personal drama, but he was also writing the script as he went. The ending would come when he said it was finished, or someone else ended it for him.
51.
No Expression at All
It was a chance meeting. Either could have been on a different road or passed by on the same one at a different time of day, and things might have turned out differently for both.
As it was, Tom Krieg spotted Emmett Brewer’s Border Patrol pickup parked under a mesquite tree not far from the spot along the Rio Grande where Lucky Martin’s corpse had been found. He pulled off the road, got out, and looked around. There was no sign of Brewer.
Krieg walked toward the river, feeling the rage building inside. As far as he was concerned, this was his personal stretch of river and part of his domain.
The Border Patrol officer insisted on putting his nose into matters that did not concern him. Now he had the sheriff poking into things.
As Krieg neared the river, he found Brewer kneeling by the bank, examining the mud.
“Heard you were still nosing around on that Mexican shooting.”
Brewer turned his head. “That what you call it? The Mexican shooting?”
“That’s what it was.”
“Two shootings now.” Brewer rose to face Krieg. “The Mexican and now your man, Lucky Martin.”
“Not my man.” Krieg shook his head. “Fired his ass for troublemaking.”
“Really? When did that happen?”
“Few weeks ago, and it’s none of your goddamned business.” Krieg turned his head to spit on the ground and then stared into Brewer’s eyes. “You think you can question me?”
“I can ask. Answer or not as you please.” Brewer shrugged and smiled. “Thing is Krieg, we’ll get to the bottom of things sooner or later.”
“We?” Krieg sneered. “You’re nothing but a security guard with a title and a fancy uniform.”
“If you mean I have no jurisdiction to investigate a murder in Salvia County, you’re right.” Brewer remained unruffled. “But Paul Dermott has enough jurisdiction for both of us. He’ll get it all put together.”
Krieg remained silent, the rage inside rising once again.
Brewer smiled. “Don’t you ever watch television? No one gets away with this sort of thing … covering up murders. There’s always something … some bit of evidence that gets overlooked by the perp. Try as they might to cover things up, they leave something behind, and that something is all it takes to land their ass in jail.”
“You saying you found that something?”
“Not saying anything. Figured I’d do some checking on my own.” Brewer gave a wry smile. “Just a security guard trying to be a good citizen.”
“Fuck you.” Krieg spun and made his way up the bank and away from the river.
When he reached his pickup, he extended his hands and leaned forward against the hood, head down staring at the ground. He sucked in deep breaths to extinguish the burning inside, but the fire only grew hotter.
Folklore assigns colors to emotions—green for envy, yellow for cowardice, red for anger. Tom Krieg saw no colors. In his mind, he could only see the face of Emmett Brewer and the confident, mocking smile on his face.
He stood up straight, reached into the truck, and walked back toward the river. His breathing had calmed now.
“Brewer!” Krieg called out from fifty yards away.
Emmett Brewer was kneeling again by the river. He looked over his shoulder and stood. “What the …”
There was no smile on his face now. There was no expression at all, just an exploding ball of red as the 150 grain .30-06 slug slammed into his head.
Krieg turned and walked briskly back to his pickup, pushed the Remington 700 back behind the seat, and pulled away, spinning the truck’s tires in the dirt.
He punched the Bluetooth button on the truck’s steering wheel, gave a command to make a call, and waited as it rang. When it was answered, he said, “I need to see you … now.”
52.
Nothing Could Change That
“Don’t go out there.” Claire Toussaint peered through the sheer drapes hanging over the bank of windows that looked out over the yard.
Sandy Palmeras parked the pickup in the gravel drive and got out. He was walking toward the guesthouse.
“I want to see him.” Jacinta stood beside her.
“You can’t.” Claire shook her head and turned to Jacinta’s, worry in her eyes. “Nothing good can come of it. You must understand what has happened to you … who you are now.”
“You mean who I belong to.” Jacinta shook her head. “I am not you, Claire. He may own my body, but he doesn’t own what’s in here.” She tapped her chest. “I cannot live like that for the rest of my life.”
“What do you know of life?”
“I know that it is more than this, being used by a man. I know that what he is doing to me is wrong.” Jacinta’s tone was harsh. “And what he is doing to you is wrong.”
“And what makes you think you are the judge of what is right or wrong?” Claire motioned around the interior of the house with one hand as she held Jacinta with the other. “Look around. Is this so wrong? We have food, a beautiful place to live in.” Her eyes were dark and somber. “I know what it is to live without these things, to live in the gutter with no hope for anything better.”
“He treats you as his whore. And now, I am his whore.”
“And so? You think those women who live in fine houses with their husbands aren’t whores?” Claire hissed. “They are even worse because they deny it.”
“How sad. You can’t see love, compassion, how two people can be together because they care for each other, how a woman can want to give herself to a man without the promise of a fine house or clothes, only the promise of love.” Jacinta shook her head. “I feel sorry for you.”
“You are a child. You have no idea …”
“Yes, I do.” Jacinta cut her off, sharply. “Don’t lecture me. I am not a child. I have been the whore of two men now. One day I would like it t
o be different.”
Sandy mounted the steps to the porch and knocked softly at the door.
“I’m going to see him.” Jacinta walked to the door and opened it, a smile wiping away her argument with Claire.
“Hello, Jacinta.” Sandy grinned, his eyes showing his delight that she had opened the door. He had half expected that she would be gone, or that Claire Toussaint would shoo him away.
“Hello, Reynaldo.” Jacinta plucked up her courage and added softly. “I am happy to see you.”
Sandy’s smile widened at the sound of his given name spoken by her. “Can we talk for a while?”
“Yes. I would like that.”
Jacinta opened the door and came out onto the porch and directed him to one of the cushioned chairs. “What shall we speak about?” She asked and gave a nervous laugh.
The music filled the air again for Sandy. He looked into her eyes, unable to think of anything to say. She laughed again.
When his smile lingered without any words, she asked, “¿Te comieron la lengua los ratones?” Did the rats eat your tongue?
Sandy laughed.
“What?” Jacinta smiled. “Did I say something funny?”
“No. It’s just the expression you used. In English, we would say, has the cat got your tongue?”
“Oh.” Jacinta nodded, and now she laughed. “I like your way better.” She made a face and shivered. “It is the way we say it in Mexico, but I hate rats.”
“Me too.” A serious look crossed his face, and he wondered if he should ask his question, then decided to press forward. “Do you mind if I ask how long you will be here?” The smile was back on his face. “I would like to get to know you better.”
Darkness fluttered across Jacinta’s face. The change was not lost on Sandy.
“What’s wrong? Did I say something I shouldn’t?”
Huddled by the window, Claire listened, her stomach churning with concern. Say the wrong thing now, and they would both be punished—Jacinta to teach her to hold her tongue and Claire because she had not controlled Jacinta and allowed her to speak with this boy.