"What about you?"
"Wig and sunglasses. Give me fifteen minutes in a Target store, and I'm good to go."
"I don't think so. I want to be there and see this for myself."
"No. You're staying behind. I'm in charge of this operation, and this is the way it's going down. End of discussion."
"Wow. Who put you in charge?"
"I did. You're a warrant officer, and I'm a general. So I'm running things from here on."
He smiled through his distress. "All right. I can't fight you, I learned that way long ago."
I returned his smile. "Glad you remember."
He threw his arm around me in the airport waiting area chairs. I put my head back against him and closed my eyes. We were both dreading the next ten hours, and we knew it. The massacre could be any number of things, but one thing kept coming back to me: why would a group of American teenagers be in the Tijuana countryside at all? Could they maybe be other children kidnapped by the cartel? It was entirely possible and, in some sick, depraved way, could even make sense to an insane person.
Someone like Ignacio Velasquez.
We boarded a Southwest flight and touched down in San Diego after just enough time to down a Diet Pepsi and the mandatory bag of cashews.
We walked through the airport to the waiting area where Isaac was due to arrive. We found two seats side-by-side that faced the jetway. Mark pulled out his laptop and began working on his list of materiel and phone numbers for his soldiers. I sat back and shut my eyes.
It was all about to shift into high gear, and I needed to be rested and ready.
I realized that Mark's arm was still around my shoulder and that he was typing one-handed. I reached around, lifted his arm, and plunked it back down on his side of the imaginary line between us.
He looked at me and smiled. Then came a shrug.
I looked away.
23
"Señor Robles," said a Federal Policeman, "they haven't been disturbed. I was the first one here. I checked their pulses and made the call."
"Good man," said Robles of the Ministerial Police. "Please keep the press and the gawkers away from here. I don't want to wake up to a front page full of gory pictures."
"I have two men blocking the road where it crosses the train tracks. No one will be allowed beyond there."
"Okay, thank you."
Robles jumped down into the shallow grave. He counted the bodies as best he could. An even dozen. Seven males, five females. Robles put their ages as somewhere between twelve and seventeen. One boy had the beginnings of a very wispy mustache. Maybe sixteen years old, but no more. Eight bodies rested on their sides, their hands bound behind their backs with baling wire. Another four--their hands also bound--had remained upright on their knees, shot behind the ear each one of them. The Federal Police crime scene techs arrived and looked down at Robles. "I'm coming out. I'll retrace my footsteps. No harm to the scene."
The techs didn't respond. He had violated their crime scene, but he had done so on purpose. His own daughter had been kidnapped three months ago, payback for sending a ranking cartel member to hell in a shootout. He'd gone into the grave to look at faces. None belonged to Estrella, thank God. So there was still hope.
Just then, Julio Marzipan, the president's emissary, arrived with no fanfare and no special salute to him even though everyone recognized Marzipan. He came striding up to Robles.
"The President wants to speak with you. I can dial him up on my phone right now."
"All right."
A moment later, Marzipan passed Robles the phone Marzipan had called on.
"Mr. President?" said Robles. "Enrique Robles, sir. I'm the MP in charge."
"Robles," came the president's unmistakable voice with the Mexico City harsh accent, "You have twenty-four hours to locate the men who did this. We have a terrific chance to make good public relations out of this."
Robles' eyes rolled in disgust. "Yes, Mr. President."
"So I want you to take three of your best men and go into Tijuana. Hunt down the people who did this and execute them. I don't want a long, drawn-out trial in front of a terrified jury that will only let them go. Do you follow me?"
"I do, Mr. President."
"Are we on the same page?"
"Are you sure I'm the right man for this?" asked Robles. "The investigation is right here, not in town." Robles knew that if his name became known by the cartel as the officer of the law who'd executed the responsible cartel members, then his own daughter's lifespan would end. It would get his daughter killed in retribution, assuming she was still even alive.
"Oh, you're the right man, Señor Robles. Do you know why I say this? Because I know I can trust you. I know I can trust you to locate the men who did this and send them to hell with your guns. Am I right in this?"
"You are right, Mr. President. I can do that. But I still think--"
"Don't. Don't think, Robles. Just do what I've told you. My other phone is ringing. Call me when your mission in town is completed. Are we on the same page, Robles?"
"We are, sir."
Without a 'goodbye' the president ended the call. Robles returned the phone to Marzipan.
"I could hear every word," Marzipan told him. "You should gather your men and leave now. The president sounds anxious to move ahead."
"Yes, yes. All right. Who has the scene?"
"I do," Marzipan said with a sad look. "For what it's worth. I've never done this before. Any advice?"
"Keep everyone out of the hole except the techs. That's all you need to do and if you do that they'll give you a useable workup in return. Everyone stays out, no exceptions."
"Thank you, Señor Robles."
"I'm going now."
With that, Robles began moving through his men, tapping them to join him. He then assembled them all inside his SUV and told them of the president's orders. Nobody blinked. It wasn't unusual for the president to mandate such a task after a horrible PR night like tonight would be. "Weapons, everyone. Each man must have an automatic weapon. Get them now."
SUV doors flew open, and the men dispersed to their own vehicles to retrieve their automatic weapons. In five minutes they had all returned.
"Good, then," said Robles, when the last door closed. "We're off."
24
Word of the slaughter reached Ignacio Velasquez just after noon that day. His first response was axiomatic: time to move his inventory because the Federal Police would soon swarm his finca in search of lost children. So he loaded his eleven girls into the Benz van and put Marcellus behind the wheel. Two armed guards were assigned, one to ride shotgun, one to ride swing, as they called it, meaning in the rear of the van.
Marcellus pulled the van onto Highway 2D, headed toward Tecate, where the cartel kept other emplacements. The girls would be hidden away underground in Tecate, safe from all prying eyes. Next to him in the passenger seat, Ramon fought to stay awake. He'd been up all night rounding up the inventory that refused orders and had been returned from their purchasers for the difficulties the children created by their refusals. The murder of such recalcitrants was routine; better to dispose of them than embarrass Velasquez a second time. He had his reputation to consider. The children were easily replaced, coming in daily from the United States and Canada.
A half hour later, the van came to a spot in the road where a green Ford SUV and a dead cow were blocking both lanes. It was evident what had happened as this was unfenced grazing land in Baja, southwest of Tecate, almost at the junction with Highway 2. Marcellus applied the brakes, which immediately caused Ramon to come fully awake and upright, cocking his automatic rifle reflexively.
"You're going to have to go see if they can move their vehicle," Marcellus told Ramon. Without a word, Ramon climbed out of the Benz and slung his weapon over his shoulder. He sauntered up to the green SUV and peered inside the driver's window. A red-headed young man and a somewhat older young woman were the only occupants. They appeared unarmed.
"Troub
le?" asked Ramon.
25
Isaac had a good idea, which was that we would journey to the death scene from the east. So, we crossed the border at Tecate and came down on Highway 2. Just after we'd turned onto Highway 2D and were coming around a blind curve, a steer stepped into the road in front of our SUV. Isaac braked wildly, and we skidded sideways. But we collided, nevertheless. I was braced in the passenger seat, and the seat belt held me in place. Isaac, who is six-four in height, wasn't quite so lucky. Upon impact, his upper torso flew forward and his face smashed against the top of the steering wheel. Blood flew everywhere, and he pulled the waistband of his T-shirt up to staunch the flow. But I could see it was going to take more than that, so I was rummaging around in my backpack when a knock came on the driver's window.
I stopped my searching and slipped out of my sweatshirt and passed it to Isaac. I had a T-shirt on beneath. I bent forward to see around Isaac as he rolled down his window.
"Trouble?" said a Mexican man in a thick accent.
Isaac was swabbing his fractured nose with my sweatshirt but managed to nod to the man.
"We hit a cow," he told the inquirer.
The Mexican man looked at the dead cow between our vehicles then tossed his head back and laughed. "Really, you did? What was your first clue, Señor?"
"All right," said Isaac. "Let me back up, and then I think I can pull around and give you enough room to pass by."
"That would be good," the man said. "Adios."
Isaac threw it in reverse and swung the tail end of our SUV around to where it was facing almost due east. He then pulled forward abreast of the Mercedes-Benz van and yanked the wheel to the left to get off the shoulder. As he did, his nose began spraying blood again, and Isaac hit the brakes.
From the passenger seat, I could look directly into the second of three windows on this side of the van. A girl was sitting there looking at us. I studied her face. A cold hand gripped my heart as I realized the hair color was right, the blue eyes were right, the slight pout, as she looked into my eyes, was right. Then her mouth moved. "Help me," she mouthed.
For a moment, I wasn't sure. Then it all became clear to me in the next instant.
I had stumbled across Lisa. There was no doubt in my mind it was her. We continued staring at each other while Isaac tended to his bloody nose. Then the driver of the van honked his horn for us to pass on by so he could edge around the dead cow. Holding my sweatshirt to his nose with his left hand, Isaac used his right hand to turn the wheel just enough for us to move on beyond the van. The girl's face slipped from my view as we moved along. Then I watched in my outside mirror as the van lunged to the left of the road, into the oncoming lane, to clear around the dead animal.
Then the van began receding down the road as it got back up to speed.
But I knew. I had found my baby--who wasn't such a baby now. For a minute I was speechless. Then I managed to say to Isaac, "Did you see her?"
He kept his eyes on the road ahead as he said to me, "See who?"
"It was Lisa in that van."
"What!"
"Yes. Turn around.”
He was already slowing. We shot across the roadway onto the shoulder and Isaac threw our vehicle into reverse, backing, then down into drive, and we accelerated, skidding on the asphalt as we straightened out.
"Stay far back," I ordered. "We can't blow this by letting them see it's us and that we've turned around to follow."
"Of course, Aunt Mel," said Isaac. "Mama didn't raise no dummies."
"It's her, Isaac."
"I believe you. We need to get close enough to watch when they turn off."
"Yes, but please don't follow when they do. Unless there's a hill and they disappear. Then we can follow from a distance."
"I know, I know."
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking and toying with the glove compartment. I crossed my arms. "Oh, sweet Jesus," I said. "Thank you!"
Inside I was a jumble of feelings, mostly elation and relief laced with a terrible fear of losing her again. That wasn't going to happen, though. I wasn't going to allow that ever again. Not if I had to get a gun and kill every last one of these bastards, I was getting my Lisa back.
And I knew exactly how I was going to do it, too.
"Catch up a little bit," I said to Isaac. "I know how we're going to do this."
"How, Aunt Mel? There's only two of us, and we don't have guns and wouldn't know how to use them if we did."
"Get closer."
We raced along the road, 70 then 75 when they came into view again. The van's brake lights flared, which caused Isaac to immediately touch our brakes too, so we didn't overrun our prey. But then they kept going, thank goodness. Twenty minutes later we saw the roadside sign for Tecate and knew we had just entered the city limits. We followed the van slowly through the town, almost losing them when a traffic light let them through on a green then turned red for us. Isaac came up to the intersection, looked both ways, took a right, then a U-turn, then back up and another right.
"Good driving," I muttered. Hopefully, they hadn't turned off yet.
He floored it coming out of the intersection, and I thought I could just make out their silhouette just beyond the second light ahead. I began praying we'd not get stopped by the lights again. The first one let us on through. Then the second one turned red just as we got to the cross street, but Isaac didn't hesitate: he floored it, and we shot across the intersection and roared on down the road. Luckily John Law wasn't about and watching traffic. So we managed to gain some distance, and now there was just a block between us and the van.
Finally, it hung a right on an unmarked street and again started pulling away from us when we followed.
"Get way back," I told Isaac. "He's suspicious. I can feel it. In fact, turn down one of these streets and circle around the block. We'll catch back up to them."
Isaac did as I asked and we went all the way around, exiting the side street a block further on down the main road. The van was nowhere to be seen, so Isaac floored it, and we jumped ahead of other traffic. We shot past the city limit sign on the north end and quickly were back up to seventy miles an hour. Which was when we saw them, far off to our right, throwing up a rooster tail of dirt and dust as they sped due east on a dirt road.
"Should I?" Isaac asked, nodding toward them.
"Oh God," I said. "I don't know."
"Screw it. I'm going," he said and pulled a sharp right turn at the T-intersection off to our right.
We were flying along the dirt road for a good five minutes until we came to a huge home with red Mexican tiles off on our left. The entire place was surrounded by chain-link fencing with barbed wire along the top. Drawing up perpendicular allowed me a glance down the entrance road, back into a three-door vehicle barn. Sure enough, the Mercedes van had pulled in and was still unloading passengers, all girls it appeared as we shot on by.
"Good driving. Now let's disappear."
We had passed the house, and it didn't look like there was any person between our vehicle and the finca that might have been following us with their eyes. So far, so good.
"Now we know where your daughter is, Aunt Mel. How does that feel?"
Tears came to my eyes. "I don't know. Scared and excited, I guess. But I do know what we're going to do."
"What's that, Aunt Mel?"
"We're going to circle all the way around on this road and then head north for the border. When a left turn is available, I want you to take it. We're going back to Los Estados."
"What are we going to do there?"
"I'll make some calls, that's what. I'm getting my daughter back, Isaac. Today, make no mistake."
An hour later we had crossed the border and were headed due west by Otay Lakes and San Ysidro. At San Ysidro, we headed up the 5 toward San Diego.
I was going to need a bank. A bank with lots of cash.
26
On the way to San Diego, we stopped at a CVS and bought some medical suppli
es for Isaac's nose. I leaned over in the seat and got him cleaned up. Then I called Mark and brought him up to speed. I keep it purposely vague about my next steps—he would’ve screamed bloody murder to stop me.
California Bank and Trust in San Diego turned out to be the bank that could fill my withdrawal slip. I took the cash in a CPA briefcase. The whole thing took no more than an hour, and by two o'clock I had my million dollars in cash and an ashen-faced Isaac hurrying along the sidewalk to keep up with me.
He did everything he could to draw attention to us with his endless prattle and waving arms as he told me--repeatedly--what a dumb idea it was to be walking down the sidewalk in a major American city with that much cash.
Finally I stopped and faced him. "What do you think, Isaac? They're going to take a check for her?"
"Yes--no--I mean I don't know, Aunt Mel. Let's just get in the car pronto."
So far his language skills had been about that useful: pronto.
This time we knew where we were going. Ten minutes later we were headed east on Otay Lake. Where it junctioned with 94, I asked Isaac if he would like me to drive. "You kidding?" he said. "I've seen your hands shaking with excitement all afternoon. I'll stay over here, and you just stay over there."
Hours later we turned south just this side of Canyon City. It was the same road we had taken out of Mexico--at least that was our hope. I was praying it was because I remembered the cattle feedlot on the corner where we needed to turn back west to locate Lisa's estate.
Sure enough, thirty minutes later the feedlot came up and Isaac looked over at me with a grin. "This is it. Get ready."
"I know."
We were less than twenty minutes from the finca. My pulse began pounding in my neck, and I broke out in a cold sweat.
As we sped west on the dirt road, I first saw a distant speck in the sky coming in our direction. Then, just as we arrived at the chain link fence, the helicopter swooped down on the house and settled onto the ground. We couldn't see that part with the estate blocking our view, but it had in fact disappeared back behind the mansion so we knew what had happened. We slowed and pulled along the fence. The gate was closed, but there was a guard station. So we pulled up and stopped.
The Empty Place at the Table Page 13