by Неизвестный
30
Away from the downtown streets, away from the tourist sprawl, passing through middle-class neighborhoods, we soon found the shadowlands of life on the margins in Nogales. Huge shantytowns sprawled unchecked in the ravines and atop the rocky desert mesas south and east of Nogales.
An hour later we found the entrance to the water tunnels, guarded by five men in brown uniforms with M16s.
“Police?” I asked Rey.
“They're taking money just to get into the tunnels. Could be policia, could just be guys dressed in a uniform and out to earn a living.”
A long line of people straggled behind them, disappearing up over a hillside. Almost all of them carried lightweight white supermarket plastic bags. Singly or in groups they approached the armed men. Negotiations were swift and entirely dependent on who had money and who hadn't. Some bargained with stacks of pesos, some tried to barter with items wrapped in cloth, bags, or even woven baskets.
Far off in the distance a siren cranked up. The armed men disappeared quickly and the people scattered. Those close enough to the tunnel entrance ran inside. The rest disappeared over the hill as two police jeeps drove up, one pulling a U-Haul trailer. Men from both jeeps removed a portable generator and several light stands from the trailer. In ten minutes a dozen floodlights lit the tunnel entrances.
“It's still daylight,” I said. “Why are they putting up the spotlights?”
“A warning. Who knows?”
“This can't be what I'm looking for,” I said.
“You got any other ideas?” Rey asked.
We drove around aimlessly for half an hour until Rey pulled off the dirt road.
“You notice anything about these neighborhoods?” he said.
“Shantytowns.”
“You see any electricity?”
“They're too poor.”
“Right. You see the open sewers?”
“I see them and I smell them.”
“So there's no running water either. What do you suppose they do up here for bathing? Washing clothes? Drinking?”
“No idea. Drive up there.”
He carefully worked the pickup along a rutted dirt track between rows of shanty houses constructed up the side of a waterless ravine. Some of the shanties were connected, others stood precariously alone. Some were constructed of concrete blocks, showing a certain degree of either wealth or luck in scavenging or stealing from a building site. Most of the shanties were built from cardboard packing crates, chunks of tin siding materials, mesquite ribs, old tires, anything usable and free.
It was early evening, but still incredibly hot and almost intolerably foul with the stench of industrial and human waste. Shallow channels of watery sludge ran between houses, alongside the dirt track, all of it headed downhill.
“Good Christ,” I said angrily. “Mexico's border cities, land of NAFTA opportunities. How can people live like this?”
“Ten dollars a day in wages at a maquiladora. If they're lucky.”
We passed a family of nine clearing a spot of land, using an old pair of kitchen scissors and a paring knife to cut off creosote bushes and everything else that grew above ground. Rey stopped and got out of the pickup. The family drew together protectively, the woman and children huddled behind the man. Rey talked to them in gentle, apologetic tones, and when I heard him say agua, the woman nodded fiercely and pointed uphill.
“That's what she needs most. Water. Forget plumbing. They just need enough to drink and cook. Every day, it's a struggle up here to get water.”
“So where are we going?”
He pointed to the top of the hill. I could see a tank truck.
“Pedro. The water man.”
“Good. We found him.”
“Not really. That woman told me that every shantytown has a water man. There may be fifty, a hundred men with old tank trucks, delivering water to places like this.”
“I don't see a hundred trucks. One will have to do.”
Pedro cut his eyes toward us as he filled a woman's plastic liter jugs. Fifteen people stood in line, waiting with pans, buckets, jugs, anything of plastic or metal that would hold water. Pedro patiently filled them all.
We could tell that he wasn't charging exorbitant fees, because everybody seemed to be able to afford the water. Finally his truck ran dry with three people left in line. We heard him apologizing, showing them that no water ran from his taps. They trudged away, disconsolate. He closed up the taps and hoses, stood at the door of his truck.
“A moment of your time?” Rey asked politely.
“I have no more water.”
He looked us over carefully, a sense of fear in his eyes. He kept one hand on the door handle, getting inside his cab being his only escape route.
“Policia? Traficantes?”
“He thinks we're with a drug cartel. He's afraid.”
“Habla ingles?”
“Yes, señora.”
“We're from Tucson. We're not police of any kind. We're not involved with any kind of drugs.”
“Begging your pardon, but why should I believe you?”
I took his boldness as a sign that in fact he did believe me to some degree, but didn't much trust us, and mainly wanted us to go away.
“There are women up here that work in the maquiladoras?”
“If they're lucky, si.”
“About these women, have you heard about those who want to go north?”
“Ahhh. So you are coyotes,” he said with disgust.
“No! We have nothing to do with smuggling women across the border. But there are stories in Tucson. In the sanctuary groups, among women who are in safe houses, women who have survived the coyotes and now have a good life.”
“There are stories everywhere.”
“They talk about the water man.”
“I am a water man,” he said, puzzled. “There are many like me. But we just do what we do. Bring water.”
“Where do you get it?”
“Anywhere I can afford it.”
“No. I mean, in Nogales.”
“Nogales, sometimes. But water is expensive there. And it is not safe to drink. All the maquiladoras, they have chemicals, they dump whatever filth they want into the rivers, the water supply. Me, I live south of here. In Caborca. Every morning, I get fresh water from a spring. Nobody else knows about it. But the spring moves slowly. It takes me three hours to fill my truck. Then I drive up here.”
“You do that every day?”
“People need good water.”
“And you've never heard about a water man who also smuggles women across the border?”
“Never. I stay out of that kind of talk. Most people here, they know about the coyotes, they dream of crossing, of going north. It's not safe to talk about such things unless you have a lot of money. And sometimes, only if you have protection.”
“Wait a minute,” Rey said. “Do all of you water men get your water in Mexico?”
“If I went north, it would be so expensive, these women could not afford to buy any from me.”
“Do you know anybody who does get water from the north?”
“No. Why would they do that?”
“Thank you,” Rey said. “Thank you very much.”
We left him by his truck, watching us to make sure we drove away.
“I just don't understand where you're going with this,” Rey said, winding his way carefully down the side of the ravine and trying to ignore the hosts of children who ran alongside the pickup, their hands out to beg.
“Me neither.”
“Then let's get ready to spring your ex-husband from that jail.”
At midnight, new guards appeared at the jail, three of them visible from the street. Rey took ten thousand dollars of my money, saying he'd start bargaining at seven and work his way up.
Rey had traded the Harley for a '59 Ford stepside with empty chicken crates stacked four deep in the short bed. Although he'd parked three blocks away, I'd walked to the ma
in street, looking down to the jail. If the guards called Garza, if other police cars rushed up, I would drive away. But in less than ten minutes Rey came out of the jail, a supporting arm wrapped around Jonathan. Nobody followed them for the first block, then one by one the three jail guards came out of the jail and ran in different directions. We got back into the truck.
Rey turned off the street, down an alley. As we got nearly through the alley, a green Land Rover pulled across the alleyway, blocking our pickup. Rey rammed the gearshift into reverse and stomped on the gas pedal. A woman got out of the Land Rover and waved at us.
“Stop!” I shouted.
“Jesus Christ, Laura! That's the policia.”
“No. Stop.”
He put the shift into park, goosing the engine. I opened my door to get out.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“You met her in Scottsdale,” I said.
It was Taá Wheatley.
“Take off your shoes,” she said.
“What?”
She held out a black plastic trash bag.
“Give me your shoes.”
“Why?” I said, but sat on the broken pavement to pull off the shoes.
“Now your bra.”
Rey came up to us, watched as I wiggled my bra out from underneath the wifebeater shirt. She tossed it into the bag.
“Now I know you,” he said slowly. “I wasn't sure in Scottsdale, things were happening so fast. But you're that woman.”
“Yes. I'm that woman. Laura, give me your wristwatch.”
“What's going on? Taá, why are you here?”
“Wristwatch.”
I hesitated, but Rey grabbed my arm and unstrapped the watch.
“Anything else?” he asked Taá.
“I don't think so. But I've got a sweep.”
Setting down the trash bag, she took an electronic sweeper wand from her back pocket and started running it along my body.
“Hold up your arms.”
“There were transmitters in my shoes? My watch? I thought you told me that those two anklets were the way you people would do surveillance on me?”
“We lied.”
“Even my bra?”
“We had to try everything we could. That's why we didn't get your clothes from Sonoita, so you'd wear whatever I gave you.”
“I changed some of them,” I said.
“Yeah. But not your bra, not those Nike sneakers. Turn around.”
She swept up and down my back, hips, along my thighs.
“I think you're okay now.”
“How about me?” Rey said.
“We bugged your Humvee only. But that's sitting back with that crazy old biker. I saw your house, though.”
“How the hell did you see my house?”
Taá pointed up.
“Intel satellites. Everywhere that Laura went, the satellites did go. Poetic, no?”
“Poetry my ass. So who else knows about my house?”
“Nobody.”
“Not possible,” I said. “I've seen your intel center. I know how many people work there. I don't believe that Dance, or Nasso, doesn't know about Rey's house.”
“Well. Nasso. I've been having some problems with him lately. As for Dance, he wouldn't know one satellite photo from another. I was working alone at AZIC when you crossed at Sasabe. I saw you drive south. Then the satellite orbit took it out of range for ninety minutes. Nasso had some interviews, so I was all alone again when the satellite did its next pass. I fiddled the data. It happens, sometimes. The shots don't work because of cloud cover, smog, forest fires.”
“Nasso,” I said. “What kind of problems?”
“Personal.”
“So he doesn't go for dykes,” Rey said. “Neither do I, really.”
“Actually,” Taá said with disgust, “it wasn't about sex at all. All my arguments with him are about power and control.”
“But truth is,” Rey said, “without you, I'd never have been able to spend time with my daughter.”
“She's at your house.”
“I can't believe you put a tracking device in my bra!” I complained.
“You're a fool to think we'd give you the chance to get away from my house without taking a lot of precautions to run digital surveillance.”
“You let me go?”
“Sure. The tampon thing was convenient, but I'd have thought of another excuse to leave you alone, to let you get out of the house and think you were getting away from me. From us. I've got another surprise for you.”
“Nothing you can tell me will be a surprise,” I said. “Not after the bra thing.”
“Luna.”
That staggered me. She pulled a sheaf of papers from her bag, showed me printouts of all kinds of LUNA chat room materials.
“We used Carnivore,” Taá said. “At the Phoenix switch hotel.”
“I thought you couldn't legally set Carnivore to pick up specific traffic.”
“Legally? Don't you understand, Laura? Nothing about this whole operation is legal. Even the threats of executing the federal arrest warrants against you. Those warrants would be thrown out by any respectable federal judge.”
“Are you telling me that you didn't even delete them from the system?”
“You're catching on. Dance will lie about anything if he thinks he can crack this smuggling ring.”
“So,” Rey said. “Why are you telling us all this?”
“I'm not sure.”
“You're protecting Meg, aren't you?”
“In a way.”
“And protecting my daughter?”
“In the same way. It's more than that, but I can't tell you. Yet.”
She looked at the pickup, cut her eyes between us and the truck bed.
“You got him in the back?” Taá asked.
“Who? Nobody's with us.”
“I just watched you take Laura's ex-husband out of that jail.”
“Good Christ,” Rey said. “What don't you know?”
“I'll leave you with just this one question. Who is Luna?”
“It's a lot of people,” I said, separating the sheets of paper. “I mean, look at the different ways that LUNA13 writes. Some messages use capitals, some don't. I'd say there are at last five different people here, all with access to the same user name.”
“Ah. But who's behind all this?” Taá asked.
“I thought Jonathan would tell me.”
“I've seen his camper. He doesn't even have a bank account that I know of. No. It's not him. Somebody's spending major money to help these women. Who is it? Dance doesn't really care. Once he decided that there were two smuggling rings, he eliminated any desire to go after Luna. He's after whoever is making millions of dollars smuggling in these foreign women and then selling them in the US for prostitution, slavery, whatever.”
“Does he know who's behind it all?” I said.
“Nope. But Jake. . . Jake knows something he's not talking about. I'm going. Anything else you want to tell me, about what you're doing on your own?”
“Nothing,” Rey said quickly before I could open my mouth.
“Don't trust dykes, do you.” Taá was both bitter and resigned.
“Don't trust federal law agencies. And whoever works for them.”
“Fair enough. One last thing. I'd leave that Humvee parked right where it is. As things stand, nobody knows the location of your house. For your daughter's sake, I'd like to keep it that way.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And if I need to talk to you? I mean, to you only. Give me a cell number, an email address, anything that only you will read.”
“On the papers I gave you. The last sheet.”
Taá took a half-step toward the pickup, but Rey jumped in front of her.
“Not a chance,” he said.
“I was only curious. I wanted to see what the man looked like who set up Basta Ya, the man who's helped so many Indian women down here.”
“Another time, maybe.”
&n
bsp; “Just keep him alive. Better yet, tell him to disappear deep into Mexico.”
31
Interlude. Late night, shading into early morning, shading into false dawn.
Jonathan and I talked and didn't talk. Intervals of each. Alex and Amada slept like babies, like teenagers, like young people who think it's going to last forever. Rey came into the sun room twice, first claiming that he was hungry, two hours later that he had just woken up and couldn't go back to sleep. We banished him both times.
It was like a foreign movie. Italian. No. Almodovar. Women on the Verge.
You watch movies, he'd said at one point.
Don't you? I'd said. Doesn't everybody?
It's Hollywood, he'd answered. It's make believe. Down here, life is raw.
I thought of the woman I'd seen executed right in front of my eyes. I realized I'd pushed that unpleasant memory so far down into my subconscious that it was painful just to probe in there, trying to recall her face. All I could remember was the bulldozer.
They say when you have a bad accident, you can't remember any of the details. For days, for weeks, sometimes you'll never remember.
I thought of a scene from Schindler's List. The Jewish woman architect, who tells Ralph Fiennes that the foundations have been poured badly, that the whole building is wrong, that it will collapse. He orders her shot. The blood bursts sideways from her head, her body flops.
Good God, that's only a movie, I thought. What's wrong here?
Are my memories of happiness just a few days ago, memories of being happy on Heather's ranch, are those memories as false as a movie?
The first conversation was really, really short.
“Tell me,” he said. “Back then, what did we see in each other?”
“Sex.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. No woman forgets her first lover.”
“What did we have?” he said, as though it was a mystery seen dimly from the distance of so many years.
“You had a pickup truck. You took me away from the Hopi mesas. We went out anywhere to be alone.”
“Together, I mean.”
“We made love in your pickup.”
“That's all we had? Sex?”
“No. Sex was just the opening act.”
“For what?”
“Freedom.”