Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3)

by Bertrand, J. Mark

  “We’ll follow them until we know where they’re going.”

  “I have a pretty good idea already,” he says. “It’s not South Padre. This is the delivery run. Which means they’re not stopping until they hand off those guns. Are you prepared to cross the border, or are we gonna call it quits when they hit Brownsville? You’ve got one call to me. Is that where you’ll do it?”

  I don’t answer because I don’t know. The possibilities have been churning at the back of my mind. Along with my driver’s license and police ID, in the recesses of my wallet there’s a passport card, good for travel to Canada and Mexico, which I applied for at Charlotte’s behest when she was temporarily obsessed with the notion of a cruise to Cozumel, a plan she dropped, much to my relief. Since I’ve never taken it out of my wallet, I have the option of crossing the border without any hassles. Back when I was in college and the six-hour drive to the border was a regular weekend jaunt, you could pass back and forth without anything but a Texas driver’s license, and sometimes without even that. Those days are gone.

  “You don’t happen to have a passport on you?” I ask.

  Jeff laughs. Of course not.

  “What?” he says. “You do?”

  I ignore him. The passport card isn’t a solution. With the Browning on my hip and the AR-15 in the trunk, I can no more cross the bridge over the Rio Grande than the men in the white van. It’s not a matter of simply flashing my badge. I’m out of my jurisdiction, and in Mexico even the U.S. cops who are supposed to be there must go unarmed thanks to the tight gun regulations.

  “If it comes to it,” Jeff says, “there are ways.”

  “Maybe it won’t. Maybe they’ll meet up with Ford somewhere along the way.”

  “That could happen,” he says, shaking his head.

  ———

  The landscape changes as the hours pass. We’ve left behind the pines for the desert-like plains, their flat monotony broken up here and there by a lonely mesquite. In Sarita, south of Kingsville, a line of northbound vehicles idle at the ICE checkpoint, waiting for the agents to confirm their citizenship and give their backseats a once-over. And this is about an hour outside Harlingen, ninety minutes from the Rio Grande, well inside Texas. The fact that the Border Patrol is operating this far north is a testament to the scale of the immigration problem. Not long ago, the agents stopped a minivan driving back to Houston and found illegals hunched between the rear seats, hiding under blankets. That arrest made the news.

  The white van sticks to its southward heading. Instead of mesquites, the highway is lined by dried-out palm trees. The Gulf of Mexico is less than thirty miles from here, close enough that when I roll the window down, I imagine I can smell salt on the balmy, humid breeze.

  When Hilda walked me through Brandon Ford’s procedure for making contact with Inferno, she said he usually took a flight from Hobby Airport down to Brownsville, then took a taxi downtown, crossing the border on foot. After collecting whatever Inferno had for him, he’d stay overnight at the Colonial on E. Levee Street, and then fly home in the morning. If the van doesn’t lead us to him, there’s always a chance he will be at the hotel. When I explain this to Jeff, he repeats what he said before: “That could happen.”

  “This may sound crazy to you, but we might just get lucky. For days I’ve been feeling like there’s nothing to hold on to, and now that I have something, I’m not letting go. The big breaks are always like this. Half the time you don’t know what you’re doing, but it feels right, so you go with it.”

  “So it’s not about evidence and hard work,” he says. “It’s about luck.”

  “Napoleon thought so, too.”

  “Napoleon?” He snorts the name, like I’ve just made the most unlikely connection he can imagine. “You mean him?” He presses his hand flat against his chest, tucking his fingers inside his shirt.

  “That’s the one. You should study history sometime, Jeff, or you’ll be forced to repeat it.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Anyway, that’s what Napoleon would ask about a general. Not if he was experienced or tough or a genius. He’d ask, ‘Is he lucky?’ And right now, I think I am. The tip from Dearborn, that van right there. The initiative is finally on my side for a change.”

  “Napoleon,” he says, shaking his head. “‘God is on the side not of the big battalions, but the best shots.’ Wasn’t that Napoleon, too?”

  “That was somebody else,” I tell him. “But I can see why you’d like to agree with that one, being such a good shot.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Except there’s no God.”

  “I should introduce you to my friend Carter. He’d argue with you on that point.”

  “And he’d lose.”

  “He would argue with us both about luck, too. He’d say everything happens for a reason, all part of the divine plan.” I glance over to see him react with an amused smile. “You don’t happen to be a conspiracy theorist, do you? Is the government hiding the existence of aliens from us, or denying the truth about the Twin Towers? If so, you’d be playing right into Carter’s hands. He has a theory about you foxhole atheists.”

  He answers with a snort of derision.

  “When you stop believing God controls everything, Carter says, then you start making up all-powerful conspiracies to take the Almighty’s place.”

  “This Carter sounds like a moron. Plus, some conspiracies are real.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “And anyway,” he says, his voice charged, “I happen to be a determinist. I think things happen for a reason, too, but not because Zeus or Allah or God or whoever says so. My determinism isn’t top down; it works from the bottom up. We’re products of our environment, March, pure and simple. Genetically determined, socially determined, whatever you like. To people like me, the God hypothesis is a conspiracy theory—the ultimate conspiracy.”

  “Still, there’s something to it—”

  “There’s nothing to it, March. There’s no heaven or hell, no angels floating on the clouds, no good, no evil, none of it. We’re just animals who like to tell ourselves stories in the dark. Animals making up rules for each other to follow. And when you die, that’s it. End of the line.”

  “You don’t think there’s something out there—?”

  “There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. Read the book, March. You told me you did.”

  “I’ve been a little busy recently.”

  We sit in silence awhile. I can tell Jeff’s angry, the emotion coming out of nowhere like a flash fire. All I’d intended was to rib him a little, to pass the time as we drove, but the turn in the conversation has gotten him riled up.

  “You’re a bit of a fundie, you know that?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says.

  “Anyway. We’re coming up on Brownsville. I guess this isn’t looking too good. They’re gonna have to stop somewhere, though. They can’t just drive those guns into Mexico. The odds of the van being searched are too much to risk.”

  “Not if they already have a plan. Someone could wave them right through.”

  I laugh. “Now you do sound like a conspiracy theorist.”

  “Do I?” He doesn’t even smile. “Or maybe I’ve happened to see some things in life that you haven’t. On our side, I doubt they’re searching vehicles that are leaving the country, and I’m guessing the cartels pretty much own the Mexican side.”

  “You’re probably right,” I say, trying to sound conciliatory. There’s no point in stoking the tension between us. I need him focused on the situation at hand.

  He points up ahead. “The van’s turning off.”

  “Here we go.”

  ———

  We’re just inside Brownsville, flanked by a row of chain hotels on one side and a suburban strip mall on the other. The van turns off the frontage road into a big shopping-center parking lot, cruising down the rows until it slides into an empty space. I drive past them, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, circling the
row and doubling back on the other side. The van doors open. The driver climbs out, leaving his door ajar, while the passenger makes a beeline toward the Best Buy electronics store.

  “I’ll follow him,” Jeff says. “Any of these guys sees you, they might recognize your face. You keep an eye on the van.”

  I head up the row and drop him on the front curb just as the passenger walks up. Jeff pauses, then follows him inside. Then I double back and find a space halfway between the store entrance and the van.

  The van’s driver leans against the fender, propping his foot up. He cups his hands in front of his mouth, and then there’s a flame. He drops his hands and exhales a cloud of smoke. In the twilight I can see the cigarette’s cherry, if I’m not imagining it. The man seems relaxed, not bothered about the time or concerned that he has a payload of illegally obtained assault rifles in the back of his van.

  I take my phone out and rest it on my lap. This isn’t the end of the line for these guys, and there’s a limit to what I can expect of myself. If I lose sight of them just once, if those guns disappear and end up in the hands of the cartel . . .

  I dial Charlotte’s number. It rings and then her voicemail picks up.

  “You’re not going to believe where I am.” I pause, not certain what to say. “I told you I couldn’t let go of this thing, right? I guess I wasn’t kidding. I’m going to be out of pocket for a while. Something’s come up—a lead—and I’ve got to follow it.”

  I look up and see the passenger emerging through the sliding doors, walking out past a yellow concrete stanchion.

  “I’ll call you later, Charlotte. I love you.”

  Stopping in front of a garbage basket, the man digs through the plastic shopping bag in his hand, removing the contents. He tosses the bag, then rips the package open and throws that in after it. He slips whatever he’s purchased into his pocket, then starts toward the van. Jeff walks out with a bag of his own.

  When he reaches the car, I ask: “What did he buy in there?”

  “A GPS unit. Wherever they’re stopping for the night, it’s not here. Pop the trunk for me.”

  “What for?”

  “Hurry, before they take off.”

  I push the trunk release, then go around back to see what he’s doing, glancing at the van to make sure it’s not moving. He takes the AR-15 out of its case, resting the rifle at the bottom of the trunk, then dumps the contents of his own bag out. A pack of plastic zip-ties drops out. He rips it open and stuffs a handful in his pocket. Then he takes the rifle and crawls underneath the car.

  “What are you doing? Anyone could see you!”

  “Are they leaving?” His voice sounds muffled. His legs protrude from under the bumper.

  “The engine’s running. The headlights are on. It looks like they’re talking.”

  “Hand me your pistol.”

  Down on one knee, I peer under the car. He’s slotted the rifle into a gap in the undercarriage, securing it in place with the plastic ties. As I watch, he gives it a tug to make sure everything’s tight. Then he reaches his hand out.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We don’t have time to discuss this. They’re gonna pull out any second.”

  “What about the spare magazines?”

  “Find something to put them in, and I’ll stick them under here, too.”

  After scanning side to side and making sure no one’s watching, I slip the Browning out of its holster and quickly drop the safety to lower the hammer. I place the pistol in his hand and it disappears immediately. In the trunk I pull a nylon bag from my crime-scene kit, dump the contents, and jam the three spare mags for the AR-15 inside. There’s enough room left, so I add the spare hi-cap for the Browning from my belt rig, along with the holster and mag carrier, then zip the bag closed and pass it under to Jeff.

  “Hurry, they’re leaving!”

  The van pulls back, stops, then accelerates down the row. I can see the red running lights over the tops of the parked cars.

  “Come on, come on.”

  Jeff slides out, brushes his hands on his jeans, and gives the trunk a quick search. “Is there anything else in here we need to dump?”

  “It’s gonna look strange, me having an empty gun case bolted into the trunk.”

  “Right.” He reaches into the case and starts ripping out the molded gray foam. I lean in and try to help. We toss the foam onto the pavement, then slam down the lid of the now-empty case. “That’s the best we can do. It’s good enough.”

  In the car, racing to keep the van in sight, he outlines his plan. “If they do try to cross, I’ll get out and you can follow them alone. The odds of your car being searched are pretty slim. They’ll look inside, but they’re not gonna tear it apart. Don’t flash your badge or anything. Just show them the passport card like you’re any other visitor. If worse comes to worse, tell ’em that van is smuggling guns. That should distract them.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll make my way across on foot. You’ll be sitting in line, so I might even get there ahead of you. I’ll call you and you can pick me up.”

  “And what if you can’t get across?”

  “Don’t worry about me.” He notices my phone in the cup holder. “Did you break down and make the call?”

  The van exits the highway, turning onto International Boulevard. There are signs up ahead for the University of Texas at Brownsville and the Gateway International Bridge.

  “I can’t,” I say. “There’s no one I trust. With my own people it would take too much explaining, and with the Feds, I think they might be playing me. I have to see this one through. I don’t have a choice.”

  “There’s always a choice,” he says.

  “Then I guess I’m making it.”

  Brake lights flash in front of us. The traffic ahead rolls to a halt. The white van is four cars ahead, edging its way toward the Mexican border.

  “You’d better let me out,” Jeff says.

  He crosses to the sidewalk in front of the duty-free shop, walking toward the bridge without waving, without glancing back, giving no sign that we’re together. A group of pedestrians, black-haired kids in shorts and T-shirts, files in front of my car. I scoot forward toward the bridge’s entrance, a line of kiosks that reminds me of a toll plaza or a drive-through bank teller. I have my passport card ready, but on the American side a man in uniform is waving everybody forward.

  I can’t see Jeff anywhere. As I move onto the bridge, its sides lined with hurricane fencing topped by rusted barbed wire, I try to center my mind, to think only positive thoughts. My phone starts to buzz, and then the ringer fills the car.

  It’s Charlotte.

  “Honey, I got your message. Where are you?” she asks.

  This makes me laugh. I briefly imagine what would happen if I told her the truth, that I was sitting in line waiting to enter Mexico with my guns zip-tied to the bottom of the car. The absurdity of the situation surges through me and suddenly I can’t stop laughing.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m gonna be a little late.”

  I glance out across the brown ebb of the Rio Grande, gilded by the sinking orange sunset. I’m not sure what side of the line I’m on anymore.

  “I’m calling you from the hospital,” she says.

  The hospital. Every dark thought flashes through my head. It’s been ten years almost since the car accident that put Charlotte in the hospital and our daughter Jess in the grave, but those words drag me right back, flooding me with the same helplessness.

  “Are you all right, baby? Did something happen?” I’m hours away. There’s nothing I can do. My hands begin to shake.

  “No, I’m fine,” she says, the fear she picked up in my voice forcing her into her uppermost, euphoric register. “Honey, it’s time. You need to get down here or you’re gonna miss it. Carter’s pacing so much he’s gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

  The cars ahead of me roll forward. The white van disappears under the shade of the roofed
checkpoint on the opposite end of the bridge.

  “Baby, you got my message, didn’t you? I’m working a lead. I’m not even in Houston. I’m hours away.”

  “Roland, they’re having the baby. Gina’s in labor. She was asking for you. Where are you? Can you at least tell me that?”

  “I’m about to crawl over the devil’s back,” I say. “No, listen, that’s wonderful. I feel terrible that I’m not there. I would be if there was any way in the world. You tell them I’m thinking about them, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “Are you in trouble, Roland?”

  The white van is no longer in sight. The cars move forward again. The phone is hot against the side of my face, hot and silent.

  “I’ve got to go, Charlotte. I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Everything’s going to be fine. I love you. Tell Carter and Gina I love them, too. And I want to see that baby when I get there. I want to hold it.”

  The car in front of me advances under the soaring red arch that marks the end of the bridge. Half the lanes are blocked by orange pylons. Off to my right a flock of pedestrians passes through, the air around them humming with laughter. I pull my phone away, imagining a sterile hospital hallway, Charlotte standing off to the side, stricken with worry.

  “Are you doing something stupid?” she whispers.

  “Possibly. But get in there and be with them, okay? Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself just fine.”

  I should turn around and go back. But I’ve come too far already.

  “I love you,” she says.

  “I love you, too.”

  Up above me, as my car moves forward into the shade, there’s a string of words emblazoned across the entry terminal, like the motto at the gates of Dante’s hell. “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.” Only in this case, it’s a Spanish epitaph:

  BIENVENIDOS A MEXICO

  Interlude : 1986

  When the phone rang, I was twisted in my sheets, reliving old memories in my dreams. The glowing clock said it was two in the morning. The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Sgt. Crewes. He spoke quietly, with great precision, like a man who doesn’t want to repeat himself. Like a man who doesn’t want to be overheard. “Report to base,” he said, only not to the office. I was to meet him at the special housing block set aside for the cabana boys.