by Chris Fabry
She had to spit out some dust and mud to get the water past her swollen tongue. Finally she drank, all the time looking at him with huge brown eyes.
He fumbled for the Spanish word, trying to bring it back from his high school days. “¿Duele?” he said.
She tipped the canteen again and drank. Then she lay back and closed her eyes. He checked her pulse. It was strong. He picked her up, cradling her like an infant to his chest. She was light, but even a hundred pounds of deadweight was difficult to carry. His phone buzzed as he stumbled to the horse. How could he get her back to the ranch?
He let her feet go and held her with one arm while he fished for the phone.
“This is Border Patrol. Did you just call?” a woman said.
“Yes, ma’am, I . . . ran into some trouble. . . .”
“Who is this?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I made a mistake. Called the wrong number. My apologies.”
The woman muttered something and hung up.
The sun moved higher, spiking the temperature. It had reached 117 the day before, and with not a cloud in sight, he figured today would be no different. He thought about calling Slocum but decided against it. The man would just haul her to the nearest Border Patrol and wash his hands.
He hoisted the woman, limp as a dishrag, toward the saddle, but the horse backed away. J. D. cursed and grabbed the reins, which only made things worse, the horse circling. He let go of the reins.
“Easy,” he said calmly, a hand on the horse’s head.
His father’s voice came back to him. “The animal senses your fear. Relax. You don’t have to control it. You only have to guide it.”
He tried again, but he misjudged the woman’s weight and had to pull her back. Finally he placed her in the shade of a cactus, removed the saddle, and straightened the blanket on the horse’s back. Then he pushed her up with one hand on her chest and another on her backside to place her on the horse. She was a girl, a tiny thing.
He led the horse to a rock and climbed up to sit behind her, steadying her weight with one hand. He tried to go as quickly as he could without jostling her, a hand in the middle of her back. Feet dangling, her body bouncing as they climbed higher, J. D. wondered where the girl had been and where she was going and what all of this meant to him.
“Who are you?” he said.
2
J. D. CARRIED THE WOMAN into the schoolhouse and placed her on his bed, the rising dust troubling him where it hadn’t before. It was inhuman keeping her here in the heat of the tin roof, but he had no choice. Her legs were streaked with blood, and he slipped off her remaining sandal and put it on the floor. She hadn’t stirred as he rode nor when he carried her into the room. But she was breathing and she had a pulse.
He glanced out the dirty window by the bed and was reasonably sure no one had seen them. The door faced away from the farmhouse, and he had brought the horse up by the mesquite trees to keep hidden. With school out, the kids would soon stir and Mrs. Slocum would be busy in the kitchen or with the goats. Who knew where Slocum was—probably asleep or at the well cussing at the busted motor. It was a full-time job, that dry well. J. D. couldn’t understand why he didn’t spend the money to dig a new one.
He pulled the fan closer and pointed it toward the woman’s face so that her hair moved in dark tendrils. Fighting the old feelings that stirred, he dipped a clean rag in the basin, wrung it out, and began to clean her legs. It was clear she would need medical attention. Her dark cotton skirt was spattered with blood. He worked on her ankles and shins, avoiding the cactus stickers that he wanted to pull out but knew he shouldn’t. He’d tried that before on himself with painful consequences.
Her skin was soft, and he could tell by her hands that she was not a woman who did manual labor. He washed her palms of blood and dirt, noticing a black ring on her little finger. It looked expensive. Her left hand was white with chalky dust, and her nails were chipped and painted a light pink.
The handcuff was a problem. It had chafed a dark-red ring and rubbed through the skin by the bone that jutted up on the wrist. Blood and something white oozed, and there was no way to clean it properly. He had a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, but there was no telling how old it was. Brown stains on the cap. When he tested it on his own hand, spilling it on a scratch he had picked up during the ride, it bubbled and fizzed. He poured the peroxide on her wrist and she moved. He poured more, letting it drip on the wooden floor, then set to work on her arms.
The blouse had a streak of white along the top, spotted with more blood. He lifted it slightly and looked for a bullet wound but dropped it when he saw her bra. Yes, she was thin and light as a young girl, but she was a woman.
She wore little makeup—just some eye shadow—and her cheekbones were high. Long lashes and trimmed brows. Full lips. Hair that flowed like water—though it was matted and stringy at the moment.
A pounding on the door. “Mr. Jessup! You in there?”
The voice of Cooper, the youngest Slocum. A waif with a round head and hair that looked painted on. He was a desert child—no shirt, frayed jeans, and feet worn rough on the rocky path that led from the house to the old schoolhouse.
“How many times has your mama told you to wear shoes outside?” J. D. said as he emerged from the shack. He closed the door behind him quickly.
“You’re back early. Did something go wrong?”
J. D. moved to the horse to get the canteen, but it wasn’t there.
“Where’s your saddle?” the child said.
J. D. stopped and turned. “Why don’t you stop jawin’ at me and go inside and bring me a jar of cool water.”
Though his voice had been gruff, the child responded quick as lightning, feet churning, shoulder blades rising and falling like pistons under the thin veneer of skin on his back. He was a loping cheetah.
Cooper scrambled into the house and let the screen door bang with a vengeance.
J. D. waited with a thousand questions and no good answers. Where had the woman come from? What had been hooked to the other end of that handcuff? Where was she headed? Nobody in their right mind would cross the desert in June, though he had heard stories of those who tried.
The door slammed again and Slocum walked out with a steaming cup of coffee. He wore a T-shirt that said Crime doesn’t pay. Neither does farming. J. D. had never seen him without his Stetson, the biggest in the state probably, and he had a well-trimmed horseshoe mustache that took on a mind of its own when it reached his jaw, flaring out into rogue hair. A wiry, thin man, he walked with a limp from a hip that needed replacement. Too many rodeos and farm accidents. Cooper had told J. D. a rambling story about his dad falling off the roof fixing the tiles a year earlier. He’d climbed right back on to finish the job, even though he’d broken his leg.
Slocum raised the mug a fraction to say hello. Everything was understated, except when you messed up.
J. D. walked toward him into the sunlight. There was a slight wind from the west that made the world feel like a blast furnace on low.
“How’s the fence?” Slocum said.
“Looked good.”
“You’re back early.”
“Got up early,” J. D. said.
The farmer took a sip of coffee. Didn’t make sense drinking something so hot when the earth glowed, but that was the power of the bean. J. D. felt it too.
“Where are they?” Slocum said.
J. D. hadn’t seen the cattle, but he told him where he thought they’d be, at the back fence line where there was still a semblance of grazing.
“I need to get a new protein lick over by the canyon bottom. They’ve gone through that grass like a fire.” Slocum said it like he expected him to run back right away.
J. D. put his foot on a wooden step. “I was thinking of heading into town.”
“What you need in town? You remember we’re slaughtering chickens later this morning. It’s all hands on deck.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say that would
convince the man. “Just need to go.”
“Still got that pump to work on too. We don’t get water moving in the line, we’re gonna lose every one of them Tohono O’odham melons. Most of that cabbage is done burnt.”
Nora Slocum came out, wiping her hand on her apron, carrying a Ball jar of water from the refrigerator. He could tell because it was misty on the side, water beading.
“Cooper said you wanted a drink,” Nora said. “You want to come in and get cool for a change? Eat your breakfast with us?”
J. D. took the water and drank a little. “That’s kind of you, ma’am, but I think I’ll take it over to my place if that’s all right.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, shaking her head and turning.
A roadrunner bounced between the barn and the house and paused before darting into the desert. The two men watched it silently until Slocum spoke again.
“You up to doing the market by yourself tomorrow?”
“I expect so. Just give me the list of prices.”
“Last WWOOFer we let do this ran off with the money box. Never did see him again.”
J. D. had heard that story a dozen times, plus the one about the guy from France who had tallied up a six-hundred-dollar phone bill before heading west. They had another kid from California they let drive their truck. He raised their insurance by smashing the side of a Porsche at the Harkins Theatre off I-19.
“We’ll load the meat after supper tonight,” Slocum said. “Vegetables and salsa in the morning.”
J. D. nodded and smiled. “You two going on vacation?”
“What’s a vacation? I don’t even know the meaning of the word.”
Nora brought J. D.’s plate in one hand, wrapped in cellophane. Eggs with salsa and diced potatoes. She threw spices onto whatever she cooked like they would go bad if she didn’t. In the other hand was half a melon with a grapefruit spoon in it, also wrapped in cellophane.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“What time will you be back?” Slocum said.
“Won’t take long. Before chicken-slaughter time.”
“See to it,” Slocum said. “And if you’re headed for the liquor store, get me a twelve-pack.”
When he returned to the shack, the woman was sitting up, moving the handcuff back and forth on her wrist. He handed her the Ball jar, and she drank the whole thing in one gulp. He held out the plate and pulled the cellophane away from the melon. She shook her head.
“Go on and eat it. You gotta be hungry.”
She studied her wrist.
“Comer. Para ti.”
She looked up at him with those eyes, big and brown and a world of hope behind them. Or maybe it was fear he saw. She took the plate and stabbed her fork into the potatoes, cut the eggs and ate around the salsa, then went ahead and scarfed it down too.
He offered her the melon but she waved him off. He put it in the small, empty refrigerator and turned. “I want to get you to a doctor.”
Her brow furrowed. “¿Médico? No. No quiero médico.”
“You’re dehydrated, all scratched up, and I . . .”
She stared at him like he was an alien from another world.
“No miedo. I can find a médico. Somebody safe. Seguro. ¿Comprende?”
She shook her head and rattled off something in Spanish so fast that his head spun, but her voice . . . it was like an angel talking. Crisp and fluent and full of fire and passion. Someone had told him once that the voice is the breath of the soul, and hearing her speak made him believe it.
He pointed to her legs. Some of the blood was gone, but there were open gashes and stickers in deep. Her legs were swelling. “Infected. These could get infected. Make you sick. Enfermo. ¿Comprende?”
She grimaced, reaching to pull out the stickers. He took her hand and held it, and she looked up again, this time in pain.
“You need a médico.” He looked into her eyes and could feel he was making contact. Maybe his voice could get through to her. His soul pouring into hers. “Trust me.”
Something came across her face, like the sun breaking through a dark cloud. Then she nodded and handed him the plate. He told her to wait, that he would pull the truck around. He said it three times, hoping he had the right word for wait.
3
HIS NAME WAS GABRIEL MATOS MUERTE. He walked into the bedroom of his employer without hesitation. The man was propped against the headboard with breakfast on a tray across his lap, a computer beside him. He wore bifocals and kept his eyes on the screen as Muerte walked in, as if he was expecting the visit. Water ran in the bathroom, and the bed was rumpled beside the man. Muerte knelt by the side of the bed.
Sanchez spoke first, still staring at the laptop. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes. It’s about last night. The exchange was not made.”
The man looked up and removed his glasses, shifting enough to spill a generous amount of orange juice on the tray. “What do you mean? You said everything was in place.”
“We’re not sure what happened after they reached—”
“You’re not sure? Where is she? Is she safe?”
“A Border Patrol agent was killed.”
“I see nothing about that here.” He pointed to the computer. “How do you know?”
“It wouldn’t be in the American press yet. It was late last night. His body probably has not been discovered.”
“What happened?”
Muerte shrugged. “Our driver took her through the border checkpoint. They went to the arranged meeting place. Something happened there. That’s all we know.”
“You should have gone with her.”
“In hindsight, yes, that would have been better.”
“This was a simple exchange. That’s what you said. How long have you known this?”
“Only this morning.”
He reached for the phone. “Have you called her?”
“She doesn’t answer. She may have turned it off.”
“Turned it off?” He spoke absently, without emotion.
“I believe she is still alive. As soon as I heard, I looked for the signal and I have seen movement.”
“Where?”
“Across the border. Moving farther north.”
A deep breath. “Get her and bring her back.”
Muerte nodded.
“And what about the money?”
“We will find the money.”
The man placed the tray on the floor angrily and stood, wrapping himself in a satin robe that hung on the headboard. He strode to the window overlooking the valley of the town of Herida. Sunlight was just peeking over the mountains.
A woman opened the bathroom door and stopped when she saw Muerte. She wore a long, white robe and quickly glanced at Sanchez. “What’s wrong? Someone was killed?”
“Get your clothes and leave,” Sanchez said, still looking out the window.
“What?” She said it with equal annoyance and shock.
Before she could utter another word, Muerte turned and pulled a 9mm pistol from his belt. She gasped and put her hands in front of her.
“Stop,” Sanchez said.
Muerte kept the gun aimed at her forehead. One shot there, one in the heart, and it would be over. A quick death. “She heard too much. We have to protect you and the girl.”
“She heard nothing.” Sanchez walked across the room and placed a hand on the woman’s arm. “Now get your things together. Please.”
When she had gone, Sanchez sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees. After a moment he said, “You think I am weak.”
“It does not matter what I think.”
“But that is what you think. About Maria.”
“You made a decision. I respect what you’re trying to do. I know the pressure you’re under. You’re thinking of her future, your own future. But I will protect you at all costs. And I will deal with this situation personally.”
Below them, inside the compound walls, hired men went about their tasks in white unifor
ms. Worker bees doing what they were told, heads down, sensing they were being watched. Muerte would have ordered the men to carry the woman’s body away. He had done it before.
“Was this the Border Patrol agent we had an agreement with?” Sanchez said. “Was he the one killed?”
“I don’t know. All I was told is that the exchange never took place. Someone must have intercepted them before the rendezvous.”
“Then the package is gone.”
“Perhaps.”
“And she may be dead.”
“There is movement on the signal. I am following her.”
“The killer may have stolen the tracking device.”
“True. I won’t know until I get there.”
“Where?”
“A small town north of the border, between Nogales and Tucson.”
“And you have someone there?”
“I have someone heading there, yes.”
“I want you to handle this. I want you to bring her back. And the money as well. And handle whoever did this. Take care of it.”
“I’m leaving now.”
The man ran a hand through his graying hair. “This is not what we needed. The Americans are already concerned about the violence.”
“There were risks involved. But I am not concerned about the spineless Americans. We can handle them. I am more concerned with who may be behind this. We have to consider the possibility . . .”
“What possibility?”
“That she has been kidnapped. That she is being held. What they will require of you to allow her release.”
This thought made the man sway, and he reached a hand to the glass table to support himself. “You told me there were risks with these people, but you never said they could be capable of such a thing.”
“You know that is a possibility anytime she sets foot off the compound. Even inside the compound it is possible.”
“I felt it worthwhile to take this risk. Sending Maria was a show of good faith on our part.”
“Perhaps it will still work out for the best. Perhaps it is not as bad as we fear.”
The man clenched his teeth and pointed a finger at Muerte’s chest. “You bring her back. Do you understand?”