Good lord, I’ve been completely turned around. We weren’t heading west into the depths of the park, but east to the barren country and the Texas farm road running north and south beyond the park’s boundary.
We were exactly opposite of where they were searching for me. No one would think to look outside the park.
My head spun for a second as an internal compass righted itself. Our ultimate destination was south. It was the only direction that made sense. Going north would intersect with State Highway 385, which would take us either back into the park where we’d just left, and the other to Marathon, and that would be a mistake. There was a border check station south of that little town. They wouldn’t risk it.
They’re taking me to La Carmen, where the highway dead-ends at the Rio Grande.
No. They want to cross the river into Paso La Carmen.
I was thinking hard when they pushed me through the door and into the aluminum trailer. Pepito shoved past me in the narrow aisle running down the center and squeezed into the bedroom. He grabbed the foot of a queen-size bed and lifted.
It rose easily on its gas hinges, revealing an empty cavity no more than eighteen inches deep. He pointed. “There.”
“It’s gonna be a little tight for me.”
He got my attention pretty quick when he waved a finger to include him and the rest. “Todos.”
Stopping in the door, my eyes widened. “All of us? In there?”
“Sí. Entran!”
The outside door slammed as I stepped over the box edge and ducked my head under the plywood base. Pepito and Chino manhandled me where they wanted on the floor. The rig pulled back on the highway as Javier made his way to the back and stepped into the base with us. He sat on the edge for several minutes, staring out the window at the passing hills.
The driver tapped the horn twice. At the signal, Javier motioned for them to make room and he settled in. My bad shoulder was already aching again in the cramped quarters when he ducked his head and lowered the bed.
It wasn’t bad at first, but I was right. Things got pretty damned crowded with all four of us packed under there. Those guys weren’t fans of bathing or deodorant, but I figured I probably smelled a little ripe myself. Relaxing best I could, every wound, cut, scrape, and bruise woke up, each screaming for attention. Stifling a groan, I wriggled around to find some relief, until Chino jabbed my cheek with a ragged fingernail.
“Silencio!”
I silencioed as much as possible and thought about strangling him when I got the chance. The road was a roller-coaster ride of hills and valleys. The driver must have been kin to Mario Andretti, because he seldom took his foot off the gas. Sometimes centrifugal force slid me into Chino, and the next into Pepito. After what seemed an hour, but it could have been shorter or longer, the truck slowed and rattled. The trailer thumped over a line of potholes before accelerating. Sick and exhausted, despite my predicament, I dozed.
There was no telling how long I was out until something slapped the sole of my boot and I struggled back to consciousness. Javier pushed the bed upward and climbed out. The truck slowed on the smooth highway, and I struggled to sit up. Remarkably refreshed, I blinked my eyes clear and squinted through the semi-closed blinds.
Rough hills and valleys stretched toward a ridge of low mountains. I squinted out the other side to see scrub-colored hills in arid country that could have been anywhere in the Big Bend region.
We passed a sign for the La Carmen airstrip, a virtually abandoned dirt airstrip beside a tiny cluster of houses within spittin’ distance of the Rio Grande.
* * *
Minutes later the driver pulled into a wide, bare turnaround that served as someone’s front yard. I’d been to La Carmen a couple of times in the past and it hadn’t changed a bit. Still nothing more than two or three empty houses overlooking the river, it was once a sister city to what’s now a ghost town on the Mexico side, connected by an impassible one-lane bridge blocked from both sides by barbed wire, ten-foot steel panels topped by vertical bars and above that, chain link fence. A jumble of broken Jersey barriers made of crumbling concrete filled the surface from the highway to the fence.
Before 9/11, Paso La Carmen across the river was a bustling mining town that exported fluorspar to the United States. The government shut it down in the interest of national safety and it got progressively worse on the Mexican side as the cartels expanded their regions at the same time the mines shut down. By the time my little troupe of murderers pulled into the drive, the cluster of buildings across the river was no more than a ghost town with only a few residents and an abandoned white church gutted by the Mexican army in a misguided effort to push the cartels out.
Javier opened the camper’s door and stepped out into a light shower, waving for me to follow. Stacks of lumber partially covered by blue tarps and assorted building materials were scattered around the house. Some had been there quite a while and had become part of the dust-covered landscape.
What we used to call a honey truck, a septic pump truck painted with the words: PANDO SANITATION SEPTIC SERVICES, was parked nearby. It was the least sanitary pump truck I’d ever seen, covered in brown goo that would have been crusty in dry weather. It had been rehydrated by the rain, and I caught a familiar whiff of an outhouse when we stumbled out of the camper.
I’m was glad it’s not a hundred degrees or that stink would’ve taken off the top of my head.
The front door to the ranch-style house was unlocked. Javier led me into a large living room under renovation, but it looked as if the contractor had stepped out for a smoke two or three years earlier and never returned. The floor was rough concrete. Stacks of boxed flooring, a table saw, and other assorted tools were pushed against one bare wall of raw sheetrock. Cheap furniture that could have come from a resale shop filled the remainder of the living room.
I got a glimpse of a patio under construction through a wall of windows overlooking Mexico before Javier shoved me down a long hall on the right and into a bedroom at the end. The floor crunched underfoot. Chino followed with his Cobra ready for use.
“Sit.”
I turned so Javier could remove the cuffs. Hand resting on the Cobra’s pistol grip, he shook his head and left, closing the door behind him. A padlock rattled on the other side and snapped shut.
“Hey, I gotta pee.”
“No!”
A radio blared to life with Tejano music somewhere in the house, almost drowning out Javier’s voice. I sat on the corner of a creaky bed and waited to see what would happen.
Impatience got the better of me half an hour later. I had to do something besides sit and look around at bad patch jobs in the grimy walls. “Hey, I really need to pee, guys, or we’re gonna have a mess in here.”
The radio was so loud I doubted anyone could hear me, but a few seconds later the padlock on the other side rattled. I was surprised to see a middle-aged Hispanic woman appear in the doorway. Her features reflected a distinct Indian ancestry. Her dark eyes roamed up and down from my head to my toes. “Stand up.”
She was poor as a snake, with thick black hair pulled back and tied. She wore clothes from the same thrift shop the furniture came from. She motioned upward with her hands.
I stood. “Now what?”
She waved. “Come.”
The bare floor under my boots was gritty with sand and fine caliche, reminding me of the time Kelly and I took the kids to Pensacola a year earlier and rented a house on the beach. The smooth floor under my bare feet was glorious in the first hour we were there. Seven days later, it felt like sandpaper and I preferred to wear my flip-flops as opposed to walking barefoot on the tile.
“Having a hard time finding a good housekeeper?” I passed a closed door, and she ignored my comment. We turned right down another hall. She pointed at an open door. “In there.”
Though the bones of the house were in good shape, it appeared that no one had cleaned the filthy bathroom since the original builders left back in the 199
0s. I caught a glimpse of a 5′10″ walking corpse that looked like me in the spotted mirror over the dripping sink. My dirty, bruised face, crooked nose, swollen jaw, and one black eye were the best parts of what I saw.
Past the mirror, a stained toilet told me it was obviously not a ladies’ room, because the seat was still wet from the last customer.
I stood there and waited. She sighed and reached for my zipper. I stepped back against an empty metal towel rack. “No, ma’am.”
Her eyes hardened. “That is how you are going to piss.”
“No, it’s not. Get these cuffs off.”
“No.”
“Piss your pants then.”
“None of us want that.”
She reached for my zipper again. “Be still.”
I instinctively raised a leg, like we did as kids when someone tried to rack us in the nuts. “Look, the key to these cuffs is with my truck keys. Javier has them. He can come watch if he wants, but not you.”
Indecisive, she shifted from one foot to the other. “Sit on the floor.”
“I’d rather not touch it.”
“Sit.”
Instead, I sat on the edge of the crusted tub and waited. Bag Lady left and came back a minute later. My keys rattled in her hand. Javier appeared in the doorway behind her with a pistol and a nasty grin on his face. It was everything I could do not to lose it when I saw my badge was pinned on his shirt. “Eres tímido?”
“Not hardly. You can stand there and watch if you want to. My modesty extends to other people handling my business.”
The grin slipped and he rattled an order. Bag Lady twirled her finger, telling me to turn around. The keys jangled again and the cuff on my right wrist opened. I don’t know what felt the best, the cuff coming off, or my shoulders finally relaxing. My left arm dropped, pulling the closed bullet wound, and I winced.
I really wanted to rub my wrists, but all of a sudden, I really needed to use the bathroom. Ignoring my audience, I stepped up to the stained bowl and unzipped. They watched like spectators at a basketball game while I stood there and waited. As I’ve gotten older, it takes longer for my flow to start if I’ve been holding it for a long time, and for a minute I was afraid that I couldn’t start at all.
Relief finally arrived with a trickle that increased in a surprising volume. As it did, Bag Lady and Javier finally ignored me and leaned into each other, whispering. Taking advantage of the break I’d been looking for, I barely moved my right hand, twisted a couple of degrees away from them, and slipped a finger into the watch pocket of my Wranglers for the spare cuff key they missed. I knew from experience it can’t be seen or felt by anyone patting me down.
It’s not as easy as it sounds. My fingers weren’t cooperating as smoothly as usual, and I was scared to death I’d drop it. I almost had a heart attack when Javier laughed. Watching through peripheral vision, I saw he was paying more attention to Bag Lady. Feeling that he had everything under control, he made another crack about how long I’d been going, then went back to whispering with her.
They were standing just outside the bathroom door, with her back to me and half hidden. He could see over her shoulder, but every now and then he’d shift his weight. When he did that, I lost sight of his head for a second, knowing he couldn’t see me, either.
Looking at me.
Not seeing me.
Looking at me.
Not seeing me.
I popped the little key into my mouth and worked it between my cheek and gum like a dip of Skoal.
Looking at me.
I finally finished and sighed.
“Zip.” It was the woman. She twirled her finger again. “Manos.”
I tucked everything away and held my hands out. “Don’t I get to wash up?”
“No. You only handled your own. Giro de vuelta.”
It was worth a try. I put my hands behind my back.
“Atrás.”
She was really good. I followed her curt instructions and backed up to the door. There was no need to look over my shoulder to know that Javier had that pistol pointed at me. The cuff clicked back into place.
“Vámonos.”
I followed her finger and returned down the narrow, gritty hallway, back to the bedroom.
“Esperas.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and waited like she said. Bag Lady studied me for a minute, her head angled like a dog listening to a whistle. Javier stepped up behind her and dug his spurs in a little deeper.
“You like mi insignia?” He polished my badge with the palm of his hand.
“Always did.” I tried not to change expression. “I’m going to get that back, you know.”
“You can get it from me in Hell.”
“It’ll be long before that.”
He laughed and closed the door.
I sat still for a long moment, wondering how long I needed to wait before it was safe to spit out the key and unlock the cuffs. About sixty seconds later the door blew open again and Bag Lady was standing there, eyes flashing. I waited a beat. “Sorry. I didn’t flush.”
She reached into the pocket of her baggy pants and pulled out a fresh bottle of water. Twisting the cap off with a soft crack, she crossed the room and held it out. I tilted my head and she poured some of the sweetest tasting water I’ve ever known into my mouth. A small stream more refreshing than sweet iced tea trickled down my chin. She instinctively wiped it dry with her hand. My heart almost stopped, wondering if she felt the key tucked away there, but her touch was so soft she missed it.
I dropped my gaze in thanks and saw the outline of a pistol in her other pocket.
“Descansa. Rest.”
“Good idea.”
She closed the door again and I waited, counting to one thousand. That done, I listened even longer. A familiar beetle-beep came to me though the closed door, telling me the house, and probably the windows, were electronically armed.
Car doors slammed somewhere outside. A burst of heavy rain drummed on the clay tile roof for several moments before slacking off. The volume on the music rose. I stood, worked the key from my cheek, and spit it onto the bed. I’d practiced the next move a thousand times, just in case I found myself in cuffs. I turned, sat down, and picked it up.
Practice makes perfect.
Chapter 53
I was shot, scraped, cut, beaten so badly I couldn’t breathe through my nose, held hostage by at least four people with guns, and worn to a frazzle. My left side throbbed with heat from the infection, but at least I had a soft, full-size bed to sit on.
And my cuffs were off.
Things were looking up.
A cheap wooden headboard thumped the wall every time I moved. Hundred-year-old springs squeaked, reminding me of when I was a kid. Our kinfolk used those bedsprings until the mid-1960s, and it seemed like every smokehouse and junk room I was ever in had at least one or two sets leaning against the walls.
The room measuring maybe ten by fifteen made it easy to examine the windows from my position. I wanted to open one and crawl outside, but with a security system in place, there was no chance of doing it quietly. Raising a window equated to opening the bedroom door and yelling for room service. That possibility off the table, I studied my options and soon realized there was only one way to get out.
Hands still behind my back, I bounced up and down on the squeaky mattress a couple of times. The noise was loud enough to wake the dead. Setting my feet, I pushed myself to the edge of the mattress, trying to look like I wasn’t ready to bolt.
The padlock rattled. Bag Lady came boiling into the room, flinging the door open. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to get comfortable.”
She stayed by the door, studying me. “Stay still.”
“I don’t know if you noticed the hole in my shirt and all the dried blood, but I’ve been shot and I’m hurtin’ like hell.” I wasn’t kidding. A fever was taking hold and at the very least I was on the edge of an infection that would lay me in the g
round.
The old rock and roll song by the First Edition popped into my head, “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In).” That’s how I felt, with or without Kenny Rogers.
The frustrating woman didn’t come any closer. Instead, she repeated herself. “Lay down and be still.”
Her English was improving, probably through repetition. “Look, how about a couple of aspirin at least, and maybe some more water.”
“No.”
“Well, at least come over here and check this wound.”
“No.”
“It’s too far back to lick it like a dog. Would you do it for me?”
I could see her trying to translate and frustration rose. She wasn’t taking any of the bait I was throwing out. I ground my teeth. It was all I could do to keep both hands behind me. “You’re not married, are you?”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because no guy could put up with your negativity.”
She tilted her head again, thinking. “You don’t talk anymore.”
“I don’t talk any less, either.”
“Qué?”
“You’re backsliding.” Dropping my head, I lowered my voice and tried to look pitiful. “Help me.”
“Speak up.”
“I’ll pay you.” I tried it in Spanish, hoping I was saying it right. “Te dare dinero.”
“Qué?”
I breathed my answer. “Money.”
“What?” She stepped forward. “What are you saying?”
“Gold. Oro.” It was barely a whisper.
She heard that. “Gold?”
Anything over a solid quarter across the Rio was real money, and the word, even the idea of gold, was overwhelming to people who literally lived hand to mouth.
“Yes.” The word was a breath.
She wrapped her hand around the pistol in her pocket and glanced toward the window, not back over her shoulder toward the rest of the house. That look spoke volumes. “Yes? Aquí? Where?”
“Coins, in pockets in my boots.”
Hawke's War Page 18