“Just call me Jocko.” The big white-haired man offered us his hand, large as a catcher’s mitt.
“Is he here?” Rainy asked.
“He didn’t show up today,” Harris said. “Which is not like Peter at all.”
“He didn’t call?”
“We haven’t heard a word from him since he left work yesterday. He didn’t say anything about you coming for a visit.”
“A spur of the moment thing,” I said. “The truth is we’re worried about him. He seems to have disappeared.”
“As I said, it’s not like Peter to miss work without calling, but things come up, you know. Is there a particular reason you’re worried?”
“What do you know about my son?” Rainy asked.
“Look, why don’t we talk inside?” Harris suggested. “Jayne would love to meet you. She’s in her office in the house.” He half-turned and opened his arms to the winery fixtures. “The quality of what’s in those tanks is up to me. But the business is all Jayne’s. Jocko, why don’t you go check on those new graftings?”
The older man seemed more inclined to accompany us to the house, but he gave a nod. He mounted the motorcycle, kicked over the engine, and took off into the vineyards.
“His bike?” I asked.
“Jocko’s pride and joy. He used to be a crop duster, flew a biplane. Had to give up the job when he hit eighty. But that Honda Hawk of his? Never.”
We followed Harris across the yard and through a small, adobe-walled garden with a bubbling fountain at its center. Inside the house, everything was deadly quiet and the air blessedly cool. The place was decorated in a Mexican motif—tiled floors in beautiful patterns, walls and tapestries done in bright, singing colors, furniture of dark wood and leather. I smelled cinnamon.
“Have a seat,” Harris said, when we arrived at the living room. “I’ll get Jayne.”
We sat on a sofa upholstered in soft brown leather.
“Is that a Frida Kahlo?” Rainy nodded toward a large painting of fuzzy fruit, which hung above the hearth of a fireplace that, I suspected, had never seen a flame.
“What’s a Frida Kahlo?” I asked.
Before Rainy could answer, Harris returned with his wife. Jayne Harris was striking—tall, ash blond, and lovely. She was dressed in a way I remembered Dale Evans did on the old Roy Rogers television show: cowboy boots, a pearl snap shirt, and blue jeans, except that the jeans were stone-washed and fit so tight I figured she’d had to grease herself to get into them. She beamed a gracious western smile and said, “Howdy.”
“Jayne doesn’t usually look like this,” Harris said.
His wife laughed. “I did a photo shoot this morning for a Phoenix magazine that’s featuring our winery in next month’s issue. The theme was the Old West meets the New West. You know, beef versus bottle. Corny, I know, but the wine market is competitive and it’s important to keep our name out there.”
“Would you like some wine?” Harris asked. “We make a really fine pinot gris.”
Rainy glanced at me and I could read her eyes.
“Thanks, no,” I said. “We’re a little anxious to find Peter.”
“Let’s sit and talk,” Harris suggested.
When we’d arranged ourselves, Jayne said, “Frank told you that Peter didn’t come to work this morning? He’s always been so reliable. One of his many endearing qualities.”
“What kind of work does Peter do here?” I asked.
“Anything and everything,” Harris said. “He’s a quick study.”
“How is it that you know my son?” Rainy asked.
“Grace Methodist Church in Cadiz,” Jayne said. “Small congregation and we all know one another pretty well. After Peter lost his job at the Goodman Center, we gave him one here. We couldn’t pay him a lot, not like what he’d been making at the center, but he seemed fine with that.”
Rainy said, “You know Peter was in treatment there once.”
“Of course. Are you worried he’s using again?” Jayne said. “Because if you are, you can let go of that fear. Peter’s stayed clean, I’d stake my life on it.”
“Do you know where he lives?” Rainy asked.
Jayne seemed surprised. “You don’t?”
Rainy explained about the P.O. box in Sulfur Springs.
“We don’t have an exact address for him, but he drove to work from Sulfur Springs every day,” Frank Harris said.
“How’d he come?” I asked.
“The Old Douglas Road, south of the mountains.”
“We came that way,” I said. “Got stopped by Border Patrol.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Harris said. “There’s been a lot of activity along the border here lately.”
“What kind of activity? Undocumented immigrants coming in?”
Harris shook his head. “The big wall ends twenty miles west of here. Just low barbed wire after that, pretty easy to get over, so that’s where they try most often. Around here it’s drugs. They’re pretty inventive getting them across.”
“We were just in Sulfur Springs,” Rainy said. “No one we talked to claimed to know Peter.”
“He’s a very quiet guy,” Jayne said. “Maybe he just preferred to keep to himself.”
“Why Sulfur Springs?” I asked. “Did he ever say what made him choose that place to live after he left the Goodman Center?”
“Not really,” Harris replied. “I just figured it was cheaper than renting a place in Cadiz, which is a tourist town, so things are more expensive there. Sulfur Springs isn’t exactly an oasis.”
“Does Peter have any friends? A girlfriend maybe?” Rainy asked.
“Friends among our congregation, I suppose. But a girlfriend?” Jayne gave Rainy a look I couldn’t quite interpret. “You’re his mother. You don’t know?”
“Clearly there’s a good deal that Peter hasn’t shared with me,” Rainy said.
For a moment or two, there was an uncomfortable quiet in the room and a chill that was not from the air-conditioning.
“Does the name Rodriguez mean anything to you?” I asked.
“Lots of Rodriguezes in these parts,” Harris said. “Why?”
“Peter mentioned a man named Rodriguez when he called Rainy last night. Not in a good way.”
Harris gave a little shrug of innocence.
“We should be going,” I said. I handed Harris my card. “If you hear from Peter, please let us know.”
“Of course,” he said.
They saw us out, and as we stood in the late afternoon sun with our shadows long across the ground, Jayne Harris gave Rainy a hug. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all of this. But in the meantime, I’ll keep you and Peter in my prayers.”
I shook hands with Frank Harris, and we got into our oven on wheels and headed under the stone arch and down the road through the grapevines.
“I’m feeling like a terrible mother,” Rainy said. “There’s so much I should know about Peter and I don’t.”
“Did you tell your mother everything?”
“It would have just broken her heart.”
“Well, there you go. It’s not about being a bad parent. It’s about children trying to keep their parents from worrying.”
“What was it Peter didn’t want me to worry about?”
Before I had a chance to consider her question, Jocko stepped from among the vines and waved us down. I braked to a stop, and the old man came to Rainy’s window, which she lowered. He leaned his big, tanned arms on the Cherokee and looked into Rainy’s eyes.
“Peter’s like a grandson to me. You hear from him, you let me know.”
“Of course.”
He looked back at the Harrises’ grand home, where the walls rose high above the green vines. “Don’t let anyone tell you Peter’s not in trouble.”
“What do you know?” Rainy asked. “Tell me the truth.”
He shook his head. “In Coronado County, ma’am, only the dead know the whole truth.”
He
pushed away and walked back into the grapevines.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
We headed west, back to Cadiz, taking the longer way, following paved roads. The sun was hanging just above the Coronados. The rays came through the windshield at a blinding angle, and I kept the visor down. It was an empty country, this desert grassland, and one that seemed full of menace—snakes and thirst and cacti and lies. In Minnesota, even as you drove miles with tall evergreens standing close, like ragged walls on either side, you didn’t feel this alone or this threatened. At least I didn’t. Out here, I had the sense that a person could die way too easily and so absolutely alone that only the circling vultures would be the wiser.
I could feel Rainy’s fear. It came out of her love for her son and from a growing sense that there was great reason to be afraid for Peter. I was tempted to give myself over to the same sense of dread. But I remembered what Henry Meloux had advised, that until we knew something different, it was best to imagine what gave us hope. And I remembered his other piece of advice, too, not to feed someone else’s fear with your own, so I tried to stay clear and to corral the demons of my own doubts.
“People are lying to us, Rainy, that much is obvious. But it might not be because of Peter.”
“Jocko said Peter’s in trouble.”
“He didn’t say what kind of trouble.”
“And why didn’t he?” She was angry. That was her fear coming through.
“Because he didn’t know or because he was afraid.”
“We should have made him tell us.”
“And how exactly should we have done that?”
I swerved to avoid some kind of small animal that darted across the highway. It was brown and without a tail. In Minnesota, I could have told you exactly what it was. Here, I didn’t have a clue.
“I don’t know, Cork. But I need some answers soon.”
“I understand. When we hit Cadiz, let’s track down the minister at Grace Church, see if the pastor has something to offer us that might be helpful. And, Rainy, let’s continue to imagine the best—that in the end this is all some kind of terrible mistake.”
Rainy inhaled deeply several times, trying, I suspected, to breathe out her fear, her anger. Eventually, she reached out and put her hand gently on my arm. “Migwech.”
“Thank you for what?”
“For being Uncle Henry when Uncle Henry isn’t here.”
Which was one of the greatest compliments she could have paid me.
Cadiz, as the day died, was a much less busy place than when we’d been there earlier. I figured the folks from Tucson and maybe Phoenix who’d come to the high country of Coronado County to escape the worst of the summer heat had headed back home. Grace Methodist Church wasn’t difficult to find. It was a small square with a squat bell tower, built of gray stone, set on the east side of the San Gabriel River. The little parking lot was empty and the doors were locked. In front stood a stone statue of an angel in the company of a small child. The angel was pointing up, as if directing the child to look heavenward. Beside the statue was a sign that, along with the times of services, gave the telephone number and name of the pastor, Michelle Abbott.
“That’s the same number on the church sign in Sulfur Springs,” I said.
The sun had set by now, and we stood next to the angel and the child, in the shadow of the western mountains, while I dialed the minister’s number. Her line rang several times, then went to voice mail. I left a brief indication of who I was and my number.
“We should get a room for the night,” I suggested.
On the main street, we’d passed a nice-looking little inn of white adobe. I drove to it, and we checked in with a pleasant older woman who was delighted to hear that we were from Minnesota.
“My grandparents lived there,” she said. “Duluth. You know it?”
“We know it well,” I said.
“I remember how cool it used to be by the lake when we visited them in the summer.”
“Ever visit in the winter?” I asked.
She laughed. “We weren’t crazy.”
The Desert Breeze Inn was built around a small cactus garden with a bubbling fountain, which seemed to be such a favorite of folks in the Southwest. I thought that Henry Meloux might look at this as a form of smudging, the cleansing sound of water in a land that had so little of it. There were only six rooms, and we were given the one at the very end. No sooner had we carried in our luggage than my cell phone rang.
“This is Pastor Michelle Abbott. You called about Peter?”
“Yes,” I said. “Let me give the phone to his mother. She’d like to talk with you.”
“This is Rainy Bisonette. Thanks so much for calling back.” Rainy listened and nodded. “I think he’s wonderful, too. But I’m concerned that he might be in some trouble, and I wondered if I could meet with you to talk about it.” She listened again and glanced at me. “We’re free right now.” She smiled and said, “I can’t thank you enough.” She ended the call and handed my cell phone back. “She’ll meet us at the church in fifteen minutes.”
We walked, following the river, and then across a little footbridge that led right to the church. A few minutes after we arrived, a dusty green pickup rolled up and parked in the lot. A woman with a red bandanna around her head and wearing dusty jeans and a yellow T-shirt got out and came toward us. She was probably well into her sixties, but with a smile that was ageless.
“Hello, folks. I’m Pastor Michelle. But you can drop the pastor part. Just call me Michelle.”
We shook her hand. Her grip was strong, her palm callused.
“Why don’t we talk inside?” she suggested and unlocked the front door. “This is an historic church, built when the mines around here were booming.”
The rafters and altar and pews were all of dark, heavy wood. The stained-glass windows seemed awfully ornate for such a small sanctuary.
“Built with the same money that built the town—silver, gold, copper, and cattle,” she explained. “Now we rely mostly on tourism.”
The church was hot and stuffy. We followed her to her office, which was left of the altar, where she turned on a window air conditioner. She sat at her desk, and Rainy and I took the two empty chairs.
“This isn’t your only congregation,” I said.
“That’s right. I have another charge, a small congregation in Sulfur Springs. The Catholics and the Methodists share the church, St. Esteban’s.”
“Peter lives there,” Rainy said.
“In Sulfur Springs?” It was clearly a revelation to her.
“At least that’s where he receives his mail,” Rainy said. “A box at the Sulfur Springs post office.”
“That’s interesting. He’s always been a member of the congregation here. I’ve never seen him at a service in Sulfur Springs, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t live there. When you attend a particular church regularly, as Peter does here, it becomes a bit like home.”
“We’ve been to Sulfur Springs. No one we talked to would admit to knowing him.”
“That does seem a little odd.” Michelle gave Rainy a piercing look. “You said you were afraid Peter might be in trouble.”
“Does the name Rodriguez mean anything to you?” Rainy asked.
“Rodriguez? No first name?”
“No.”
“Lots of Rodriguezes in Coronado County and south of the border. Why do you ask?”
Rainy glanced at me in a questioning way, and I gave her a nod. Eventually, you have to trust someone. She told the story of Peter’s phone call, and his silence since then.
“He said he killed someone named Rodriguez? That doesn’t sound at all like Peter.”
“It’s not exactly clear that he did,” Rainy said, holding to the best hope we had. “The message is garbled. Maybe if you listened it would help.”
She brought out her cell phone and played Peter’s message on the speakerphone.
“You’re right, Rainy. It’s garbled. How
ever, Peter says something at the end that’s a little scratchy, but it’s important and scary.”
“What is it?” Rainy asked.
“Play it again,” Michelle said. As Peter’s message neared the end, she said, “Here. Listen. Did you catch that word? Lagarto?”
“Was that the word?” Rainy said. “I couldn’t quite tell.”
“The big Rodriguez in these parts is Carlos Rodriguez. He’s the head of Las Calaveras.”
“The Skulls,” Rainy translated.
Michelle nodded. “One of the cartels in northern Mexico. As I understand, he runs it with his two sons. I suppose Peter’s situation could involve some other Rodriguez. Like I said, it’s a common surname around here. But Carlos Rodriguez is often called Lagarto. Lizard. He’s very tall and very slender and absolutely cold-blooded. I think you have good reason to be worried.”
“Why in the world would Peter be involved with a drug cartel?” Rainy said.
Michelle sat for a long moment. “Peter’s a Marine,” she finally said.
“Was a Marine,” Rainy said.
“Once a Marine, always a Marine. I’m a Marine, too. That’s one of the first connections Peter and I made, and it’s been a powerful one. He’s a veteran of Afghanistan. For me it was Desert Storm. My last deployment before I retired from the Corps.”
“A chaplain?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Intel, like Peter. I have this thing, a knack for languages. I’m fluent in both Farsi and Arabic. Also Chinese, German, French, and, of course, Spanish, which comes in handy here. When I retired and felt I had the call, I went to seminary. While I was there, I added Greek and Latin to my repertoire.”
“Peter’s good with languages?” I asked.
“Better even than me. I’ve always figured that was one of the reasons he attended the U of A in Tucson, their Critical Languages Program. Instruction in languages not normally taught in colleges. His facility was also a big reason he was in intel, I’m sure. But what’s more important is that Peter’s good with people. They trust him, and he has a real knack for knowing who to trust.” She looked at Rainy for confirmation.
“He’s always been like that,” Rainy said.
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