Sulfur Springs

by William Kent Krueger

  Mondragón responded in Spanish. I couldn’t understand the words, but the tone needed no translation.

  I could still see the man who’d laced the floor with fire from his automatic. I was deep in the shadow of the mine and pretty certain he couldn’t see me. I cradled the butt of the Winchester stock to my shoulder and sighted carefully. If he behaved as he had before, in the moment in advance of his firing, he would rise just a bit above the rock, exposing half his chest. I prepared myself mentally to take him out.

  Rainy said, “Negotiate.”

  “What?” Mondragón said.

  Rainy came up behind me, into the negligible protection of the rock indentation. She called to the men outside in Spanish. In all that she said, I understood only Peter’s name and the name Rodriguez.

  In the long quiet that followed while our assailants considered her words, Mondragón said, “They’ll never buy it, querida. They think they’re holding all the cards.”

  “What did you tell them?” I asked.

  “That Peter’s not here. That we don’t know where he is. That killing us gets them nothing.”

  “Not much of a negotiation, Rainy,” I said.

  “That’s not all,” Mondragón said. “She told them to tell their patrón Rodriguez that she will meet with him to discuss her son. That will never happen, not as long as I’m alive.”

  Which, in the next moment, seemed to be not long, because an explosion shook the mountain face outside the mine, and the wall I’d pushed myself against shivered. Dust and grit rained down on us.

  “RPG,” Mondragón said.

  “Rocket-propelled grenade,” I told Rainy. “They want us to know they’re not bluffing.”

  From outside, the voice spoke again in Spanish.

  Rainy translated for me. “He says in one minute, they’ll seal our tomb.”

  I tried to think, to come up with a rational plan. We could move farther into the mine, where the explosive might not harm us, but that might simply end in us dying slowly in a sealed-up tomb. We could make a dash for it outside, splitting up so that they might not get us all. But they’d get some of us.

  The seconds were ticking away, and nothing reasonable came to mind. The only real concern I had was for Rainy. Whatever else, I wanted Rainy safe.

  I said to Mondragón, “When I sprint out there, you cover me. I’ll make for that first big rock on the right.”

  “No,” Rainy said.

  “There’s no time to argue. When I get set there, I’ll cover you both.”

  “I’ll go,” Mondragón said. “You cover me.”

  I was about to argue, but he pushed himself away from the wall to make his run.

  He didn’t go any farther, because outside the mine it suddenly became the Fourth of July. We could hear the pop and rattle of gunfire, but no rounds came into the drift.

  “What’s going on?” Rainy called out.

  “The cavalry has arrived,” Mondragón said.

  I remembered the calls he’d made on his satellite phone and understood why, when the attack first came, he’d advised us to just sit tight. He knew help was on the way. If it hadn’t been for the RPG, he’d have been content to do nothing.

  The gunfire died out. Mondragón waited. Rainy and I waited.

  “Amigo” came the call from outside. Then more in Spanish.

  “It’s safe now,” Mondragón said. He took Rainy’s hand and led her into the light.

  * * *

  There were a half dozen of them, men dressed all in camouflage, looking very military. The one who’d called to Mondragón saluted him when we emerged. They spoke to each other in that language I was beginning to wish to God I’d studied in high school.

  “What are they saying?” I asked Rainy.

  “He’s explaining to Berto what happened. They killed four men in the rocks.”

  “Who are these guys?”

  Rainy shrugged. “He keeps calling Berto ‘Jefe.’ ”

  One of the few words I knew. It meant “boss.”

  Two men in camouflage came from the rocks shoving before them another man, who wore jeans, scuffed boots, and a western shirt with snaps. They forced him to his knees at Mondragón’s feet.

  “Mírame,” Mondragón said.

  The man looked up. Man? He was just a kid, not even twenty. Fear whitened his eyes, shortened his breath, poured off him as if a foul scent. He bled from a nasty cut where the skin lay open on his cheek, the result, I could imagine, of a blow from a rifle butt.

  Mondragón barked at him. The kid shook his head. One of the men who’d dragged him from the rocks kicked him in the spine. Mondragón spoke again, even more harshly.

  The kid began to babble, his words mixed with saliva and tears. He shook his head again and again, and although I couldn’t understand a word, he was plainly pleading for his life.

  Mondragón knelt, took the kid’s chin roughly in his hand, and forced him to look directly into Jefe’s eyes. Mondragón said something low and quiet. The kid began to cry in earnest, deep sobs.

  “What did he say?” I asked Rainy.

  “Berto says he’s going to gut the kid and leave him for the vultures to feed on.”

  Mondragón stood up and nodded toward a camouflaged man, who reached to his belt and pulled out a long military blade.

  “No,” Rainy said.

  She stepped between Mondragón and the kid. She addressed her ex-husband, her words, whatever they were, spoken fiercely. Mondragón snapped at her, and she gave it right back at him. They stood eyeing each other, Rainy smaller, her face upturned and as hard as any rock in those mountains. I saw Mondragón’s eyes shift from her to the men who surrounded us. This wasn’t just about Rainy and him. This was also about El Jefe now.

  I said, my voice as reasonable as I could make it, “If you value your relationship with Rainy and you want to work with us to find Peter, you’ll do what she asks. Otherwise she will shut you out completely. You know this. Peter is what’s important here.”

  Mondragón considered my words. Finally he said to Rainy, “Sí.”

  She turned and knelt before the kid. His head was down, his eyes on the ground where his tears were turning the dust to little spots of mud. She took his face in her hands and lifted it, so that he could see her. She spoke to him gently.

  “Cómo se llama?”

  “Pedro,” he replied.

  She talked to him quietly for a while. The only word I heard and understood was madre. Mother. The kid listened and nodded and then began to respond to her. They conversed for some time. Mondragón listened, and it was clear from his face that he was learning much from the conversation.

  At last, Rainy stood.

  Mondragón spoke in English, probably for my benefit. “We have everything we need.” He nodded to the man who’d kicked the kid in the spine. “Shoot him.”

  Rainy said, “You will release him.”

  “He tried to kill us.”

  “Because those were his orders. He’s barely more than a child, Berto. And his name is Pedro. Peter. He goes free.”

  “Then he goes back to Rodriguez, and we face him again someday.”

  “He’s from a small village. He swears he will return home.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “Maybe. I want to give him the chance I promised him. Do this thing, Berto. For me, for Peter, for the good of your own soul.”

  The sun was above the mountains, and Mondragón’s shadow fell across the young man and Rainy. At his nod, Pedro would be dead. But I knew what Mondragón was weighing. On one side of the balance was this present moment, and on the other the rest of his life and quite possibly the deep-seated hope that somehow, someday he might win Rainy back. Because the one thing I understood absolutely in all of this was that he still loved her.

  “All right, querida,” he said. “But he goes with nothing and he goes barefoot.”

  “Berto, that’s so cruel.”

  “If he’s truly a man, he has a chance. It’
s the same chance those people Peter helps are willing to take.”

  He spoke to Pedro, who said not a word but began removing his boots and socks. When he’d bared his feet, he stood. He said to Rainy, “Gracias, señora.”

  Rainy took his hands in hers. “Vaya con Dios, Pedro.”

  He looked at me, and I saw what Rainy saw, a kid way over his head in something that he regretted now because of the present consequences but that, if he survived and grew wise, he might regret later for all the right reasons.

  “You understand English?” I asked.

  He gave a nod.

  “An old friend once told me the place we walk, wherever we lay our feet, each step of the journey is one we have always been meant to take. From the moment you were born, Pedro, this is a journey that has always been before you. Do you believe in God?”

  “Yes, señor.”

  “Put yourself in those hands. And keep your feet pointed south.”

  “Gracias, señor.”

  “Desaparece,” Mondragón commanded.

  Pedro turned and walked away, disappearing among the rocks. Mondragón gave a gesture to one of his men, who followed.

  “Berto,” Rainy began.

  “Just to make sure that he goes,” Mondragón said, then called out, “Muchachos,” and delivered his orders in Spanish.

  They carried the bodies of the dead men deep into the mine and, while there, searched for more signs of Peter. They found nothing. While this was going on, Rainy removed herself and sat high on the rocks. I finally joined her there.

  She didn’t look at me. Her dark eyes were taking in the desert far below. “So many deaths. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

  “Everybody here calls it a war, Rainy,” I said. “And you didn’t start it.”

  “I haven’t done anything to stop it. We haven’t done anything to stop it.”

  “We? You and me?”

  “All of us, Cork. We erect fences. We build walls. And what does that invite? Hostility breeds hostility. Fear breeds fear.”

  “And love breeds love,” I said, because I knew where she was going. “If you’d stepped outside that mine and offered those men love, do you know what would have happened?”

  “How many of them were just like Pedro, do you suppose?”

  “That’s not a question I ask myself when someone’s shooting at me.”

  I looked back toward the Lulabelle. Near the entrance, Mondragón was counseling with the man who seemed to be in charge of the others. The man gave a sharp whistle, and all those in camouflage followed him into the rocks in the same direction Pedro had gone.

  Mondragón climbed to where we sat. “We’re done here. Get your pack, Rainy. It’s time to go.”

  She left the water, just in case Peter or someone else came and needed it. Then we started down out of the mountains, putting the Lulabelle behind us. Riches had come from the mine once upon a time. Now, for a while, all that would be coming out was the stench of rotting flesh.

  CHAPTER 24

  * * *

  “What now?”

  We were returning to Cadiz, Mondragón at the wheel of his SUV, Rainy in the seat beside him, me in back. We’d been a quiet crew since leaving the Lulabelle. So much death behind us. I’d seen it on that scale only once before, an incident I’d told no one about, not even Rainy. In that profoundly disturbing circumstance, I’d killed several times over. I didn’t know exactly what the events of our morning had done to Rainy. She stared out the window at the desert streaming past us. She was one of the best, one of the kindest, spirits I’d ever known. In all this, she’d wanted only to find her son. But that search had brought terrible death. And there was no guarantee that the dying was over.

  “What now?” Mondragón repeated.

  “How did they know we’d be there?” I said.

  “I asked Pedro that,” Rainy said. “He didn’t know.”

  “Rodriguez has eyes and ears everywhere in his little kingdom,” Mondragón said.

  “No one knew where we were going except Jocko and Sylvester,” I said. “And your people. Who are they anyway? They looked like real military.”

  “Perhaps they are,” Mondragón said. “Mexico is no different from any other country. Money buys everything.”

  “Loyalty?”

  “Anyone can be bought. That is why you trust no one but family,” Mondragón said.

  “So maybe one of those men?”

  “I will have someone look into that, but I think not. The price of betrayal is very high. I think it would be better to talk to your Jocko and Sylvester.”

  Which I’d already decided to do.

  “What else did Pedro tell you, Rainy?”

  “He said there’d been bad trouble a few nights ago. Lagarto—Carlos Rodriguez—and his oldest son, Miguel, went out with some of their men. Lagarto came back badly wounded, but Miguel didn’t come back at all. Many of the men who went with them also didn’t come back. Those who did were ordered not to talk about what had happened. Pedro thought maybe it had been a skirmish with another cartel.”

  “Not another cartel,” Mondragón said. “Peter.”

  “Peter wouldn’t have shot men,” Rainy said.

  “He called you and confessed, querida.”

  “I don’t know what he confessed to.”

  “Don’t know or just don’t want to accept? He is not your little boy. He is a man. A man does what he must.”

  “Oh, Berto, give me a break. What movie did you lift that from?”

  * * *

  It was just after noon when we reached the outskirts of Cadiz. Mondragón dropped me at the side of the road. Before I left her, Rainy lowered her window. I saw such a shadow over her face that it nearly broke my heart.

  “He only wanted to help people,” she said. “Now all this.”

  “Not his doing, Rainy.”

  She surprised me with a faint smile. “What you told Pedro about his journey always being before him, was that from Uncle Henry?”

  “Almost verbatim.”

  “I hope Uncle Henry’s spirit is with that child.”

  “Henry would probably say that we never walk our journey alone.” I reached in and held her hand. “Are you all right?”

  “I need to process.” She leaned to me and kissed my lips briefly. “And you need to be careful.”

  “Enough,” Mondragón said. “Someone will see us.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked him.

  “I’ve told you before, best you don’t know. Just in case. It’s safest for Rainy.”

  “Bye, love,” she said to me.

  “You find out anything, tie a ribbon.”

  Mondragón pulled away, and once again, I watched Rainy disappear with him.

  I started for the parsonage, carrying my Winchester down the streets of Cadiz, surprised that no one seemed to take particular notice. But this was Arizona. I was feeling pretty low. Some of that was because of my worry about Rainy and Peter. Some of it was because I felt a little sick. My cheek was inflamed. My ribs felt as if they’d been kicked by Sylvester’s mule. I had a headache. I was famished, because I hadn’t eaten in a good long while. The heat was blistering, and I was probably dehydrated. But my body was only part of the reason for my dragging ass. I was sick in my soul, exactly the way I’d been after the long-ago slaughter I’d taken part in myself. Men had died. I didn’t know them. As Mondragón’s minions had carried the bodies into the dark of the mine and dumped them, I’d tried not to think of the dead men as human beings. But Pedro had had a profound impact on me. He wasn’t much younger than my own son, Stephen. He’d come from a small village, and God knows how he’d gotten himself mixed up with people like the Rodriguezes. Maybe those who’d died were no different, driven by terrible circumstance into a life no one would willingly choose. I’d seen that when I was a cop on the South Side of Chicago, dealing with gangs. Every child is born a clean sheet of possibility, and no mother dreams of her beautiful baby ending up dead in
an alley or rotting in the black of a forgotten mine.

  On the main street, a couple of men were taking down the Fourth of July banners. The patriotic red, white, and blue decorations were gone from the store windows. We’d given our annual nod to the battle our founding fathers had fought, and it was back to business as usual. When I reached the parsonage, I was careful on my entry. I checked every room thoroughly. No one was waiting to jump me. The place was a mess. Mondragón’s shot through the window had left glass scattered on the kitchen floor, shards lying in the blood that the wounded man, whoever he was, had lost. The chair my assailants had bound me to was still festooned with severed pieces of duct tape. I cleaned up the mess, locked the door behind me, and headed to my borrowed pickup.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when I arrived in Sulfur Springs. I stepped into Rosa’s Cantina and found Sierra all alone, watching some talk show on the television above the bar. She turned to me and her eyes got big.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing a cold cerveza and a good burrito wouldn’t cure,” I said, bellying up to the bar.

  “You’ve come to the right place.” She gave me a draft from the tap and said, “I’ll put in that order.” When she came back, she leaned against the bar. “Honey, you look like hell.”

  “I saw some of your photographs at Sylvester’s place. Nice work.”

  “Thanks. Sylvester’s a sweetheart.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “An institution. Knows these mountains and the others around here better than anyone. He’s been prospecting in them all his life. That’s why Marian hired him, I’m sure.”

  I set my beer down. “He works for your mayor?”

  “Sure does.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Helping her locate old mining claims.”

  “What for?”

  “From what everybody says, mining’s coming back to the Coronados. Apparently, they’ve got all kinds of new techniques for extracting the ores.”

  “And your mayor is going into the mining business?”

  “Word is she’s involved with some deep-pocket enterprise out of Phoenix. She owns practically everything around here. Probably figures it’s time she played with the really big boys.”