Sulfur Springs

by William Kent Krueger

  “I’ve known about Frank and Peter and Jocko from the beginning. I just didn’t want to get involved. One of us needed some dispassionate distance.”

  “You don’t sympathize with the people they’re trying to help?”

  “Of course I do. Who doesn’t? But just look what’s happened.” She held out her hand, indicating the bandaged Jocko.

  “I’d do it all again,” Jocko said. “You close your heart off, Jayne, and you’re as good as dead.”

  “You go right ahead then and get yourself killed.”

  He smiled weakly. “Not dead yet.”

  “Just remember who’s minding the store while you and Frank are off playing Mother Teresa. You think it’s easy? If it wasn’t for me, we’d be no better off than those people sneaking across the border.”

  Although she’d addressed this to the man in the bed, I had a sense it was a conversation she’d probably had with her husband on more than one occasion.

  “In this hard country, Jayne darlin’, we all gotta stick together.”

  “Family, Jocko,” she said. “I’ll do everything I can for family. Everyone else is on their own.”

  Which seemed to me to be almost an echo of Mondragón’s outlook.

  “I’ll leave you to your reading,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay, Jocko.”

  “Don’t waste your worry on me, son. You got enough on your shoulders. But I appreciate your concern. Vaya con Dios, amigo.”

  I said good-bye to Jayne, and her response was bitter and enigmatic.

  “You’ve wakened sleeping dogs in Coronado County. I just hope to God you find your wife before they tear her apart.” Then she echoed Jocko’s final words, “Vaya con Dios.”

  But like an echo, they sounded distant and unfelt.

  CHAPTER 31

  * * *

  On the way back to Cadiz, I paused at a little wayside, and spent a moment looking at the mountains to the west, the south, the east, the north. The blue sky was mottled with white and gray clouds, and along the horizon the buildup had begun for another monsoon rain. The whole rolling plateau was spotted with stunted, desperate-looking trees and covered with yellow grass rippling nervously in the breeze. In so many ways, this was a different country than I’d anticipated. I didn’t know how to read this land. I didn’t understand its people. And I gave myself over to a terrible homesickness for the North Country of Minnesota.

  In the months since our marriage, Rainy and I had settled into a comfortable routine. Breakfast together in the early morning, sharing so much in that quiet hour before Jenny and Daniel and Waaboo were awake. It wasn’t that we talked a lot. Rainy says I’m about as talkative as a rolling pin. But sharing isn’t necessarily about words. I missed her. Missed us. I felt desolate and alone in Coronado County.

  When I thought of Rainy, I couldn’t help thinking that she was with Mondragón, that together they’d worked to rescue their son. This sharing of effort was something I was sure would bridge whatever divide had existed between them, something that couldn’t help but lace their hearts together.

  Trust, I tried to tell myself. In Coronado County, trust was the rarest of commodities. And if I didn’t trust Rainy, who could I trust?

  As if in answer, the words from the Pueblo prayer came to me: Our love is the promise that is never broken.

  I got back into the truck and drove on.

  In Cadiz, I cruised past the church. The ribbon I’d tied the night before was still there. I headed south out of town and, a few miles later, took the turnoff to Sulfur Springs. As I came over the saddle in the mountains and down onto the desert below, I took careful note of Paradiso, the trailer community that lay north of town, built on a barren stretch of earth with no trees at all. It seemed to me that staying off the grid came at a high cost if it meant living like a reptile baking under a hot sun. I turned off on the Old Douglas Road so that I could take a closer look at Paradiso. I lowered the windows of the pickup, and as I passed the trailer community, I could hear music blasting, something heavy metal. I saw a gathering of motorcycles, and in the shade under a nearby awning, a few bikers in T-shirts lounged in lawn chairs with beer cans in their hands. They eyed me in the way they might a desert snake they couldn’t quite identify.

  I turned around and continued to Sulfur Springs. Sylvester’s empty red pickup truck sat in front of Rosa’s Cantina, right alongside what I believed was the only law enforcement vehicle owned by the town of Sulfur Springs. I parked and went inside.

  They sat together at the bar, Sylvester, lean and long-bearded, the Arizona Diamondbacks cap crowning his head. Which made me think of Juan and his dream of pitching for the Dodgers. Sanchez sat heavy on his own stool, resting his chunky forearms on the bar top. Each had a beer in front of him and they were staring at the television, where a ball game was in progress. Neither man looked my way when I entered. I sat down next to Sanchez. He turned his head, but not his body, and the swivel of his neck reminded me of an owl eyeing prey.

  “O’Connor,” he said. The moment he spoke I knew absolutely he’d been at the parsonage the night I’d been beaten. “You look like hell. What happened?”

  “Ran into a door,” I said.

  “A door with a good left hook looks like to me.” He barked a laugh.

  Sylvester didn’t seem to notice my arrival at all. His eyes stayed riveted to the television screen.

  Sierra came from the kitchen and stepped behind the bar. “You’re getting to be a regular. What’ll you have?”

  “I’ll have whatever the chief here is having.”

  “One Corona coming up.”

  “And a cheeseburger,” I said.

  “Can do.”

  When the beer was in front of me, I took a sip and asked, “Who’s winning?”

  “Giants,” Sanchez said. “Our bullpen sucks today. Any luck finding that young man you’ve been looking for?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Sanchez nodded, gave it a few seconds, then said, “That so? How’d you manage it?”

  “I told you when we first met that I’m a private investigator. I’m good at what I do.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Safe,” I said. “By the way, Chief, you know anything about an organization called White Horse?”

  “Heard of ’em, sure.”

  “I understand they have a big following in Paradiso.”

  “What’s your source?”

  “I also heard drugs are being run out of there.”

  “Whoever told you that, mister, doesn’t know his ass from nuthin’.”

  “Because you’d know if that was true.”

  “Damn right.”

  “But if it was true, what would that mean?”

  “I told you it’s bullshit.”

  “Seems to me that would mean one of two things. Either you’re really a terrible cop. Or you’re just looking the other way.”

  He turned slowly on his stool until the whole bulk of his body confronted me.

  “You want to speak plainly?”

  “I thought I was plain enough.”

  “You know that door you ran into? You’re just about to run into it again, mister.”

  Sierra came from the kitchen and took quick stock of the dynamic going down at her bar. “Guys,” she said. “If you’ve got something to settle, how about you settle it outside.”

  “I’ve got nothing to settle,” I said.

  Sanchez gave me the kind of stare he must have given kids he caught drinking beer underage. “You go spreading accusations, O’Connor, you’re just asking for trouble.”

  “I’m already in trouble, Chief. But I’m not there alone. I intend to take White Horse down. You might want to pass that along to your friends in Paradiso.”

  He spoke like a man whose jaw had been wired shut. “I’m going to leave, because like Sierra said, this should be taken outside. O’Connor, next time I see you on the streets of Sulfur Springs, I’m going to arrest your as
s.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ll have something. And by the time you come out of my jail, you’ll think walking into a door was a picnic.”

  He stood up, squared his shoulders, and strolled out of Rosa’s Cantina, affecting the kind of swagger he must have seen in a dozen John Wayne westerns. I followed after him to the door and watched him cross the street and enter the office of Marian Brown.

  When I returned to the bar, Sierra said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “You ever hunt quail?” I said. “You’ve got to flush them before you can shoot them.”

  She shook her head. “Let me see about that cheeseburger.” She vanished back into the kitchen.

  “True?” Sylvester said without looking at me.

  “All of it,” I said.

  “You found him and he’s safe?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good.”

  Sierra brought my cheeseburger, and I watched the Diamondbacks lose as I ate, and Sylvester and I exchanged not another word.

  When I left the cantina, Sanchez’s cruiser was gone. I crossed the street to Marian Brown’s real estate office. It was dark inside and the door was locked. On the glass of her big front window were taped photographs of the properties she represented, along with descriptions and prices. Judging from the listings, there was a good deal of land available for purchase in Coronado County. I wondered what was motivating the sellers. The war along the border? Or maybe they were just worn down from fighting the desert to scrape out a living. I stepped back into the street and scanned the sky, looking for a drone. I had no idea how high those things actually flew. If Sprangers decided to put one on me again, I didn’t know if I’d be able to spot it. The truth was that I didn’t trust him. Not yet. Was there anybody in that county I trusted completely?

  I remembered that I hadn’t returned Michelle Abbott’s call. I turned my cell phone on and punched in her number.

  “I tried to call earlier,” she said when she answered. “I just wanted to check in, make sure you’re doing all right.”

  “I’ve been better,” I said.

  “Any word on Rainy?”

  Although she might have been the one person I could trust, I knew that telling her anything could put her in danger.

  “Nothing yet,” I said.

  “Peter?”

  “Same,” I said.

  “I don’t know if this is important, but I heard something today that you might want to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A member of my congregation in Sulfur Springs is the housekeeper for Marian Brown. Marian is the town mayor, and she also operates a real estate business.”

  “I’m familiar with Mayor Brown.”

  “A man came to Marian’s house this morning. A hard-looking man with lots of tattoos. Maria called him a cabrón. He went into Marian’s office to talk with her. Maria said they began to argue, raise their voices so that she could hear them. At one point Marian shouted, ‘Kill him. Just kill him.’ ”

  “Kill who?”

  “Maria didn’t hear. She was scared. She moved to another part of the house so they wouldn’t know she’d been listening.”

  “Why didn’t she go to the police?”

  But as soon as I said it, I knew the answer. The same reason someone who was Ojibwe wouldn’t go to the police in Minnesota. A history of harassment. A history of distrust.

  “I’ve known Marian all my life, and I hate to say this, but I believe there’s not a compassionate bone in her body.” Michelle was quiet a moment. “Ah, hell. The truth is, she’s a ruthless bitch, and I wouldn’t put it past her to be involved in something as coldhearted as murder.”

  I turned around and stared at the dark real estate office, wondering where Brown and Sanchez had gone.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I said.

  She laughed, but it was more in disbelief than in humor. “Are you kidding? Ever since you arrived here you’ve been like a lightning rod. If it’s not you, I thought it might be someone you’ve talked to. I don’t know what any of this is about, but if you ended up vulture food and I hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t be able to sleep nights. You be careful, Cork.”

  “Still praying for me?”

  “My knees are callused.”

  I walked back to the cantina. Sylvester was alone at the bar, watching another ball game, drinking his beer. I took the stool next to him.

  “Your former employer is on the warpath, looking for blood,” I said.

  “Whose?” His eyes didn’t leave the television screen.

  “Not sure. Maybe mine, maybe yours.”

  “Maybe that young man you thought was safe?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’re you going to do about it?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know. I just wanted to make sure you’re keeping your guard up.”

  Sierra came from the kitchen carrying a box of limes. “Didn’t hear you come back in. Still thirsty?”

  “I’m good, thanks. But I do have a question about that little trailer community north of town.”

  “Paradiso?” Her face clouded, just like a sky expecting a storm.

  “Who’s the toughest son of a bitch out there?”

  “Why would you ask a question like that?”

  “Do you have an answer?”

  She put the box of limes down behind the bar and shook her head. “You get yourself killed, I’m not taking any responsibility for it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Royal Diggs,” she said.

  “Royal?”

  She nodded. “Royal. Fits him. Rules the roost out there.”

  “Mean bastard,” Sylvester said.

  “Lots of tattoos?”

  “They all have lots of tattoos,” Sierra said.

  “Wouldn’t happen to wear a big ring on his right hand?”

  “Silver,” she said. “Face of a skeleton on it.” She eyed me suspiciously. “You’re not going out there.”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Take a gun if you have one,” she said. “Better yet, a bazooka.”

  She headed back to the kitchen. The door opened and two men walked in, their laughter harsh and loud. They took chairs at a table and one of them called out, “Sierra, where the hell are you, darlin’?”

  I said quietly, “We need to talk, Sylvester.”

  He gave a nod and said, “The El Dorado.”

  CHAPTER 32

  * * *

  I drove south out of Sulfur Springs, up to the El Dorado, and parked shy of the mine itself, on a high, cactus-covered flat where I could see the land sloping down into Mexico and the long, dark line of the border fence.

  A lesson from my earliest memories of my grandmother Dilsey, who was true-blood Iron Lake Ojibwe: Land is not insentient; it is possessed of spirit. Gazing down, I couldn’t help feeling that the fence and all it represented was a great violation of the spirit of the land. The mind-set that gave rise to the fence was a great folly, the idea that a thin wall of steel and the imaginary line it demarcated could stand against the tide that swept across the desert, which was the tide of time and changing circumstance. Politics were of a moment. Sentiments shifted. Nations rose and fell. Steel rusted and crumbled. But the desert and the flow of life across it would continue after that fence was nothing but scattered rubble among the cacti and the fear that built it was long forgotten.

  The clouds in the east had turned black and boiling. Far in the distance, lightning stabbed at the ground. Sylvester’s truck turned onto the winding road up to the El Dorado, and I watched it approach and park next to mine. The old prospector got out and joined me where I stood surveying the country below.

  “Better make it quick,” he said, nodding toward the coming monsoon storm.

  “I thought the people that beat me up were after Peter,” I said. “I thought they were White Horse. And maybe they are, but I’m beginning to think that’s not why they wanted Pete
r.” I waited a moment, watched the lightning throw white pitchforks. “You said you stopped working for Marian after you stumbled across Peter in one of the mines. What changed?”

  “He asked for my help. He wanted to file on the old claims himself and he wanted me to help him locate them.”

  “To what end? He wasn’t interested in mining, was he?”

  “Mining? Naw. His only interest was in keeping the people he brought across the border safe. He was hoping to string together a whole slew of sanctuaries, places only he knew about where he could bring people and keep them out of harm’s way while he put together more permanent places for them and arranged transport.”

  “Did Marian know he was filing on those old claims?”

  “Not much goes on in this county that Marian doesn’t know about.”

  “So he was competition for her?”

  “He has more old claims in his name now than she does.”

  “And you helped him. You’re lucky you’re not dead.”

  “Right back at you,” he said.

  “There’s another thing. The authorities think Rodriguez has been stockpiling drugs. They think he might be using an old mine for that. And I think, like you say, that not much goes on in Coronado County that Marian doesn’t know about, which would include the drug traffic.”

  He was quiet a moment. “Drugs and Marian? I suppose that could be true.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if maybe part of the reason Marian’s interested in those old diggings is that she thinks she might find more than just ore in one of them.”

  Sylvester nodded, as if accepting the possibility. “That woman’s got a streak of greedy in her wider than the Rio Grande.”

  “I’m thinking that if she’s actually involved in the drugs already moving through Paradiso, she might have the contacts to distribute a lot of product.”

  “Hell, if Rodriguez got wind of that, she’d be dead in a heartbeat.”

  “Unless Rodriguez was dead.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  I told him about the ambush in the desert in which Miguel Rodriguez had been killed and Carlos Rodriguez and Peter wounded.

  “I’m thinking maybe that ambush was just as much about getting rid of Rodriguez as it was getting Peter out of the way,” I said. “She eliminates Rodriguez, she can move the product he’s got stockpiled.”