by Ian Ballard
This situation illustrated well one of the problems with wetbacks. They had an inborn tendency toward nosiness. Always fucking worried about everyone else’s business. And suspicious too, with that skeptical squint they always had in their eyes, like they didn’t quite know how, but they were sure you were trying to pull a fast one on them. And to think when he was growing up, people used to say they were gullible.
Try as he might, he’d never been able to cultivate much sympathy for that crew. Dirty, nosy, and stupid didn’t exactly tug at the heartstrings. And the way he saw it, they'd gotten themselves into this mess anyway. If they were so dimwitted as to let themselves get duped, then they deserved the consequences. That was just natural selection in action, and he didn’t need to apologize for being its local agent in El Paso County.
Not that their stupidity meant his job was always easy. There were always unexpected twists you couldn't plan for. In the twelve years he'd been in business, things had gotten hairy maybe a half dozen times. But not once had a close call ever materialized into a legal entanglement. And wasn't that the true measure of risk management? Some of the credit for that perfect safety record had to go to Gary's meticulous nature. He wasn't one to brag, but he had a flare for organization. Perhaps you would even call it a gift.
Ever since his boyhood, Gary had been enthusiastic about record keeping. He loved receipts and keeping tabs on the change in his piggy bank. He’d prepared his parents' taxes when he was twelve years old. So, even if it were ill advised from a legal standpoint to record everything in the ledger, it was something he felt compelled to do. But worrying about evidence was for people who planned on getting caught. Negativity was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
If people—cops or the media—ever did find out about this little operation of his, they'd probably focus on the killing. Blow that aspect of it all out of proportion. It wasn't really that big of a deal. It wasn’t even interesting at this point. Just a routine part of the operation to make ends meet. He'd certainly never enjoyed it, the way his older son always had. In fact, the only fun part about it was hearing their last words. And he had to confess he was something of a connoisseur of these quaint, final utterances. He collected them like stamps.
The things they would say in those last moments, when it dawned on them what was what, were fascinating. There was more truth in those shocked exclamations than in whole volumes of philosophy. Not truth they intended, but truth about the world. He didn’t like to brag, but his experiences on the ranch had probably made him one of the world’s leading experts on Mexican oaths—and who knows?—maybe on death itself.
Their main emotion in those final moments, aside from fear, was outrage. The irony always seemed to escape them that they were all liars and cheats themselves who would have done the same goddamn thing to him if only they’d have thought of it first. But hypocrisy was a quality humans possessed in infinite reserves. It didn't dry up and blow away just because the shadow of death was suddenly looming over you.
*
Luke opened his door and saw his father standing there with a knife in one hand and a pair of oven mitts in the other. He was wearing the green apron Rose used to wear. The one that said “World’s Best Mom.” There was now a bloody handprint right in the middle of it. It looked fake, like the kind kids make when they're finger painting.
Luke wondered why some details, like the oven mitts, hadn't shown up in Movie Time. Was his brain like a TV that got bad reception?
Gary took off the apron, walked into the bathroom next to the kitchen and closed the door. Luke heard the water go on.
He wanted to see what his father had done to Emilia. He wasn't sure why. Maybe because of what had just happened with Movie Time or maybe just because it was Emilia. His father probably wouldn't want him to, so he'd have to just sneak over and take a peek.
He could hear his father splashing water on himself and making sniffling and grunting sounds. There was a lot of blood, and Gary was always real careful about cleaning everything up, so maybe Luke would have a minute or two. He walked over to the study and after a moment's hesitation, slipped inside.
There she was. Laying on her back in front of the desk. Her white nightgown soaked through with red. So bloody it made the cloth lay tight against the shape of her body. Almost like one of those wet T-shirt contests he’d seen on MTV Spring Break. There were ten or twelve deep knife slits scattered across her chest. They went up as high as her collarbone and down as low as her stomach.
The gown had a hummingbird on the front. A couple of the slits made holes through its colorful body. Luke reached out and ran his fingers over the small pierced bird.
He looked at her throat, expecting to find two large slits there. In Movie Time, he'd seen two huge holes open up. Blood had been gushing out. But all he saw there now was brown unbusted skin. Where had the holes gone?
He ran his hand slowly across her face from her forehead to her chin, carefully, the way a blind person would. As if he were recording her expression with his fingertips, so he could remember.
Her eyes were closed. Like she'd been praying or didn’t want to watch. He opened them with his fingers. There were some beads of water along the bottom. Tears.
She was so empty. The energy that had moved the tiny muscles in her face had all gone away.
He’d hoped when he looked at her, all the things he'd just felt in Movie Time would come back. But there was nothing left in her to feel. All the words—despair, terror, regret—whose true meanings she'd just taught him, felt as empty as her. As lifeless as a scrap of roadkill on the shoulder of the road.
Maybe the only way to really feel was to watch someone you cared about die in front of you.
Emilia’s arm was flung out to the side. Luke saw that her palm was crowded with slits where she’d tried to stop the knife. He had often held that hand. She would take his hand in hers when they’d walk somewhere. To the Loaf and Jug or the bus stop or the time they’d gone to the dog races. Sometimes she would grab it all the way around, and sometimes she would make the fingers interlace. She’d say it was to keep him safe. But sometimes she would hold his hand when they were just watching TV, without any reason at all.
The first time she’d done it, he’d looked at her, confused, and had pulled away. But later, when she’d reach for him, when her fingers would go between his, he wanted it. It made everything warm, inside and out, like tomato soup and a blanket. It felt like her hand could make them both invisible or make them float away like a magic carpet to another place. He didn’t want her fingers to ever undo. To ever let him go.
That gave Luke an idea.
He'd noticed in the past when he was drying off a drowned animal and putting back the pieces the way he'd found them, a weird thing would sometimes happen. Sometimes when he handled a cut-off paw or some other part, Movie Time would start up again.
True, it was a bit weaker and fuzzier than the live kind—sort of a knock-off version—but still Movie Time in spirit. Luke was so astonished the first time it happened he dropped the paw to the ground. Movie Time immediately stopped. He picked it up again. Again it started. He gripped the small paw in his hand, as thrilled as he was bewildered.
As he squatted next to Emilia’s body, Luke was staring at her hand. He pulled her arm toward him, carefully lined his fingers up with her fingers, her palm with his palm, and pressed their two hands together. Like he'd hoped, touching her hand made everything light up in his mind like when she was dying. Even all the new thoughts and emotions that had never been there before. He was back on board that terrifying roller coaster. His insides trembled and twitched. A bit weaker maybe, but still amazing.
As he pressed his hand to hers, he knew there wasn’t much time. Gary could come in at any second. But he knew what he had to do.
He could keep Emilia near him, keep her alive in his mind, and at the same time, have a way to escape the grayness of his thoughts. To visit the pulsing wonderful universe she'd just shown him.
&n
bsp; There was a way. But he’d have to be quick.
And he was going to need a knife.
37
Mexico
Danielle and I check out of the hotel around 9 a.m. and head east toward Juárez. A couple of hours later, we pull into a truck stop along the highway to grab a bite. Danielle seems to be in good spirits, all things considered. She shows a great affinity for chorizo tacos and Mexican ice cream. The ice cream tends to run down her chin. I embrace the role of monitoring these dribbles and wiping them off.
Attached to the restaurant part of the truck stop, there’s a small arcade with a few video games and some animal rides—the kind of ride kids cling to as if it were a horse, while the ride vibrates and jostles them about. There’s a duck, an alligator, and an elephant. Danielle crawls up on the duck and tells me to ride the alligator. I comply, despite looks of disapproval from several employees. After that, we play the game where you try to grab toys in an enclosed cube with a mechanical claw. Twice we have a large panda bear firmly in our grip, but at the last moment, it slips away and in the end, a terrible buzzer rings and we're left empty-handed.
While we’re at the truck stop, I buy a disposable phone and check my regular phone’s voice-mail. It’s been three days since I’ve been in contact with anyone from the Bureau, and I'm curious to find out how my employer is interpreting my absence. More importantly, I want to see if there’s anything to suggest I've been linked to the kidnapping.
The seven new messages are all business as usual, and nothing hints that I've been consigned to a fugitive status. However, the second-to-last message is very interesting, but for a different reason. It's from Agent Bloom, a profiler I had recently written to requesting advice on the Ropes case. He thinks the killings show a strong resemblance to those of a serial killer in the Western US called the Handyman.
I listen to the message again, but I’m not crystal clear on what he's getting at. Whether he's just saying the two killers share a common psychological profile or if he's proposing that an actual connection exists between the two? Obviously, the latter would be a far more remarkable insight. For a moment I consider calling him back, but decide against it for fear of having my location traced.
Next I call Silva. I pat Danielle's hand from across the table, while she polishes off a waffle cone.
Silva answers on the second ring, and I tell him it's me.
There’s a relieved sigh. “Jesus, Jake. I don't mean to sound like your mother, but you could check in a little more often.”
“Sorry about that, I've been trying to keep a low profile and stay off the phone.” At this point I switch over to Spanish, as some of the upcoming subject matter might not be suitable for Danielle's tender ears.
“You’re safe?” Silva asks. “Everything’s okay?”
“Alive and well, for the moment,” I say.
“What's the news?” he asks. “Where are you?”
I tell him everything that's happened, including the fact that I nabbed Danielle—her safety being in imminent peril—and that I may now be a fugitive as a result.
“Holy shit,” Silva says. “Might need a minute to wrap my head around all that. I mean, holy shit.”
“You said that already.”
“So you know for a fact it was him—that Ropes was north of the border?” He sounds bewildered.
“Yeah, as of yesterday. And he was keeping real close tabs on me all the while.”
“Did you shake him?”
“I was pretty watchful yesterday. I don't see how he could have followed me back across. But then again, I don't know how he managed to tail me in the first place.”
“So the girl's with you now?”
“Yeah, she’s right here.”
“I didn’t quite follow that part. Why was it necessary to take her along?”
Now I drop the next bombshell—that the girl in question, whose name happens to be Danielle, also happens to be my daughter. This unleashes another round of explicatives from Silva.
“I’ll be damned if I’ve ever heard of a case like this one,” he says. “It’s got more twists than a corkscrew.” He heaves a heavy sigh. “I'm just glad everyone's safe.”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “Look Silva, this situation—it's pretty messed up. And, well . . . I would understand if you wanted to stay clear of me right now. You know for legal rea—”
“Just save it, Jake,” he says, cutting me short. “No way and no how am I gonna cut and run on you or this case. I’m the one who got you fucking involved in the first place. And you're my friend and it's our fucking case. Till the bitter end. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“So stop with the sniveling,” he says, “and tell me what we need to do.”
“Here's the thing, Silva,” I say after a moment's pause. “At this point, I don't know that I can keep the girl safe.” My voice is full of emotion. “I don't want to admit that, but it's true. This guy's gotten close to me several times. There's no reason it couldn't happen again. My gut tells me not to let her out of my sight, but I know keeping her with me isn't a smart thing to do.”
“I follow what you're saying. But I'm not sure where that leaves us. . . .”
I hesitate. “Are there any options on your end?”
“To keep her out of harm's way?”
“Yeah. Just for a few days,” I say. “If our guy is taking these kinds of chances, we could be real close to cracking it.”
“That's no problem,” Silva says. “We've got safe houses all over the city. Witness protection is a huge concern with all our cartel cases.”
“And are they good? . . . I mean, are they one-hundred percent?”
“I think they’re pretty damn safe. Never heard of one being infiltrated yet. But, if we're worried, I can have a couple of patrolmen stationed there around the clock.”
“Yeah.” A huge sigh of relief. “I'd like that.”
“Actually,” Silva says, “I’ll do better than that. I could see how my wife and daughter feel about keeping Danielle company. I bet I could even pass it off as a vacation. How would that strike you?”
“That would be fucking amazing.”
“Starting tonight?” he asks.
“If you can swing it.”
“I’ll get on the horn and set it up.”
With that issue out of the way, we discuss a few other minor developments on his end, most of which deal with the candidates on his new suspect roster and some new information on the six Hispanic victims. I tell Silva about the message from Bloom on the possible tie-in with a serial killer in the Western US. He seems interested and I wish I had more to tell him.
“All I know is that the other killer is called the Handyman and that he’s active in the Western United States.”
“And what was the name of that profiler?”
“Bloom. Quentin Bloom. I'll get in contact with him, as soon as I can safely do so.”
*
Driving into Juárez, I tell Danielle about the safe house. She cries a bit and says she doesn’t want me to leave her.
“If you go to the trouble of kidnapping me, you shouldn’t just give me away the next day,” she says.
I tell her how important it is that we keep her safe and that it will probably just be for a couple of days. It won't be so bad, she says. She'll have Silva’s daughter to play with. She says she'll miss me.
Silva and I are supposed to meet at Diego's Taqueria on Lagartos Street. Danielle and I arrive a few minutes early and take a seat in a booth in the back. I study the other patrons, making sure no one I know from the department is present. Danielle eats some chips and sips a strawberry soda in a glass bottle.
A few minutes later, Silva arrives. I introduce him to Danielle.
Silva tells me the safe house is all set up. His wife and daughter are waiting over at the station, along with the two officers he's assigned to security detail. In a few minutes, he'll personally escort Danielle and her entourage over to the new pl
ace to ensure that they haven't been followed. We both agree it's better for me to remain unaware of the location—thus, precluding a worst-case scenario wherein I would be forced by the killer to reveal it. Finally, Silva reviews some of the safety measures he's put in place, including video surveillance and silent alarms, also noting the location's close proximity to a police substation, all of which make inroads in my qualms over the necessity of leaving her.
As we talk, I notice Silva seems jittery and distracted, which is at odds with his usually unflappable, if gruff, exterior. “What is it?” I ask. “Is all this finally wearing on your nerves, or is there something else on your mind?”
He glances at Danielle, as if hesitant to talk in front of her.
“En Espanol,” I say.
Silva nods and addresses me in Spanish. “We got a big break about a half-hour ago.”
“Out with it.”
“The dust is still settling, but it looks like we've found a secondary crime scene. No sign of our guy yet, but we think it's the place he used before and after.”
“What did it turn up?”
“Just heard about it. Don't know the details. Montalvo and Luna are having a look as we speak.”
“We should get over there as soon as we can.”
“Let me run them over to the safe house and once everybody’s under lock and key, we'll meet up and check it out ourselves.”
Outside the restaurant, I hug Danielle and tell her everything's going to be okay. She must be terrified, but she's being so brave. She makes me promise that nothing's going to happen to me. Even the smallest scratch and I won't be holding up my end of the bargain. I give my word, sincerely hoping that I'm able to keep it.
This is where we part ways.
She and Silva walk off toward the station and I stand for a moment watching them go. Danielle looks over her shoulder and waves to me. I hold her in my sight, following her with my eyes till the very last second. Then they round the corner and, all at once, she’s gone.