by Ian Ballard
38
El Paso, 1992
From where he crouched beside the house, Arturo could hear voices. They were coming through the open kitchen window. But there was no woman's voice. Not a peep from Emilia at all.
Gary was the one talking. Speaking to one of his sons. With his poor English, Arturo couldn't make out much, but he caught a single important phrase.
“She's dead,” he heard Gary say.
The words struck Arturo like a blow to the stomach. He'd gotten there too late. In a way he'd known—known from the scream—that she wouldn't make it. It had been the sound of life ebbing away. But he'd pretended there was still a chance that something could be done. He'd barely known her, but those words, in their sudden and dismal finality, hit Arturo like a blow to the skull. For a moment, he just stood there, stunned and utterly disheartened. Who was this monster who could do these things? And in his own home with his children watching? It was almost too much to believe.
Emilia was gone, but Raul and the other workers in the bunkhouse were depending on him. He had to pull himself together and put a stop to this. He was trying his best to stay calm. To keep his hands steady and his head cool. So he could stay clear and do the smartest thing. But for the moment he was stuck there beside the house. He couldn't risk running back over to the shed in plain sight of the kitchen window. He'd have to wait until he was sure they weren't watching. And there was no telling how long that would be. Maybe he'd wait until they were all asleep again and creep inside the house and plant the ax in the middle of Gary's heart.
On second thought, his head was probably the more vulnerable target.
The question was whether that bastard was so remorseless that he could sleep after what he’d done. Arturo hoped so, as that would make the revenge both easier and more deserved. He'd never hurt another person in his life—but Arturo knew he could do away with Gary without the slightest hesitation.
Several minutes passed. There were still voices but they were fainter now. From other parts of the house.
Then suddenly, he heard the front door being flung open.
Squatting even lower down, Arturo peered around the corner and saw Gary descending the front steps. Draped over his shoulder was Emilia's limp, nightgown-clad body—her legs sticking out in front of him, while her head dangled lifelessly down his back. Arturo could only stare in bewildered horror when he saw that one of the woman's hands had been cut off at the wrist.
Gary lugged the body around to the rear of the Ford, brought the tailgate down, and with some effort, stepped up into the back of the vehicle. Metal creaked beneath the heavy load. Still supporting the body, Gary used his free hand to pry up a panel on the left side of the flatbed. This revealed one of the truck's hidden compartments—with which Arturo was well acquainted, having been smuggled across the border two months before while concealed in one.
With the panel drawn back, Gary slid Emilia off his shoulder and lowered her into the coffin-sized recess. He then replaced the panel and battened it down with a latch along the side. Arturo felt his stomach turn, seeing how matter-of-factly Gary went about what was apparently for him a routine task. The next instant, Gary hopped gingerly down from the flatbed, raised the tailgate, and got behind the wheel. The engine turned over and started up.
Mierda. Arturo realized he should have attacked Gary from behind when he was loading the body in. But it happened so fast and Arturo was so shocked by what he was seeing, the thought only now crossed his mind.
This wasn't good at all. Gary was going to get rid of her body, which he'd probably accomplish with the aid of those creatures at the bottom of the well. If so, within minutes he'd see the broken lock on the barn and he'd know that the ranch's secret was out. Once that happened, he'd come after all of them. Everyone who could have witnessed anything. There was no doubt, given what he now knew about Gary. And the alligators would eat well tomorrow.
Arturo tried to think it all through. With Gary in the truck, attacking him with the ax was hopeless. What's more, Gary would catch wind of everything and commence the massacre before Arturo could even make it to the bunkhouse and alert the others. The outlook was grim indeed.
Arturo was fully expecting Gary to drive off any instant, potentially sealing the fate of every last man on the ranch. Instead, however, something truly remarkable happened. Arturo almost released a cry of joy when he saw it. Rather than departing, Gary opened the driver's side door and abruptly got out. What he intended was unclear to Arturo, until he began patting down his pockets, evidently searching for something. Then it dawned on Arturo—he was looking for the key to the barn. Apparently not finding it, Gary turned and headed back into the house.
Arturo grasped that this would be his only chance, and instantly upon seeing the storm door close, he sprang out from behind the house and raced toward the idling Ford.
His heart pounded. So much was hanging in the balance. As for his son, he’d be safe, as long as he stayed put. But the men in the bunkhouse might still be in grave danger. It all depended on how Gary reacted. He might flee or chase after Arturo in the household's other vehicle. Or he might just decide to kill all the other workers out of spite or just because he could.
As Arturo slid behind the wheel, thoughts like that last one were making him second-guess himself. Maybe the other workers would have had a better chance if he'd raced to awaken them, instead of going to the police. But no—it had to be this way. If he didn't go, it could mean that no one would escape. Gary could cover it up and do it all over again. That was the one thing Arturo couldn't let happen.
The truck was in drive and he was turning it around. Seconds later, he was gunning it toward the main gate. In the rearview mirror, a confounded Gary rushed out onto the porch. His lips were mouthing curses in the air. In the last instant before Gary vanished from sight, Arturo could have sworn the two of them locked eyes.
*
The shed where his father had left him was dark and smelled like mold. Raul kept bumping into things, gardening tools, maybe, that slid over and clattered on the ground. His face got tangled in a big cobweb, and he frantically brushed off the clingy strands, hoping the owner wasn’t around.
He found himself saying little prayers. For his father and for the others in the bunkhouse and for Emilia—though the way her scream sounded, his prayers for her may have come too late.
If anyone could stop Gary, it was his father. He was the toughest and bravest person Raul had ever met.
But what if Gary just couldn't be stopped? After all, who knew how many Fernandos and Estebans had come before? And apparently none of them had ever escaped or else Gary would be locked away by now.
Raul pictured bodies disappearing in pieces down the well. If his father wasn't able to stop Gary, wasn't that where they'd all end up?
He needed to know what was happening out there—if his father was okay or if he needed help. Of course, Raul had promised him he'd stay in the shed. And he trusted his father that staying put was the best thing to do. Of course, Raul had to keep his word . . . but he could still do so, even if he snuck a little peek.
Thus resolved, Raul very slowly opened the door and set a trembling foot on the ground outside. Instantly, he heard something. Was it the rumbling of an engine?
He stuck his nose around the corner of the shed. The house came into view. To his astonishment, he heard the engine rev and saw the red Ford peel out, turn around, and accelerate toward the main gate. As the truck sped by, lamplights briefly revealed the driver's silhouette. Raul gave a gasp when he saw it was his father.
*
Gary slammed his fist into the storm door so hard, the Plexiglas cracked. He didn't know how the fuck this had happened, but someone had found out. Emilia must have been part of it, which was why she'd been sneaking around earlier. The particulars didn't matter much. The bottom line was that someone—probably the same someone who just stole the truck—found out about his little operation.
And if one of them knew, he
had to assume they all did.
The bottom line was that the jig was up.
Gary had always known these wetbacks would get him into trouble one day. They could fuck up a rock fight, as his mom used to say. He wanted to mull over the options, but there weren't many to mull. The cops were coming—he'd give them fifteen minutes tops—and he needed to get the fuck out of Dodge. No two ways about it. The Jeep in the garage was a little bunged up, but it would make a serviceable getaway car.
That being said, he wasn’t going anywhere until he had the cash and the loot from the safe. He'd be damned if anyone was gonna take that away from him without a fight. As for the rest of the spics—if there were even any left that hadn’t fled the property—teaching them a hard lesson would have to be worked into the departure plan. You couldn’t let a bunch of wetbacks drive you out of town without doing something about it. The Bible had its moments, but he'd never been a turn-the-other-cheek kind of guy.
Then there was the issue of the boys . . .
He gave the thick scruff on his neck a scratch.
They'd have to be left behind, he supposed. Kids weren't much use on the lam and they were old enough to fend for themselves. He'd send them off to deal with the Mexicans while he packed up and moseyed on out of there. By noon tomorrow, he’d be sitting pretty on a beach in Mexico, Corona in hand—thinking about whatever people think about when they've got nothing on their mind. Yeah, he liked the sound of that. But he needed to get it in gear.
He went back in the house and called Luke and Tad out of their rooms. Both boys appeared in the hall, and he told them what had just happened.
“Which one of the Mexicans was it?” Tad asked.
“Don't know. Don't care,” said Gary.
Luke looked worried. “What are we going to do, Dad?”
“We're all going to fry, that's what,” Tad said with a smile.
“No, we're not,” said Gary. “First of all, they're not going to catch us. And second of all, Texas doesn't have the electric chair anymore.”
“I was speaking metaphorically, Pops,” Tad said. “I know we'd die by lethal injection.”
“We'll try to avoid that, if at all possible,” Gary said. “Now here's the plan and this is important, so listen up. You two are gonna work as a team and help me take care of any of those sonsofbitches that are left in the bunkhouse. Are you guys willing to help me out with that?”
“Of course,” Luke said.
“Tad?”
Tad smirked. “Yeah, no problem.”
“Good. Now Luke, I’m gonna need you to go into the kitchen. In the drawer next to the fridge there’s a big padlock with the key in it. Take it and grab one of my Bic lighters, and then wait for Tad by the front door. Comprendo?”
Luke nodded. “What are we gonna do to them?”
“We're gonna burn these fuckers up,” said Gary. “Now get a move on—we only have a couple of minutes.”
Luke scrambled off toward the kitchen.
“Okay, Tad,” Gary continued. “You’re gonna take a couple of gas canisters from the garage. Make sure they're full. Then, get your brother and hustle over to the bunkhouse. Be real quiet though—'cause hopefully they're still asleep. Put the padlock through the outer latch and lock 'em in. Then pour the gas—”
“I get it. It’s not rocket science.”
“Listen—pour the gas but don’t light it yet. I don’t want it going up till we’re ready to get out of here. When you hear me honk, torch it. I’ll pick you guys up on your way back. In the meantime, just stand guard and wait. Got it?”
“Got it,” said Tad. “But where are we going?”
“California,” Gary said. “I’ve got a couple of distant cousins there.”
He held his son's eyes. There was something strange in the way Tad looked at him. Was it sadness? An inkling of betrayal? He wasn't sure if his son suspected something or if it was just his imagination.
Gary grabbed his son by the shoulder as he turned to go. “And go get that .357 out of my nightstand. You might need it.”
Tad turned and disappeared into Gary's bedroom.
“Nothing to it, but to do it,” Gary said to himself as he crossed the hall and went into the study.
The room was still drenched in red. Who would have guessed little Emilia had so much blood in her? He put the ledger back into the bottom drawer, then pulled the entire drawer out and free of its hinges. There was enough incriminating shit in there that it'd be worth his while to take it with him. Better to be suspected of a couple of murders than thirty-five.
Gary opened the garage door and set the desk drawer on the floorboard of the Jeep. He stepped out of the garage and scanned the horizon for any sign of police. Nothing. To his right he saw the dim outlines of Tad and Luke slinking off toward the bunkhouse, each awkwardly lugging a canister of gas.
This was probably the last he'd see of them.
Gary had never had much problem with Luke, so there was some regret about leaving him behind. Tad, however, was a different story. He was a bad seed, from day one. His mind was fucked up, broken in a way Gary would never understand. If you killed a few workers here and there to help your bottom line, that was business. But killing people to see them suffer, that was sick.
He was partially to blame, he supposed. Giving them too much freedom and too little guidance in the years since Garrett and Rose did each other in and converted this into a single-parent household. But the even bigger mistake was taking Tad into his confidence in regards to the “family business.” If someone didn’t think a kid's influence could be that pernicious, they didn’t know this kid. Over a three-year span, the ranch had gone from an occasional killing under very select circumstances, to what was basically a death camp on a budget.
Even the alligators were the kid's idea. Tad had thought of it after he shoved a drunk into Lagartos Fountain late one night when they were down in Juárez recruiting ranch hands. Tad had watched the dying man with utter absorption. The kid’s eyes had twinkled, like a normal child's on Christmas morning. Later Tad had said, “If we had a couple of those, you'd never have to dig another grave.” A few bribes to city officials and a custom-made carrying case, and the rest was history.
At that moment, Tad and Luke disappeared over the first hill. So long, Buckaroos. Good or bad, they were still his children.
Aware that time was of the essence now, Gary hustled back in the house and opened up the large safe inset in the floor beneath his nightstand. Inside were watches, wads of cash fastened with rubber bands, jewelry, and the IDs of “terminated” workers. Gary loaded everything into a black trash bag and dropped it all off in the Jeep. He was just about to drive off when he saw bad news pulling into the drive. A pair of headlights near the main gate. The blue-and-whites on top were switched off, but with the way it was creeping along, Gary instantly knew it was a patrol car.
He thought about just hopping in the Jeep and blazing out of there, but, then again, high-speed chases almost never ended well.
“Can I ever get a fucking break?” he muttered. Then with a reluctant sigh, Gary flipped off the garage light and strode back into the house to grab his rifle.
39
Mexico
After I part ways with Danielle and Silva, I drive across town and check into the Ambassador Hotel. Silva made me the reservation. He said it's where diplomats and heads of state stay when they're really keen on not getting killed during their visits. The massive white wall and gun turrets seem to lend credence to the proposition that security here is pretty tight.
I do my best not to fret about Danielle or second-guess my decision. Everything points to this being the safest option. And yet, every few minutes a jolt of panic will shoot through me, some morbid notion that I've made a terrible mistake and that I may never see her again. Yet, it’s my own demise that's far more likely to prevent our reunion than hers. At least there's consolation there. But there I go again with my glass-half-empty worldview. Wish I could cheer up and recogni
ze that the forecast is a hell of a lot sunnier now than it was a day ago.
In my room I log onto the NCIC Criminal History database and learn that the Shermans filed a report of kidnapping on January 19th, the day of the abduction. Good. At least that means they made it to the station. It had crossed my mind that they might not get that far, given Ropes’ proximity and all the attention he was paying to their home. Hopefully, they also heeded my advice on staying clear of the whole area.
A further relief comes when I see that no warrants have been issued in my name in any US county. Perhaps it's too early to say, but this may mean that investigators failed to link me to the physical description provided by the Shermans. Let's hope that my luck holds out. Ropes is an earnest enough pursuer without adding the Bureau into the mix.
I drop my immediate supervisor a line over e-mail, stating that I've returned to El Paso, where I'm suffering from a stomach bug so debilitating it's kept me from even writing till now. Perhaps this is a bit far-fetched, but it will at least prevent the Bureau from regarding me as a missing person.
A little after 5 p.m., Silva calls. His wife and our girls have been successfully sequestered away in what he attests is a very secure and comfortable hideaway. He says he'll be at the hotel in fifteen minutes so we can go check out the latest development—what he’s calling the “secondary crime scene.”
*
Silva picks me up in the Land Cruiser and we drive through town. I considered declining the invite, in view of my dubious legal status, but reconsidered. Until a warrant's issued, I've decided, I'm just going to go about my business. There's no point hiding from a threat that doesn't yet exist. Besides, if I want to help solve this thing, avoiding the rest of the force is hardly the way to do it.
Our destination is just outside the city. There's a lot of traffic because it's close to rush hour and the going is slow.