Wolf in the Shadows

by Marcia Muller

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry—it’s not that serious.” He took the jacket from me and arranged it over Mourning. “You better drive, though.”

  I got behind the wheel, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and started the engine. Hy climbed into the passenger seat. Without lights, I coasted onto the road and turned toward the village. Hy twisted around and looked behind us. “Fontes’s front yard is all lit up, but the auto gate’s still closed.”

  I flicked on the headlights and speeded up. Soon we entered the village. No police in evidence, no other activity. Its sidewalks were deserted, the lights of the shops muted. Only the stock-brokerage’s sign flashed; trading was up on the London exchange. I drove slowly, carefully, to the main highway. Turned north and pressed down on the accelerator.

  Hy had turned to look at Mourning.

  I asked, “How’s he doing?”

  “Asleep or passed out. Just as well.”

  “For now—but is he going to be able to make the crossing?”

  “He’ll make it,” Hy said grimly.

  For a while we drove in silence. Then he asked, “So what d’you want to do when this is over?”

  “Sleep.”

  “No, seriously …”

  “Climb into the Citabria and fly away.”

  “Where?”

  “Anyplace where it’s quiet and relatively deserted. And for a good long time.”

  “What about All Souls?”

  All Souls! In our catching up, somehow I’d neglected to tell him what was going on there. “It’s not an issue,” I said. “I don’t work there anymore.”

  “What?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded. “They were going to force me into a desk job—a promotion, they called it. I hated the idea, but was considering it because I didn’t want to leave. Then before I could give them an answer, I took off to look for you. They found out, so here I am—unemployed.”

  “My fault.”

  “Why? I knew what I was doing. And maybe it’s not such a bad thing, in the long run. Maybe it’s time for a change.”

  “That’s what I said before I went to talk with Renshaw.”

  Again we fell silent. The lights of Ensenada appeared, then receded in the rearview mirror. Traffic was light; I kept an eye out for a tail or a police car. Kept my speed down close to the limit.

  Mourning stirred, then struggled to sit up. “Got to puke,” he muttered.

  I pulled the car onto the shoulder, and Hy went to help him. After a while they returned, Mourning looking better.

  “Tim,” I said as he settled into the backseat, “do you know what kind of drug they’ve been giving you?”

  “Barbiturates of some sort.” He massaged his eyes. “I’ve been sleeping so much I don’t even know what day it is. And now I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me. That Salazar bastard broke my glasses.”

  “I know. It’s Sunday, June thirteenth … well, Monday, actually.” I waited for a truck to pass, then pulled onto the highway.

  “Christ,” Mourning said. “Almost two weeks.” He paused. “I really owe you people. RKI’s one hell of an outfit.”

  I didn’t respond to the latter comment, and neither did Hy, clearly as unwilling to go into the whole story as I was.

  Hy asked, “Have the drugs pretty much worn off by now?”

  “Yeah, except every move makes me feel winded and gets my heart pounding. And I’ve got a splitting headache.”

  Which meant he’d require a fair amount of assistance during our crossing. I said, “We’ll get you something for your headache. Try to rest now.”

  “Where’re you taking me?”

  “Tijuana, then San Diego.”

  Hy glanced questioningly at me.

  I shook my head. I didn’t want Mourning getting anxious about the way he’d have to cross the border yet.

  Tim asked, “Where’s Diane?”

  “In a San Diego hospital. Do you remember anything about her being shot?”

  He was silent. “I don’t remember much of anything,” he finally said. Then he lay down and closed his eyes.

  I looked at Hy. His expression was as puzzled as mine must have been. The man’s wife had been shot, but he didn’t ask about her condition. Granted, he had reason to hate her, but wouldn’t that make him all the more anxious to know how badly she’d been injured? And why wasn’t he interested in whether or not she’d been arrested?

  “Still in shock?” I mouthed.

  Hy shrugged and slumped against the door, his hand pressing his leaking bullet wound.

  Half an hour later the lights of Tijuana formed a glowing dome in the post-midnight sky. Tourist cities—sin cities, in some people’s opinion—never sleep. I said, “We’ll take Tim to Al Mojas’s house, get him some coffee and aspirin, maybe some food. Then one of us can return the car and take a cab back there.”

  “I’d better; it’s rented in my name. Besides, I want to check the border control. There’s still a chance we won’t have to go over the fence.”

  “You sure you feel up to that?”

  “I feel up to it,”

  “I don’t have to tell you to be careful.”

  “You don’t have to, but thanks, I will.”

  The streets of Colonia Libertad were as busy as if it were high noon. Children ran about, dogs barked, adults crowded the food stands or stood around trading shots of liquor. Many had the bundled look of would-be emigrants, wearing layer upon layer of clothing. I drove to the corner house with the palm tree and the statue of the Virgin Mary in its front yard, parked and left the keys in the ignition. Then I went to help Tim Mourning on the next step of his journey home.

  2:36 A.M.

  “I don’ know, I just don’ know.” Al Mojas sat across the rickety kitchen table from Mourning and me, shaking his head. The room had a linoleum floor so worn that its original color was indiscernible; pink paint was peeling off the walls in scales. On the iron cookstove, a pot of spicy tomato sauce simmered. Mojas’s wife, a heavyset woman named Nita, had been in and out of the room half a dozen times to stir it and offer us food. I’d declined because I wasn’t hungry; Mourning had said he didn’t feel well enough to eat. Nita fussed and kept pouring us more coffee until Al told her to get out and stay out.

  “What don’t you know?” I asked him.

  “You got a guy here”—he gestured at Mourning—“so stoned he can’t walk right. I’m all set to go when you get here, but now where’s the others? I tell you, this whole thing’s looking fuckin’ iffy.”

  “The other man’ll be here soon.” I glanced at Mourning, who leaned heavily on the table, mug of coffee in a death grip. I wasn’t sure he comprehended the situation, although I’d explained it to him after we came inside the house. “This one will make it just fine,” I added with far more confidence than I felt.

  “I don’ know,” Mojas said again. “You knocked my price way down. And now I got this dummy.” He shot Mourning a disapproving glance. “I think I better renegotiate.”

  “Look,” I said, “we have a deal.”

  He set his jaw stubbornly. “We got a deal, but I didn’t know about him. Somebody who can’t look out for hisself, it makes it more dangerous.”

  I’d promised him nearly all the cash I had, and coyotes didn’t honor Visa. “The deal stands,” I said flatly.

  Mojas folded his arms and looked at me.

  Mourning didn’t have any money on him. I was reasonably sure Hy had less than I did. Just how much did I have? I reached for my oversized purse, which Hy had retrieved from the beach in front of Fontes’s villa along with the camera. The camera …

  “Listen,” I said again, “I’ve only got about twenty dollars, but I can give you something valuable to make up for the additional danger.”

  Mojas looked at the purse, licked his lips. “What?”

  I opened the purse and took out the camera. “You can sell this for quite a bit—the lens and mount alone retail for over four hundred. Or you can keep it to u
se in your work. It’s not as good as the night scopes la migra use, but it’ll give you an edge.”

  Mojas reached eagerly for the camera. He put his eye to the scope, sighted around the room. “Oh, man,” he said.

  “Deal?” I asked.

  “Deal.” He got up and placed the camera on a cabinet behind him. Before he turned, I saw his hand caress it.

  I glanced at Mourning. He’d raised his head, was watching Mojas. For a man whose life was on the line, he seemed curiously placid. Maybe he didn’t comprehend how much danger lay before us. Or maybe the placidity was a side effect of his long confinement. Whatever the reason, this was not the man I’d read about in the newspaper and magazine profiles.

  A car door slammed in the street. Footsteps came up the walk. Mojas left the room and returned shortly after, followed by Hy.

  “Sorry I took so long,” Hy said.

  I asked, “Did you check the border control?”

  “Uh-huh. I didn’t see Salazar, but there’s a guy hanging around near the corridor that goes into U.S. Customs; I could swear I saw him coming out of his place on Island Avenue.”

  I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. On some level I’d still hoped we could just walk through the checkpoint like any returning tourists.

  Mojas was looking interested, but he merely asked, “Everybody here now?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “What about the other woman?”

  Hy and I exchanged glances. Mourning’s head was bowed over his coffee mug. Hy said, “She didn’t make it.”

  Mojas stood. “Then let’s get a move on. You bring the dummy.” He motioned at Mourning. The whole time we’d been in his house, he’d never once addressed Tim directly.

  Mourning didn’t seem to notice what Mojas had called him. He looked at Hy, then nodded obediently. Hy went over and helped him stand.

  I rose, hefting my bag.

  “No.” Mojas snapped his fingers, pointed at it. “Everything you need goes in your pockets. Stick the gun someplace where you won’t get blown away if you fall.”

  I set the bag on the table and opened it. Crammed my wallet and I.D. folder into my shirt pocket under Hy’s sweater. Stuck the gun in the waistband of my jeans. The rest of the contents—makeup, address book, comb—were inessential. At the last minute, though, I stuffed my Swiss Army knife and a piece of coral that I carry for good luck into the pocket of my jeans.

  When I straightened, Hy and Mourning were already leaving the room. Mojas looked levelly at me, then turned. I followed him—the man who claimed he always got his people through.

  Thirty-One

  3:11 A.M.

  We huddled together on the hard rock ground, only yards from the border fence. On the barren hillside behind us, fires had hours ago been doused. It was a chill moonless night, and stone silent. No one moved, no one spoke, yet I could feel the presence of the others who waited here. Their fear and urgency created a pressure that surged against the fence like floodwaters against a dam; soon it would burst over the corrugated steel panels, and we would be carried on its tide down into the canyons—to deeper darkness, danger, and, for some, death.

  In a hoarse whisper, Mojas said, “Them panels, they’re easy to climb. You grab onto them posts, pull yourself up and over. You”—he pointed at Hy—“better help the dummy.”

  I glanced at Mourning. Tim didn’t appear offended by the way Mojas spoke of him; instead he studied the coyote coolly, a scientist observing a member of a lower and somewhat repulsive order. He seemed more alert now, although I noted that this reactions were still slow.

  I asked, “Then what happens?”

  “You stick close behind me. Canyon’s maybe twenty feet ahead. Case you lose me, stay put; I’ll find you. Keep low. Those scopes la migra’s got, they pick up every move you make. A guy told me we glow on them—yellow, like gold.” He laughed bitterly. “Gold. That’s a good one, ain’t it? ’Course in a way we are gold to you people. You can’t do without us.”

  Mourning was still staring at Mojas. Now he asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “Hey, the dummy can talk! I’m sayin’ it because it’s true. We go over that fence, we work your fields, take care of your kids, do any kind of shit work you throw at us. Or you send your goods down here to our maquiladores, we sent them back finished. Where’d you be without our cheap labor?”

  “A damn sight closer to full employment for Americans.” Tim was showing some spirit, thank God.

  “Shit, man, don’t give me that. What you people do, you build a goddamn fence to keep us out, hunt us down like dogs in the canyons, but you sure don’t make any fuss when one of us buses your table in some fancy L.A. restaurant.”

  Mourning shrugged.

  “Okay, you don’t want to believe it, that’s your business.”

  We continued squatting there in silence. A cold wind whipped across the barren hillside, and I turned up my collar. Hy was pressing his hand to his arm, face pained. Bleeding again?

  Suddenly there was a stir farther down the fence line to our left. Running footsteps and then the clang of metal as dark figures scaled the panels. Mojas stood, looked. Shook his head as he squatted again. “Damn fools. La migra’s got a guy right over there on horseback.”

  “How can you see him?” I asked.

  “You make this crossing as many times as I have, you know where to look, what to look for. Piece of good luck for us, though. Most nights they don’t have more than eight or nine agents out here. Guys who just went over, they’ll keep that one busy for a while. What we’re gonna do is go the other way down the fence toward Smuggler’s Gulch.”

  He stood and began moving in a crouch, motioning for us to follow. When we got to the fence, we turned east. I brought up the tear, reaching out to touch the steel panels; they were icy and unyielding. My fingers felt scarcely warmer. I crossed my arms and hugged myself, tucking my hands against my sides.

  “More activity behind us. More clashing of metal back where the others had crossed. I started to look over my shoulder, but lost my balance and almost fell on the uneven ground. After that I kept my eyes straight ahead, focused on Mourning’s shoulders.

  The commotion behind us escalated. Feet slapped and stumbled on the other side of the fence now. I heard someone curse, someone else cry out. There was a thud and a child began to wail. The dam had burst; an unchecked stream of bodies spewed across the border and flooded the canyons. Propelled by fear, by need, by sheer recklessness, they surged forth and inundated the forbidden territory.

  Mojas held up his hand and we stopped, squatted again. “Let’s give la migra a chance to get real busy.”

  I looked at Hy; he was still pressing his wound. When he looked back at me, his smile was edged with pun. Mourning squatted to Hy’s right, myopic gaze unfocused. He might have been getting his fear under control or contemplating his own mortality or merely zoning out. There was no way to tell what he might be thinking, no way to tell how he’d handle himself once we made our move.

  The commotion on the hillside was dying down. Someone shouted in the nearby canyon, the unintelligble words echoing as they rose. Mojas stood.

  “It’s time.”

  I shot to my feet, adrenaline pumping. Hy rose more slowly, grasping Mourning’s arm and helping him.

  “Up and over,” Mojas told us. “When you hit the ground, keep going downhill. You’ll come to a clump of bushes. Wait there. When I know it’s okay, we’ll run into the canyon. It’s real steep. Halfway down, there’s a buncha rocks. We’ll stop again, then move slower. I click my fingers, you follow. I stop, you stop. No talking till we get through to this big drainage pipe off Monument Road. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I said.

  Hy and Mourning nodded.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Up and over: not so easy as Mojas claimed. Fence posts icy, panels slick. A foothold gained, lost, regained. Halfway up, I slipped. Slid back to the ground, wrenching the arm that grasped the post.

&
nbsp; Mojas was already on the other side. Hy straddled the top, hauling Mourning up. I grabbed the post, started climbing again. Lost my footing and gritted my teeth in frustration.

  Clinging to the post, I planted my right foot more securely. Brought the left up. Climbed carefully. Finally my fingers touched the top. I got a good hold, pulled with every bit of my strength.

  Palms flat on the top now, pushing. Torso rolling forward, legs following. For a moment I teetered there, then lost my hold and plummeted downward. Onto American soil.

  Home, yet not home. In a no-one’s-land full of dangers both known and unknown. Bandits didn’t discriminate against American citizens; neither did crooked coyotes and Tijuana cops.

  I’d hit hard on all fours; now I pushed up, looking around for the others. Nothing but darkness, the night so black I couldn’t see more than five feet in front of me. I ran downhill blindly, stumbling over stones, skidding on pebbles.

  Shadows ahead now, the slope steeper. I fought for balance, pitched forward. Put my hands out and plunged into a stand of dry, prickly vegetation.

  A hand grasped my arm, kept me from falling. Hy: I couldn’t see him, identified him by the rough weave of his wool jacket. My breath came in gasps. I got it under control as I waited.

  After a moment I heard Mojas snap his fingers. He moved out—a blur darting downhill. A second blur followed: Mourning. I nudged Hy; he went ahead of me.

  Another stop: the rocks. Another wait. Another snap of the fingers.

  We moved more slowly now, in a zigzag path. The ground got steeper, rockier; the vegetation grew thicker. The sky was an inverted black lacquer bowl above the canyon. Cactus spines pierced my clothing.

  There were night creatures down here. Scorpions, coyotes— the real kind. Rattlers, too—

  Don’t think about them.

  There were other people down here; I could sense their presence, hear small telltale noises. Pollos, badly frightened. Their coyotes, who had been known to turn on their own customers for a few pesos. And the bandits—

  Don’t think about them, either.

  And la migra—God, I’d started to look upon our own border patrol as my enemy! But in a way, they were. If they picked us up, they’d want to know what we were doing out here. If we explained about the kidnapping, they’d want to know why the FBI hadn’t been called in. Besides, hadn’t I read somewhere that the border patrol had been accused by a human-rights organization of excessive abusiveness?