by CJ Shane
Desert Jade
A Letty Valdez Mystery
C.J. Shane
Copyright © 2017 C.J. Shane
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher and the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and not to be construed as real.
Published by Rope's End Publishing
ISBN:
978-0-9993874-0-5 hardcover
978-0-9993874-1-2 trade paperback
978-0-9993874-2-9 epub
978-0-9993874-3-6 mobi Kindle
e-book formatting by bookow.com
Acknowledgments
I send my sincere and heartfelt thanks to the following individuals who helped make Desert Jade a reality: to Ed Szeremet for his lovely cover photo. See more Ed’s work at desertargonaut.com; to Lynne East Itkin (lmeastdesign.com/) and Ryn Shane-Armstrong (rynshanearmstrong.com) for very excellent cover design; to Steve Passiouras at Bookow for making everything easier; and to Diane C. Taylor (dianesfusedglass.com). When Diane isn’t creating fused glass art, she is an amazingly skillful copyeditor and proofreader who made Desert Jade a much better book. Thanks, too, to those individuals who kindly helped me with cultural and language questions. Finally, my deep appreciation goes to those Indiegogo supporters who brought Letty Valdez to life.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
For More Information
Chapter One
Mid-December: Chukut Kuk District, Tohono O'odham Reservation, Pima County, Arizona
The girl watched the footprints fade away into nothingness in the sandy soil. Looking left and right, and then back from where she'd come, she searched carefully for any sign of human passage. There was always hope that she might pick up their trail again. It had been early morning since she'd actually seen the others. As she fell behind, she began following their footprints, thinking that she might catch up with them when they stopped for a rest.
Now she knew that would not happen. There was no sign of them. She knew now that she was lost – lost and alone in this strange desert place. Taking one step, then another, she continued walking slowly toward the north. She followed a low, wide area that looked like it might have once held a stream of water. Now the dirt was completely dry and very sandy. Scrubby sad-looking trees with thin green limbs and feathery leaves were scattered here and there across her field of vision. They were nothing like the tall, vine-covered trees with thick clouds of emerald green leaves in her faraway mountain home. And it was so quiet here. She could hear only a soft breeze and the occasional cry of a hawk.
The sun inched higher in the sky. Despite the fact that it was winter now, the low desert seemed warm to her, almost hot. The sun was intense and so much hotter than her mountain homeland so far to the south. She pulled her red-striped cotton rebozo, her shawl, around her head to shield her eyes from the intensity of the light. Soon it would be noon and time to eat again. She had a little food left in her bag, but she wasn't hungry. She was thirsty. Really thirsty.
Water. That was the problem. Her water bottles were empty. She drank the last ounce over an hour ago. She was thirsty again. Again? She'd never stopped being thirsty since she came into this godforsaken desert.
What she would give to be home again in the highlands, to step into one of the mountain streams and immerse herself in the cool water, to float lazily in the pools, to try to catch a fish in her hands, to play hide-and-seek with her little brothers among the rocks on the banks of the river.
She shook herself and mentally said no. She must not think of that cool, pleasing wetness in this unbearably dry, sun-drenched desert.
For the thousandth time, she thought instead of the one who brought her and the others across the border in the night. The coyote. That's what the smuggler called himself – a coyote. He told her and the others that the barbed wire was the border. He led them across a six-strand barbed wire fence about two in the morning. The coyote said the fence marked the place where Mexico became America.
What did migrants know? It could have been the back pasture of some Mexican farm for all she was concerned. In the faint light of a crescent moon, it all looked the same. The only thing pleasing in this dry desert country was the sky. She had never seen so many stars. There must have been a million or two million glittering in the inky black sky. There were more stars than all the saints in heaven. And it was cold. When the sun went down, the temperature dropped rapidly, and she struggled to stay warm.
She took more steps, slower now. Al norte. That's all she knew. She was going al norte.
There were fourteen of them in the group. They had all paid their hard-earned cash to the coyote to lead them away from La Migra, out of sight of those border agents in their green uniforms and white trucks. She paid him all that hard-earned money saved by her family to lead her to safety, to an American city, to a job and to riches beyond her wildest dreams.
She imagined filling an envelope full of money and sending it to her papa. He would know what to do. He would go to see a doctor and buy himself some medicine and perhaps then he could get well. Her mama would go to the market and buy food, lots of food. Masa harina for the tortillas, avocados, and frijoles, and chiles, and maybe even some cheese and some meat, too, to put in the soup. Everyone in her family would have enough to eat and then a second helping if they wanted it.
Her brothers and sisters would have shoes for the first time in their lives. Maybe they could buy books and pencils and notebooks and go to school down in the valley for the first time. Maybe they could have a toy or two. Yes, she would buy a doll for each of her sisters. That would make them very happy.
When she came home to visit from her job in the city, she would wear a beautiful pink dress. She would paint her nails pink and wear pink lipstick like the models in the magazine she saw once. She would invite her brothers and sisters and all her cousins, maybe even all the other children in the village. She would invite them to go with her to Sylvia's corner store for an ice cream, and she would pay for everyone.
She was the oldest. She would show her brothers and sisters and all the other children how brave and bold she was. She would tell in great detail the tale of her two-week journey north, of crossing the border in the night, of the long, long walk through the sunny desert, of finding a job in the city, and of sending money home. They would be very proud of her.
On the night that she first gathered together with the others in the little border town, when they met the coyote for the first time, he told them that it was only a two-hour walk to Tucson. She knew even then that he was lying. She could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. So she put in two extra plastic bottles of water and a little extra food. Her bag would weigh more, but she accepted that. She knew she might need all that water. She was right. She needed that and a whole lot more.
Mentiras, mentiras, mentiras. Lies, lies, lies, she said to herself in time with her footsteps. Men-tir-as, men-tir-as. Uno-dos--tres. Men-tir-as. Uno-dos-tres. Men-tir-as. Two hours walking to Tucson, she laughed derisively.
She'd been walking now for three days in this great light-filled desert that was too dusty and dry in the day and too cold in the night.
May the Holy Mother curse him for his lies, she whispered to herself.
The coyote smuggler was long gone, of course. He had disappeared before the light of morning on the very first day.
They crossed over the border in the night and kept going well into the first day until they were too tired to take more steps. They rested in what shade they could find under the miserable thin little trees, then they moved on in the late afternoon and into evening until exhaustion overtook them. The evenings were the best. It was cool then, but not cold. The stars in the black sky seemed like tiny fishes swimming in a deep dark lake. So many more stars than in the misty mountains where she came from. But then the cold came seeping in, and she struggled to stay warm.
On the second day, the group began to fall apart. They stretched out over a mile, following the wide, low rocky wash that held water only in the most violent of summer monsoon rain storms. She'd been told about the monsoon storms, about their wild fury, about how there was no place to go to seek shelter. She'd been warned to get out of the washes quickly if there was any sign of rain upstream. The deluge could come upon her suddenly and wash her away to her death. She found it hard to believe that so much water could appear so suddenly in this desert. And yet that is what some in her group told her, the ones who had made crossings before this one.
The group broke into smaller and smaller groups on that second day. They began to trudge along either alone or in couples. One woman ahead of her was carrying an infant. To die in the desert with your child was a great tragedy, she thought. She was grateful that she at least was spared the agony of seeing a child go silent and shrivel from no water. She thought of her little brother Diego. He was twelve and thought himself old enough to go north. He'd begged her to take him with her. She was so glad now that she had refused. I will send for you, she promised him. If she died in this hellish place, at least her parents would lose only one child.
Ay ay ay, she whispered to herself. Just for one cold drink, no, not cold, just a drink of water. It need not be cold. The juice of the pineapple, licuado de piña, thick and wet, eating a peeled mango on a stick, the juice dripping down her chin. Yes. Pink wet melon in the summer evenings. Spitting out the seeds. Un cafécito in the morning, jugo de naranja at lunch, She asked for none of that. Just a simple cup of water from the stream above where the women washed their clothes on the rocks – that’s all she wanted. The light shone on the water and butterflies skimmed over the surface even now. She could see it there just beyond her reach.
Ahead for miles and miles, she could see only more of the same. Now it was midday. The heat created shimmering waves of light on the horizon. It looked like a lake of water. There was no lake. The ones who had been here before told her about that, too – the mirages of water where there was no water at all. They told her that she could walk for miles seeking the mirage, but she would never find it.
She sighed again and wished that she'd never left her home, never left her mama and papa and little brothers and sisters. Would they know what had happened to her if she never returned? Perhaps she should be praying to the Virgin for deliverance or, better yet, Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. Yes, Saint Jude, because she was certain now that she would die in this place. Only a miracle could deliver her.
No, I must not give up. I will not die in this place.
Her muscles were cramping. Yes, she needed a little rest in the shade. Just rest now beneath this skinny green tree with its skinny, skinny leaves. Even the leaves try to hide from the sun. Almost no shade. Dios mio.
She began to sing an old folk song from the Revolution taught to her by her old great-grandfather. He knew. He knew the song and the Revolution. He knew Emiliano Zapata. He fought with the Zapatistas before Emiliano was gunned down.
"La cucaracha, la cucaracha. Ya no puede caminar." Her voice sounded thin and weak, even to her. She giggled. If she had a cucaracha right now, she would eat that little cockroach, six legs and all. Maybe the little cucaracha would be full of water. She giggled again at the idea of drinking water from a bug.
Far away to the east, she could see a range of purple mountains on the horizon. Clouds caught on the peaks and relieved themselves of their water burden. Rain. Rain. What would it be like to stand there in the rain clouds and feel the wet all around you? To open your mouth and let it fill with raindrops? Her throat hurt.
Would her mama know that the angels had carried her away from this hell into a heaven of lakes and rivers, to the mountaintop and into the rain cloud?
Dios mio! So thirsty. Although it took considerable effort, she again searched her woven bag. She removed the cap from the last water bottle and lifted the bottle it to her lips. One drop fell onto her tongue.
She sang again. "Ya no puede caminar. Por que no tiene. Por que le falta. Marijuana que fumar." Her voice floated away in the dry wind. She thought she heard someone giggling again at the amusing words. She tried to look around to see if someone was there, but she was too weak.
Time passed. The sun moved around to begin its descent toward the western horizon.
She leaned against the palo verde tree which gave her a patch of wispy shade. Her eyes closed after a while. She was so thirsty. She fell into unconsciousness.
***
The cool touch of a wet cloth on her face woke her. She opened her eyes.
He was here. The Angel had arrived. Come to take her away, away from the desert to the mountaintop rain cloud. Take her to heaven. He was watching her with his dark eyes and waiting for her to wake up and go with him.
She tried to smile and speak to him, but she was so weak and so thirsty.
The Angel was not what she expected. He did not look like the angels painted on the walls of the old church in the valley where she took her first communion. He looked like an indio with his black eyes and long black hair tied back with a strip of cloth. His skin was brown like the men in her village. He had no wings like the angels painted on the church wall. He wore blue jeans and a cotton shirt.
So what does that matter? So what if he wore a cowboy hat? Who was she to say what an angel should look like? Do angels ride horses now? Are angels young, dark-eyed and brown-skinned, and handsome, too?
She smiled at the thought of an angel galloping off to heaven on the back of a horse. In the native language of her childhood, she muttered a greeting to the dark Angel. Then she closed her eyes. Vague consciousness gave way to a soft sound of whirling wind as darkness enveloped her again, and her body slumped backwards against the tree.
***
Eduardo Ramone dismounted gracefully from his mare. He pulled his sunglasses from their precarious perch on his hat and slipped them into his shirt pocket. Removing his pack from the saddle, he retrieved a bottle of water, the last full one. All the while he never took his eyes from the girl lying beneath the palo verde tree. The water bottle, and two more just like it, had been much cooler when he started out from his grandmother's place. Now the water in the bottle was getting tepid and well on its way to becoming warm. Just right, he thought. Too cool would be bad for her.
Before he had approached her, he looked around to see if there were other migrants nearby. He could see no footprints other than hers. Not wanting to stir up rattlesnakes and get himself bitten, he carefully scanned the ground around her, and listened for a warning rattle. Snake-bitten meant he would be of no use to her at all. He saw and heard nothing. He stepped toward the girl.
A young one. He guessed mid- to late-teens, even younger than his nineteen years. He shook his head slightly. Seems like these border crossers are getting younger and younger, he thought to himself. More and more females, too. It used to be just the men that came north. Now it's the women, often with children. Sometimes he saw entire families driven by the desperation of poverty to leave life in their villages and go north.
; The law said that he was supposed to report the illegals to the Border Patrol. Mostly he didn't. If they weren't in trouble from heat and lack of water, Eduardo figured that he'd leave them to their fate. He replenished their water, and he told them where to find the water stations that had been put up by Tucson humanitarian groups. He pointed them in the right direction to wherever they said they wanted to go.
But if the migrants were in trouble, too sick and too dehydrated to go on, then he called the reservation police or the Border Patrol. There was no other option. They would die if he left them out there in the desert. The Border Patrol deported them, of course, after they were full of water and on their feet again. The migrants would wait a day or two on the other side, and then they would try again to cross the border in the dark. Maybe the next time they'd have more luck, and make it to the cities and to the waiting jobs.
Eduardo squatted on his heels next to the girl and looked her over. He watched the rise and fall of her chest and saw that her breathing was rapid and shallow. His long brown fingers reached out and touched her cheek and brow. She was too warm. She looked very dehydrated.
Once, only once in the hottest month, the month of June, he found a man who was too far gone. Eduardo was still haunted by the experience. The man's skin felt like fire, a fever beyond belief, when Eduardo touched him. The man was middle-aged, small, dark-skinned, babbling in Spanish, out of his mind with delirium, his brain and organs cooking inside his body. The man had gone into convulsions and died before Eduardo could get him to medical aid. Eduardo frowned and shook his head to clear it of the specter.
This one, though, it looked like she wasn't so far gone. Maybe Eduardo could save her. Just maybe.
She was pretty, too. Long dark hair, dusky skin. Looked like a native, just like himself. Not O'odham. Not a desert Indian. Probably she was from one of those southern tribes in Mexico or even farther south, Guatemala maybe. Her simple cotton clothing told him little more than that she was a peasant. Full cotton print skirt, simple white blouse, red rebozo, a hand-woven bag with long shoulder strap, and some cheap canvas shoes.