Badlands

by Jill Sorenson

  “I hope you don’t blame yourself.”

  “Who should I blame?”

  “Them.”

  He struggled into his wet shirt. The fabric was stained and torn, but no longer red. Most of the buttons were missing. “If I attack first, it’s not self-defense.”

  “I attacked Gardener,” she pointed out.

  “Gardener is still alive.”

  “If he wasn’t, would you blame me?”

  “No. You did what you had to do.”

  “So did you.”

  The comparison gave him pause. He seemed to consider her actions fair, while his were reprehensible.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said softly, touching his arm. He frowned at the sight of her hand on his skin, but he didn’t argue or pull away. She was glad they’d talked. It was a step in the right direction.

  “We need to get going,” he said. “I want to make it to the railroad by sundown.”

  “Won’t they follow us?”

  “They might, but we’ll have a good head start, and there are lots of places to hide along the tracks.”

  “I’ll wake up Cruz.”

  When she crouched down next to him, he rolled over on the rustling palm fronds. “Mommy?”

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” she said, smoothing his disheveled hair. “It’s time to leave. We’re going to see an old railroad.”

  Cruz loved trains, so this sounded like a grand adventure to him. While Penny helped him get ready, putting on his shoes and socks, he asked Owen a dozen questions. “Will there be a train to ride on?”

  “Not an operating train,” Owen said. “The tracks have been closed for years. But there are some abandoned railcars and rusted parts.”

  “Cool!”

  She reapplied the ChapStick to Cruz’s lips and face as well as her own. The dry wind sucked every ounce of moisture from their skin. Owen filled the canteen with water from the bottles. The sun was still brutal, burning hotter than ever. They put their headgear back on and set off into the distance like desert vagabonds.

  * * *

  SHANE RETRIEVED THE JEEP from the parking garage and grabbed some lunch with Dirk before heading back to camp.

  He clenched his hands around the wheel as he navigated the bumpy dirt roads, his anxiety growing. This job had been a clusterfuck from the start. He hadn’t wanted to take the kid, but they couldn’t just leave him behind. He’d put Gardener in charge of the girl because he was a dickless chump. Shane hadn’t trusted the other men with her.

  His mistakes with Owen were even more pronounced. Shane hadn’t felt like hitting his brother last night. He’d unlocked Owen’s cuffs this morning, assuming an unarmed man wouldn’t attack an armed one. Maybe he was getting soft.

  Since when did he care about women, or kids or brothers? He’d spent most of the past ten years in prison. He was scrubbed clean of feelings, empty to the core. His sole concern, other than getting paid, was getting out of this godforsaken desert alive.

  Fuck Salton. Fuck Owen. Fuck everything.

  “What did Ace say?” Dirk asked.

  “About what?”

  “Isn’t he mad?”

  “I told him I had it under control.”

  Dirk wasn’t stupid enough to dispute that, though he looked skeptical. Like Shane, he’d never even met Ace, but that didn’t stop him from making presumptions. Shane was tired of Dirk questioning his decisions and mouthing off. Dirk never knew when to shut up. Shane didn’t appreciate having his authority challenged.

  Shane turned his focus back to the road, annoyed. If things continued to go south, he’d blame Dirk—aka Derek Peters—and his dumb-ass brother. Dirk had recommended Jerome Gardener. Both Gardener and Brett were inexperienced and incompetent. Roach was Ace’s buddy, maybe his spy.

  Shane assumed that Roach would give Ace all of the details eventually. If Shane executed the plan, it wouldn’t matter. If he didn’t, he’d be screwed anyway. He entertained a brief fantasy of ditching Dirk and crossing the border.

  But, no. He couldn’t run.

  He could try to reel Sandoval in without the bait. That would be more difficult, because people liked to see what they were getting for their money. The main problem with failing to recapture the escapees was that they might not survive the desert. Owen was strong, much stronger than Shane had given him credit for, but a little kid and a spoiled rich girl didn’t have a chance out here. Water was scarce, and there wasn’t a damned thing to eat. Unable to provide sustenance, Owen would have to keep them moving. The heat was deadly, the sun brutal, and the terrain rugged.

  They didn’t call this the badlands for nothing.

  If the boy or his mother didn’t make it, Shane could be charged with murder. He refused to spend the rest of his life in prison, so surrendering wasn’t an option. Neither was running; Ace would hunt him down and kill him. He might even go after Janelle and Jamie. Shane’s choices were pretty much limited to death or success.

  When they got closer to camp, Shane tried to call Roach on his walkie-talkie. There was no answer, and no GPS signal registered.

  The lack of response didn’t surprise him. Nothing worked in this Bermuda-Triangle shit hole. Cell phones were useless. Even high-end communication devices didn’t function at full capacity in mountainous areas, and these walkie-talkies were middle grade.

  He tried again near the mud caves, to no avail. The batteries might be low or the transmissions were jammed. He wasn’t an expert in technology. Phones had changed so much in the past decade, he felt like an old man. The chick he’d visited last weekend had brought him up to speed in more ways than one. She wasn’t as hot as the picture she’d sent him in prison, but he hadn’t minded. She’d been energetic and eager to please. He’d worn her ass out.

  He’d also grown bored with her quickly. Listening to Janelle’s voice had reminded him that all women weren’t interchangeable. It was a shame that the best ones always seemed to require more work, because he was an instant-gratification kind of guy.

  “I’m still not getting a signal,” he said, staring at the blank screen.

  “That’s not good.”

  Shane felt a prickle of unease. Owen had taken Brett’s walkie-talkie and turned it off. Had Roach met a similar fate? The last thing Shane needed was another man with a gunshot wound to deal with. “I told him to follow at a distance,” he said, shaking the device. “Doesn’t anyone fucking listen?”

  “You can track his movements,” Dirk said, taking the walkie-talkie. He fidgeted with the buttons, bringing up a map and coordinates.

  Shane was confused by the information. “That’s where he is now?”

  “That’s where his last signal was transmitted from.”

  He couldn’t get there by driving, so they exited the Jeep, bringing their hats and a jug of water. It was a bitch of a hike. The sun was relentless. Shane and Dirk had kept in shape by lifting weights in prison, but heavy muscles were more of a hindrance than an asset here. Dirk, with his gorilla-like frame, had even more trouble. The extra bulk slowed him down.

  After what seemed like hours, Shane spotted a cluster of palm trees at the summit. He vaguely remembered visiting a pool of water here as a kid. There were a handful of springs and mud caves in the area, and many of the landmarks looked alike, so it was hard to tell. Whether he’d been there or not, he felt certain that they were on the right track. Owen would seek a shady resting place during the hottest hours of the day.

  They reached the coordinates that the GPS indicated. It was a safe distance from the summit, well out of range of a 9 mm handgun, but Roach wasn’t in the vicinity.

  “Looks like a scuffle,” Dirk said, pointing at the ground.

  Shane squinted at a few dark spots on the path. He bent down, rubbing the grit between his fingertips.

  “Blood?” Dirk guessed.

  “I think so.”

  A crow swooped down the canyon, leading them straight to the body. Roach was lying on a pile of rocks about fifty feet do
wn, already being picked at by the black-feathered scavenger. His T-shirt was torn and bloody, his eyes blank.

  “Son of a bitch!” Dirk said. “Your brother killed him.”

  Shane raked a hand through his hair, stunned. This was so much worse than he’d expected. He was a dead man, as dead as Roach.

  “Ace is going to shit,” Dirk said.

  Shane grasped the front of Dirk’s shirt. “We can’t tell him.”

  “What?”

  He would draw his weapon if Dirk refused to play along. There was too much at stake. “He’s already gone,” Shane said, pointing at Roach. “As long as he doesn’t get found, no one will ever know what happened to him.”

  Dirk stared at the corpse, his throat working in agitation. For all his bluster and bravado, he wasn’t as cold-blooded as Shane.

  “It’s easy to get lost out here,” Shane said.

  “What will you say to Ace?”

  “That he took off, and we never saw him again.”

  After a short pause, Dirk nodded. Shane released his grip on Dirk’s shirt, watching the wrinkled cotton untwist. He didn’t trust Dirk to keep this secret under duress, but he’d deal with that problem later. Right now, he needed Dirk’s help. He was down three men. One more and he’d have to abandon the plan altogether.

  “Your brother fucked up,” Shane reminded him. “I did him a favor by sending him to Mexico.”

  “You said Ace ordered that.”

  “He didn’t.”

  Dirk’s mouth tightened at this news. Shane hadn’t been concerned about Brett’s welfare, but he could exploit this side benefit. More importantly, his words acted as a warning that Shane was still in charge. He wasn’t afraid to lie to the boss, and Ace would believe Shane’s version of events over Dirk’s.

  Shane considered Dirk a friend. They’d done time together and had each other’s backs in prison. Even so, Shane would double-cross him in a heartbeat. He didn’t have feelings for Dirk. He didn’t have feelings, period.

  “What about your brother?” Dirk asked.

  “What about him?”

  “You said he’d cooperate.”

  “I thought he would.”

  “You were wrong.”

  Shane had promised to take care of Owen if he caused trouble, but he’d never intended to follow through. He wasn’t worried about his brother indentifying him to the police. Shane wouldn’t stick around to get arrested.

  “You know what needs to be done,” Dirk said.

  “And I’ll do it,” Shane replied, wishing he’d shot Brett in the head. “Let’s bury this motherfucker.”

  They made their way into the canyon, with some difficulty. It was a steep slide down a cactus-riddled hill. When they reached the body, Shane crouched next to him, inspecting the wound in his chest.

  “That’s not a bullet hole,” Dirk said. “He was stabbed.”

  Shane glanced up at the trail, trying to imagine what happened.

  “Maybe your brother came to shoot him, but the gun jammed or something. Roach pulled a knife to defend himself.”

  Ace hadn’t wanted the crew to be heavily armed. He’d said that too many guns meant too many problems. Shane had allowed Dirk to bring one, but he’d insisted that the other men leave theirs at home, along with their cell phones. Roach had been carrying a knife instead; it was his preferred weapon.

  “They wrestled and rolled downhill,” Dirk continued. “Roach bled out here.”

  “Why is there blood on the trail?”

  Dirk considered the location of the drops. “I think it’s your brother’s blood. He left it walking away.”

  Shane doubted Owen was seriously injured, judging by the small amount of blood. They wouldn’t find him holed up at the summit, nursing his wounds. He was probably several miles down the trail by now.

  They didn’t even try to dig a hole. Under a thin layer of pebble-strewn sand, there was hard-packed desert clay, which presented too much of a challenge. During a rainstorm, the stuff would suck the shoes right off your feet, or give you a pair of concrete boots. In dry conditions, it was as impermeable as brick.

  Shane dragged the body about a hundred yards, where they wedged it into a crevice between boulders. Then they piled rocks and dirt into the narrow space until no hint of skin or clothing was visible.

  “You think that’s good enough?” Dirk asked.

  Shane nodded, dusting off his hands. It would have to be. The only people who came out here were desert hipsters, driving their hybrid cars and searching for inner peace. They liked the wildflowers in spring. By that time, Roach would be bones.

  They hiked the remaining distance to the summit. He saw a pair of kid-sized footprints in the mud by the pool of water, along with a scrap of sheer green fabric. Dirk picked up the cloth and launched into a graphic description of sexual acts he wanted to force on the mother. Shane didn’t really see the appeal of an unwilling woman. There were plenty of sluts to choose from. Whores, if you were desperate.

  “You talk too much,” he said, weary.

  “Wouldn’t you take a turn on her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It feels better when they want it.”

  “Shit,” Dirk said, throwing the scrap down.

  Shane decided he was full of it. Dirk didn’t have a girlfriend, which was no surprise. Maybe he was intimidated by women or frustrated with his inability to score. He probably had a small dick. His big muscles and big mouth reeked of overcompensation. So did the fake name he’d chosen.

  Shane walked to the highest point and looked down the opposite side of the mountain, figuring Owen had gone that direction. There was an old railroad to the south. Their dad had taken them to the tracks to search for salvage materials once or twice.

  “When was Roach’s last signal transmitted?”

  “Noon,” Dirk replied.

  It was almost six now. Owen and his cozy little family had a significant head start. Shane didn’t know if he could find their tracks in the dark, let alone catch up with them. But he could cut them off at the other end.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PENNY TOOK THE LEAD AGAIN, with Cruz in the middle and Owen bringing up the rear.

  The downhill grade was much easier to traverse. After a few hours, the temperature finally began to drop, but Cruz lost momentum when the trail evened out. Owen carried him on his shoulders for the next several miles.

  They stopped at dusk for dinner, sharing another sausage stick and the last box of raisins. The snack woke up her taste buds but failed to satisfy the gnawing ache in her stomach. They were all hungry. Cruz was cranky and lethargic. Penny didn’t think she could go much longer, but she held her tongue. They weren’t even to the railroad yet. The real hike would begin once they found the tracks.

  She wanted to quit. To lie down and give up.

  The feeling was a new one for her. She’d never pushed her physical limits this way, except maybe during childbirth. But labor was a faded memory with a happy ending. This was a grueling, torturous slog. Cruz had never gone without food before, either. Being unable to provide for him was heartrending. As a mother, it was her job to keep her child healthy and safe. For the first time in her life, she was failing.

  The obstacles seemed insurmountable, the trail endless.

  In a small corner of her mind, she was aware of how lucky she’d been until now. She’d done hours of volunteer work and interned at a women’s clinic, but she hadn’t been familiar with suffering on a personal level.

  Owen seemed to endure the hike with ease, despite carrying extra weight, which emphasized the differences between them. He accepted hardships as if they were his due. She stumbled along as if she were dying.

  “This is what it must be like to cross the border illegally,” she said.

  “Same terrain,” he replied. “We’re only twenty miles from Mexico.”

  “How many miles from the main road?”

  “I don’t know. Ten.”

&nbs
p; “How many have we traveled so far?”

  “Seven, maybe.”

  Penny’s spirits plummeted. There was no way she could walk ten more miles.

  Owen stopped and put Cruz down, studying her discouraged face. “Are you okay?”

  When she tried to answer, the words stuck in her throat. She wanted to be stoic and calm. For her son.

  “Can you carry my mommy?” Cruz asked Owen.

  “No, he can’t,” Penny said. She was tall and slender, but not small. As fit as Owen was, he couldn’t bear her weight for miles.

  Cruz didn’t believe it. “Can you?”

  “I can carry her to the railroad,” he said. “It’s close.”

  “How close?”

  “Less than a mile, I think. Traveling along the tracks will be easier because it’s flat. We’ll find a place to rest for the night.”

  She nearly swooned at the word rest. Maybe she could drag herself as far as the railroad before collapsing in a boneless heap on the tracks. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’ll try to make it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she said, grasping Cruz’s hand.

  “I’ll help you, Mommy.”

  “Thanks, mijo.”

  They started off again, her muscles weeping with every step. Owen told Cruz the entire history of the Carrizo Gorge Railway. Apparently the line had transported supplies between the U.S. to Mexico before it fell into disrepair. Penny listened with one ear, trudging forward to the sound of Owen’s steady voice.

  “Look,” he said finally, perking up. “A loading dock.”

  She spotted a crumbling concrete ramp in the distance, next to a windblown shack. Rusted wheels and gears littered the area leading to the tracks. The sight of the railway didn’t lift her morale. It appeared to go on forever, winding through a deep desert gorge. She inspected the shack, which had no roof.

  They couldn’t stay here.

  When they reached the ramp, she sank down on the rubble, numb. She didn’t even have the strength to cry.

  Owen and Cruz, however, found the energy to explore the scattered wasteland. They came back with an old wheelbarrow. It had sturdy wooden handles and a modified metal wheel, flanged to ride along the track. “Hop in.”