“C’mon, Jodie. That’s bull...”
Jodie shook her head disgustedly and left.
Dawson turned to the touch of a hand on his shoulder. It was Anita.
“Back on the campaign trail?” she asked.
Dawson nodded, not answering. “Did you see this?”
She scanned the press release. “What the hell?”
“The Justice Department wants Mexico to hand over Carlos Borrego. For Sam’s murder.”
Anita looked at him, confused. “I suppose it’s possible, but what proof do they have?”
“God only knows. You have his number. Call him.”
“Who?”
“Carlos Borrego.”
“Now?” she said, looking flustered.
“Of course now. That’s the story here. Not this damned press conference. Get his reaction.”
She pulled her phone from her purse, but hesitated.
“C’mon.” Dawson insisted. “Call him.”
Anita stared at the phone, lost in thought. Irritated at her hesitation, Dawson grabbed for it, but she yanked it out of his reach. “It’s my call to make. Not yours.”
“Anita! What the hell’s the matter with you? Call him. Now!”
“You got an exclusive with Fonseca. Carlos is mine!” She turned away, clutching the phone to her chest.
The doors of the Border Patrol building opened, emitting a stream of men who dutifully lined up behind the microphones on a lectern. Moments later, Madsen stepped to the microphones wearing an open-collar shirt, loose tie, and rolled-up sleeves—the image of a hardworking, thoughtful man. Yeah, sure. You get an A for posturing, senator.
“We are holding this press conference at the port of entry at Rancho la Peña because it is an example of the strong working relationship between the United States and Mexico,” Madsen said. “This relationship has fallen by the wayside, unfortunately leading to increased border violence, due to the incompetence of the man who currently occupies the White House. I intend to change that when I am elected.”
Dawson sighed. He felt a headache creep into his skull.
“This important facility came about due to the hard work of my late friend, Sam Dawson,” Madsen continued. “Sadly, his life was taken recently. I want to assure you that our fine law enforcement personnel have been doing all they can to find his killer. In a moment, we will have an important announcement regarding that.”
Dawson looked at Anita as Madsen’s voice became background noise. Feeling bad about his outburst, Dawson leaned close to her. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s your call to make. Not mine.”
Anita turned and glared. “You’re unbelievable sometimes.”
For days he’d thought about asking her out for another dinner. Now was the perfect excuse, a chance to smooth things over between them. “How about we try for a dinner again? This time in El Paso.”
She turned and stared. “Are you serious?”
“Of course. I was a jerk. Let me make it up to you.”
Anita scowled, trying to decide.
Dawson feared she might think he was mocking her. “Please. I’m sorry.”
She turned back to the lectern and sighed. “I’ll think about it.”
Dawson focused again on the lectern where Madsen had turned things over to the DEA’s Leo Carter. Dawson’s stomach tightened. The more he thought about his Carter interview, the more he detested the man.
“Thank you, Senator Madsen, for all of your help and support,” Carter said. “We work hard every day to control cross-border crime. Because of this, today the United States is calling for the arrest and extradition of Carlos Borrego, who recently assumed control of the Borrego cartel. We believe there is sufficient evidence to link Borrego to the death of Sam Dawson and the recent deadly shootout here at the port of entry. There’s not a lot more I can add, since this is now in the hands our diplomacy people, but I’ll take a few questions.”
Dawson waved his hand, and Carter nodded to him. “The government of Mexico named Ernesto Fonseca as their prime suspect in the killing of the late Don Diego Borrego. Why does the U.S. government refuse to turn him over to Mexican authorities, yet now asks that the Mexican government turn over a known drug lord?”
Carter clenched his jaw and shook his head as he stared at the lectern, formulating an answer. “The answer to that is quite simple. Fonseca had nothing to do with the death of Don Diego Borrego.” Carter pointed to Anita for the next question.
“What evidence do you have against Borrego that is strong enough to seek his extradition?”
“That’s a very good question, but I’m afraid I can’t answer it. That evidence is part of an extended investigation. The relevant details will be made public when they are presented in a court of law.”
Carter gave a few more non-answers to questions, then turned back to Madsen and nodded, stepping away from the lectern. Madsen returned to the microphones.
Anita lifted her hand. “Senator, hasn’t this new port of entry simply made it easier for drugs and weapons to move between the two countries?”
Madsen shook his head and smiled weakly. “This crossing has made control of the border stronger than ever,” he said, waving toward the fleet of Border Patrol vehicles nearby. “I’m sure you are aware of the incredible delays that increased security measures caused when there was only a single crossing between Juárez and El Paso. That bottleneck hurt the economies on both sides of the border. This commercial port has solved a transportation problem for the entire region, if not the country. This is the kind of forward-looking project that I intend to implement to get America back to work and to restore our economic health and prosperity.”
Madsen smiled with self-satisfaction and pointed to another reporter.
Dawson groaned and slipped his notebook into his pocket. He drew close to Anita and spoke again quietly. “What do you say? Dinner this evening?”
She looked over her shoulder. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Eight o’clock. Diablo’s.”
She squinted and gave him a slight nod.
Dawson smiled and sauntered to his car.
Chapter 31
El Paso, Texas
Anita paused in the open doorway, admitting a blast of sunlight into the darkened interior of Diablo’s. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. This was not the kind of place she preferred, with its mixed clientele: cowboys, a biker or two, some hard drinkers hunched at the bar, a smattering of office workers, and a few young professionals. Maybe Dawson liked it because you never knew what you’d get on any given day, she thought.
Dawson waved from the bar. She nodded and strode along it as rugged faces turned to gape, men with sunken eyes that brightened with a flash of recognition. Yes, it’s me, Anita Alvarez, the woman from Channel 7. Over the years, she’d become accustomed to it. A celebrity, if such a thing existed in El Paso.
“Margarita, please,” she barked, raising a finger to the bartender, who ogled as she moved the length of the bar. Anita stopped suddenly to look the bartender up and down, giving him a taste of his own medicine. She liked what she saw. You’re cute, too. Sandy hair, tanned face, blue eyes, shirt opened to the second button, tight black pants. El diablo!
“Comin’ right up,” he said with a wink and a nod.
Dawson’s eyes darted from the bartender back to Anita. He took her hand and leaned in close to give her light hug, then guided her to a booth in the back. She giggled inwardly at the glimmer of jealousy in his eyes.
After their last dinner date, this seemed foolish. But she’d never been able to bury her feelings for Kyle, despite her bitter disappointment. That September after the botched abortion, when he’d gone away to college, she’d been miserable. He came back that Christmas, but was distant and cold, almost unfriendly. She had chided him, gotten angry, even cried, asking him what had happened, why he didn’t care about her any more. Had he found someone else?
He’d insisted he hadn’t.
“Th
en what?” She begged for an answer.
She remembered when they sat mutely in the cab of his pickup and she struggled for a way to put their relationship back on track. But he only shook his head, and finally blurted, “I think we should start seeing other people.” The words were a stunning blow, nausea gripping her stomach. The memories still burned hot, but for the moment, she pushed them aside.
“So Carlos Borrego was not happy,” Dawson said as she settled across from her in the red vinyl of the padded booth.
She looked into Dawson’s ice-blue eyes, the same ones that had captivated her more than twenty years ago. Had it truly been that long? She still sensed the stirrings, the twinge of excitement whenever he was around. Clearing her throat and summoning her professional voice, she said, “He’s not going to give himself up, if that’s what you mean.”
“You got your exclusive with Carlos. You happy now?”
Anita shook her head and sighed. Happy? How could he ask such as question? He’d left her, gone off to college, gotten married, and had a successful, if not enviable career. Meanwhile, she’d stayed. And while she had immersed herself in her career, she had followed his exploits enviously from afar. She now saw the wisdom of the decision he’d made, which at the time seemed cold and cavalier. She’d stayed in El Paso because she felt the tug of her commitment to her mother and father, and to the place where she’d grown up and called home. Her career was the one thing that gave her life meaning. But now her career—her life—had stalled. She wanted more, deserved more. She needed to get out. “You just don’t get it.”
“What’s to get? I’m a journalist. You’re a journalist. We’re both working on a good story. You got an exclusive today. Like the song says, ‘Don’t worry, be happy.’”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Jesus, Kyle. You’ve been all over the world. I’m stuck in a rut that goes back and forth across the border. You have no idea what that’s been like.”
He dropped his gaze to the table, drummed his fingers, then looked at her as sympathetically as she’d ever seen him. “Your time will come. Don’t worry.”
Her shoulders slumped. “It’s not going happen by itself. I’ve got to find a story that gets me out of here.”
Dawson craned his neck around the bar. “Maybe someone will whack another drug lord for us tonight.” He grinned.
Anita shook her head. “That’s not funny.”
The waitress put a margarita in front of her. She lifted it and took a long drink, keeping her eyes on Dawson. “I’m famished. Are you?”
“Always.”
An hour later, the plates cleared from the table, Anita nodded agreeably when Dawson ordered a third round of margaritas. A band had set up in the back of the bar on a step-up stage fronted by a small wooden dance floor. After a short tune-up, the band slipped into a bouncy rendition of the song, “Good-Hearted Woman.” Dawson reached across the table and took her hand. “Let’s dance.” Anita smiled, slipped out of the booth, and held his hand as they glided toward the dance floor.
Once again Anita felt his energy pulse through her hand, stirring memories of those nights when they were so in love that the rest of the world ceased to exist. For those few unforgettable years, life had been a blissful dream from which neither of them, she now believed, had fully awakened. For the moment, the reality of the intervening years evaporated. As they moved to the music, she felt the warmth of his breath on her neck, then the touch of his warm lips, making the soft hairs of her nape rise. She relished how his body felt against hers, how they fit together effortlessly, his hand on the small of her back and the other cupping the back of her head, his fingers deep in her hair.
“It’s been a while since we danced like this,” she said.
“A person could get used to it.”
Anita lifted her face to Dawson, her lips parted. He kissed her, lightly at first, then more deeply. It was tantalizingly familiar, summoning a long-forgotten desires that grew each moment their lips remained locked. This was good. Too good. She’d denied herself for too long, condemned herself to this dusty, sunbaked corner of the world. And for what? She was on the precipice of middle age. This was her night—a night to make up for all of those hundreds in the past when she’d wallowed in self-pity.
Dawson pulled back. They both exhaled, as if rising to the surface for a breath of air before plunging again into the exploding sensations of being in each other’s arms. She kept her eyes closed, her lips parted and waiting.
* * *
Anita pulled Dawson close as they stood at the door of her condominium near downtown El Paso and kissed him, her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. After a long embrace, she inserted a key in the door. The door clicked open. As it swung wide, she took him by the hand and drew him inside.
* * *
Dawson’s mobile phone quietly hummed on the nightstand. He opened an eye in the dim light of morning. He was exhausted, yet mildly exhilarated. Anita was asleep beside him, naked, lying on her stomach with her head under a pillow, half covered with a sheet.
He groped for the phone, struggling to focus on the number display. Raoul. He leaned over the side of the bed and whispered, “What’s up?”
“You gotta see this.”
“What?”
“Fonseca’s men. Shot full of holes.”
“Where are you?”
“A warehouse in Rancho la Peña.”
“OK. I’m on my way.”
His heart pounded as he hung up. This was a break he didn’t want to share with Anita. Her head was still under the pillow. Sleep, baby, sleep. He swung his legs out of bed and rubbed his face awake. He looked at a half-empty bottle of tequila. I didn’t need that last night. He walked into the adjoining bathroom and quietly closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar, then stared into the mirror and tried to focus. The only thing to come clear was his headache. He opened the cabinet mirror and found a bottle of ibuprofen, shook a few into his hand, and gulped them down with a handful of water. He reached behind the shower curtain and turned on the water to let it warm.
Anita’s smartphone was on the bathroom counter, her charger plugged in the wall socket. Why had she left it there, of all places? Habit. She assumed he could be trusted. Could he? Dawson picked it up and tapped the screen. It came to life. He tapped the phone application and swiped a finger, looking at the calls. He stared at one listed as Carlos, the number displayed. Jesus! His heart pounded. He looked at himself in the mirror again, then back at the number. Why the hell not? He muttered the number several times to himself, then another five more times with his eyes closed before he put the phone down. He pushed the shower curtain aside and stepped in, letting the warmth penetrate his body and soothe his aching head, still repeating the number like a mantra.
Dawson emerged wrapped in a towel and rounded the bed. Dropping the towel, he pulled on last night’s discarded clothes and buckled his belt. He picked up his shirt from the floor and pulled it on.
“Who called?” Anita croaked.
He froze and looked at her, her head now on the pillow, squinting in the morning light.
“Uhhh, wrong number,” he stammered.
“You’re such a liar.” She cleared her throat. “It was Raoul.”
“If you knew, why did you ask?”
“It was a test. You flunked. Who else would call you now? Your mother?” Awake now, Anita sat up and clutched the sheet to her chest. “You’d lie to me like that after we just spent the night together?”
“Anita ... I gotta go.” He grabbed the tequila bottle, took a swig, and walked out of the bedroom. A shoe went flying past him into the living room where it clunked and bounced.
“Fuck you, Kyle. Just, fuck you.”
His stomach soured, not from the tequila, but from realizing that he was walking out on her—again. He wheeled and stood in the bedroom doorway. “I’m sorry, Anita. Sorry for everything.”
Tears dribbled down her face.
“Sometimes I think we we
re meant for each other,” he said. “But I just keep hurting you.”
“You’re a selfish prick. Pinche pendejo!”
He paused, his mouth about to say something, then shook his head. “It’s best I leave now.”
“Then go.”
Something held him in place. “I…I…” He wanted to apologize again, but then realized that he was always apologizing to her. It had to end. He closed his mouth and turned as her wet eyes glistened.
“Get out!” Anita buried her face in her hands.
Dawson got into his car and drove off, knowing that he should have stayed away from her. He should have said good night after dinner, or after the dancing, or at the door to her condo. Spending the night had been a bad idea—a very bad idea. One of them should have said no and stopped before things went as far as they did. But neither could. Rather than smoothing things over, he had only reopened old wounds, wounds that probably would never heal.
He was good at going away and he hated himself for it. First Anita. Then his parents. Then Carolyn and the kids. And now Anita again. A hazard of the business, he’d told himself. It was the life of a journalist. He came into people’s lives, wrote stories about them, then left, usually forever. How long can I keep doing this?
He stilled loved her. He knew that now. It was why he had wanted to make things up with her, as foolish as that was. More than twenty years had elapsed. Yet now they were both working on the same story—as competitors, not lovers. One thing was certain, though. It was over between them now, a reality that he should have accepted long ago.
Chapter 32
Rancho la Peña, New Mexico
Dawson parked beside the hulking black vehicle where Garcia sat behind the wheel, working on a report. Yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed the loading dock where a semitrailer truck was parked. The side was painted with a colorful depiction of fruit and vegetables spilling out of a basket held by a smiling, dark-haired, and bare-shouldered woman wearing a low-cut blouse. In script above her were the words, Colonia Juárez.
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