Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  “Shit,” she muttered out loud. Stop it. She blinked and wiped her eyes with a finger. Starting now, her life was going to change. Carlos was her ticket. Carlos was her future. She trembled at the thought. He was a beautiful man. Any woman would be happy to have him. And look at all of this. Airplanes, haciendas with servants, and original artwork everywhere. This was only part of it. There were houses in Juárez, in Acapulco, San Diego, and elsewhere. Again, she shuddered. What have I done?

  Chapter 40

  Rancho Seco, Juárez, Mexico

  Dawson hurried past television trucks and cars with news media placards left on their dashboards and taped to windows, and parked along the dirt road leading to the entrance of the old adobe ranch. An hour earlier he’d been sitting at his desk in the country club office wondering if the Mexican government would announce the death of Ernesto Fonseca. He’d turned on the noon news on the remote chance he’d hear about it, but instead learned the Mexican federal police had raided a ranch and found evidence of mass graves. The hacienda was outside of Juárez in a place called Rancho Seco.

  The implications were frightening, especially in light of what he’d learned from Reyes. Renegade special operatives funded by the DEA were supposed to bring down the Borrego cartel from inside. Instead, they’d gone into business for themselves. Dawson knew why. Just look at the players. Fonseca and his men. Drug dealers. And what else? Murder. More than likely, the graves held some of their handiwork.

  Heavily armed, black-uniformed Mexican police with yellow armbands guarded the galvanized metal ranch gate. Spiny cacti and ocotillo bushes spread along the parched dirt that fronted an adobe brick wall that flanked the gate in each direction.

  Dawson scanned the cluster of news reporters until he found a familiar face. He threaded through the small crowd and paused beside Janet Watson, a news agency reporter. Years back, they’d worked together in Santa Fe. She held a cell phone to her ear and paced in her jeans, hiking boots, and chambray shirt. Watson clicked off and looked at him with a scowl, still lost in thought. Then her face relaxed into a smile.

  “Kyle Dawson. How are you? Still with the Washington Herald?”

  “Janet, how have you been?”

  “Good. I heard you were in town. They got you on this story?”

  “I happened to be in the neighborhood. You know how it goes.”

  “Sorry about your father. My condolences.”

  “Thanks.”

  Watson, all business again, pointed to a nearby dirt hill dotted with shanties made of concrete blocks, scrap wood, and pieces of corrugated tin. “The photogs are camped up there because they won’t let us in to see the digging. If you have a long lens, you can get a shot of them in the compound with a backhoe.”

  “Digging up the bodies?”

  She nodded. “The police are working on a statement. They’ve been promising a press briefing. They’re on Mexican time.”

  “Any details?”

  “Not much. When they said, ‘mass grave,’ everyone scrambled. Now we wait.”

  “Whose place is this anyway?”

  “It belongs to the Borrego family.”

  “I should have guessed. See you later.” Dawson turned and trailed a couple of photographers who trotted past, their camera bags bouncing at their sides. He wondered if Anita knew about this. Hell, it didn’t matter now—unless, of course, Carlos Borrego was involved. Not likely. Even if he was, Carlos could always blame the bodies on his father.

  At the hill, Dawson joined photographers balancing massive lenses on telescoping poles, clicking an occasional shot when the backhoes moved. The cameras fascinated a dozen ragged kids who lived in the nearby shacks. Dawson shaded his eyes and squinted. The ranch buildings were enclosed by a high block wall, the top sparkling from the jagged pieces of broken glass and coils of razor wire. Inside the wall were steel shipping containers like those he’s seen at the warehouse in La Peña. A couple of backhoes worked a barren patch of land, slowly digging the dirt as police looked on.

  Brad Austin was nearby, bent over his TV camera, playing with the focus.

  “No rest for the weary,” Dawson said.

  “What?” Austin said, straightening up and groaning as he massaged the small of his back. His face scrunched in pain, then he smiled as he recognized Dawson. “Figured you’d be back in Washington by now.”

  “Can’t stay away. May I look?”

  Austin nodded.

  Dawson pressed an eye against the rubber eyepiece. Through the powerful zoom lens, he watched a couple of men in dark blue jackets marked with yellow block letters: DEA. “They’ve brought the feds in,” he muttered to himself, then stood and gazed again at the scene with his naked his eye. He turned to Austin and asked, “Where’s Anita?”

  Austin shrugged. “Don’t know. Gone for a few days. Special assignment for the network.” He flicked off the camera and lifted it from the tripod. “I got what I need here.” He handed the camera to Dawson. “Hold this for a minute.” Dawson took the camera as Austin folded and retracted the tripod. They hurried back down the hill to the ranch entrance where the gaggle of reporters sweltered in the pounding sun.

  Dawson’s ribs still ached from the pummeling he’d endured in Mexico. His painkillers were wearing off. He retreated to his truck to escape the sun and, leaving the door open to catch any breeze, slumped in the seat. He closed his eyes. He was tired, dog tired, and wanted to sleep.

  The killing of Fonseca had so far gone unreported. He wondered if the DEA, to cover its tracks and protect the safe house, had quietly cleaned up the mess. Whatever. Official sources in Mexico had said nothing about it, so far. And he knew that neighbors would say they’d seen nothing and heard nothing, if anyone would ask.

  If Fonseca was linked to the DEA, the agency would deny it. If the agency responded at all, it would suggest that the Mexican government had lured Fonseca across the border and into a trap where he had been killed resisting arrest. Another explanation might be that Fonseca’s death had been an act of revenge by the Borrego cartel. He’d have to wait and see.

  Frankel never needed to know that Dawson had witnessed Fonseca’s murder. When and if the shooting became public, Dawson decided he would write a news analysis, saying that solving border violence had no easy answers—certainly none suggested by national politicians who were no interested in addressing the underlying problems. He would ask rhetorically why Fonseca had been found in Juárez when Fonseca’s associates had been killed just days earlier at a bloody warehouse in the U.S. during gunfight where drugs and weapons had been stolen? It would be a jab at Madsen’s campaign speeches calling for more and better border security by pointing out that Fonseca was an American who’d committed crimes in Mexico.

  Sitting in the truck, Dawson struggled against the ache that permeated his body. He had accomplished his goal. He could and should fly back to Washington. There was really no reason for him to continue on. But somehow that felt too easy. What he had learned came only after a string of murders and his own arrest and interrogation in a Mexican jail.

  Had Fonseca killed his father to protect himself, or someone else? If someone else, then who? And why? Something large loomed in the background, but was indistinct. It worried him. He dismissed the idea returning to Washington. The story here was morphing too quickly. He was too deep into it now to go back. Each day he felt himself drawing closer to something big.

  Dawson sat up, rubbed his face, and fished through his bag for a bottle of painkillers. Shaking out two, he swallowed them with the last gulps of water from a plastic bottle. He flipped through his notebook. Scattered notes. And now these mass graves. A handful of plain-clothed police officers were gathering at the entrance to the ranch. He recognized Carter from the DEA office and the spokeswoman, Pauline Gorman, along with Colonel Hernandez of the Mexican Federales.

  Dawson slammed the door to his truck and hustled to the knot of reporters as press releases were handed out. He grabbed one and scanned it. The Mexican police, a
cting on information they had received of mass graves at this location, had called on the DEA for technical forensic assistance. They were in the initial stages of the investigation.

  “Buenos días,” said one of the Mexicans, introducing himself as Jorge Valdez, police spokesman. “Thank you for coming. Unfortunately, we have very little information to tell you at this point. Our investigation has only begun. We have few results to report, but we’d be happy to answer what questions we can.” Valdez, a man of average height and thinning, dark hair, fell silent as a gust of wind whipped across the dirt.

  “That’s it?” Watson barked.

  Valdez looked at her, adjusted thick rimmed glasses on his nose, and sighed. “We have with us Colonel Hernandez of the federal police and Leo Carter of the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration. They will be happy to answer your questions.”

  “How many bodies have you discovered?” Watson asked.

  Hernandez and Carter look at each other as they stepped up to face the reporters. Hernandez gazed at Watson. “So far, we have found about twenty bodily remains. We expect to find more—many more.”

  “How many bodies do you expect to find?” Dawson asked.

  “We have no idea. But judging from the amount of disturbed earth, it could be in the hundreds.”

  Hundreds? What the—? Dawson listened intently. He recognized Hernandez from the El Guapo killing aftermath. Dawson decided it’d be best to remain quiet. He had enough to worry about now without being summoned by Hernandez to police headquarters.

  Carter stepped forward. “I’d like to point out that the United States and Mexico are cooperating as much possible in the war against drugs. What you see here is just one example. We are providing all the expertise and assistance we can.”

  Hernandez stepped forward. “We invited the Americans here for assistance. As Mr. Carter said, we are working together in this investigation.”

  “Who do you think is buried here?” a television reporter asked.

  “We have information that these may be victims of the ongoing drug war.”

  “Where did you get this information?” the television reporter asked.

  “We cannot discuss our sources or methods,” Hernandez said. “I think you can understand that.”

  A trickle of sweat formed on Dawson’s forehead. He wiped it with a finger.

  “Did the DEA receive similar information about these mass graves?” another reporter asked.

  Carter scowled as he stepped forward. “The Mexican authorities have the lead in this investigation. But I can tell you that we have received a vast amount of information over the past few years about many deaths and unsolved murders. Some of these people simply disappeared. We are cooperating with Mexican officials to help solve these cases. We are glad to offer our expertise and assistance to help end this tragic situation.”

  “Who owns this place?” Dawson barked, unable to resist asking another question.

  Hernandez stepped forward again. “We believe it was owned by the Borrego family.” Silence hung in the air as a breeze stirred. “We believe it was an operations center for the cartel.”

  “Was anyone arrested?” Dawson asked.

  “Six men and four women were taken into custody.”

  “Did they resist?” he asked.

  Hernandez squinted. “There was sustained gunfire from both sides. The operation began in a predawn raid that involved our police units and included two assault helicopters and armored vehicles.”

  “How many people were killed in the operation?” Watson barked.

  Hernandez took a deep breath. “Seven people. Several escaped and we are now searching for them.”

  “What about the police?” she asked.

  “Three men were seriously wounded. I’m not sure of their current conditions.”

  Valdez moved in front of the two officials and waved his hand to cut off further questions. “That is all for now. We will contact all the various news organizations when we have more information.”

  “When do you expect to have information about who is buried here?” Watson asked.

  “We will proceed carefully,” Valdez said. “We hope to have another briefing at six o’clock.”

  The reporters groaned. Dawson folded his notebook and jammed it in his back pocket. The assault at dawn was a good news angle. Now there was little left to do except watch the cops dig up skeletons. The only updates would be the body count. These had to be old murders, he thought, because authorities in Juárez didn’t bother to collect the bodies anymore. They just left them on the street, in the cars, in the homes. It was up to the relatives to find and bury them.

  The thudding of a helicopter’s blades drowned out his thoughts as he looked up. With the blue Channel 7 logo, the chopper circled the compound as a cameraman leaned out the side door. He thought again about Anita. Where the hell was she? But he couldn’t worry about her now. He went to his truck, pulled out his cell phone and called Frankel.

  “What do you have?”

  “Ahhhh, well, a lot bones at this point. The police are acting on tips and have brought in the DEA. Part of their across-the-border cooperation. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “Breaking news for a change,” Frankel said. “When can I have it?”

  “Soon, but there’s another call I need to make.”

  “This is for the Sunday paper, you know. You’re already pushing the early deadlines.”

  “This is important.”

  “We can’t wait forever.”

  “I know.”

  Dawson clicked off. There was only one place to go next with this story. He punched in Carlos’s number, the one he’d memorized from Anita’s telephone. He hoped it was right. He pressed the dial button and waited for the call to go through.

  “Who is this?” Carlos answered.

  Dawson smiled to himself. “Kyle Dawson. Washington Herald.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “I’m a friend of Anita Alvarez.”

  “I know who you are. Did she give it to you?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m at a place called Rancho Seco. I think you know it.”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “The police there are digging up the remains of people they say were killed by the Borrego cartel. Care to comment?”

  “I know nothing about any buried bodies in Rancho Seco.”

  “The ranch is Borrego property.”

  “My father’s business holdings were widespread. I am not sure even he knew everything that was going on.”

  “Seven were killed in a predawn raid on the ranch.”

  “You should be talking to the police. They have more information than I.”

  “Carlos, the police say they are acting on tips. Who’s tipping them off?”

  “Why don’t you ask them?”

  “I did.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Nothing. Was it you?”

  “Don’t ever call me again.”

  The phone clicked dead. Dawson smiled. It had been gamble, a fishing trip. When he had looked through the lens of Austin’s camera, he had wondered, why now? Why were the Mexican police only now finding and digging up these corpses, presumably all victims of the drug wars? The most obvious answer was that the Borregos’ enemies were closing in, making as much trouble for Carlos as possible by exposing the atrocities.

  But maybe there was another reason. Carlos was cleaning up the many messes his father had left behind. Dawson knew that Carlos was educated and that he probably had other ideas about how to run a cartel. A new generation. Having the police dig up corpses was one way to do that. It was also a perfect diversion.

  Chapter 41

  Barrancas del Cobre, Mexico

  Anita changed into a white bikini, pulled on a white terrycloth bathrobe, then grabbed a fluffy towel and walked in her flip-flops to the pool. She stopped by the bar for a wine refill. Roberto was gone, so
she slipped behind the bar and poured it herself. Two men sat in the living room watching a soccer match on the television. Carlos still had not reappeared. Despite the men’s presence, she felt more alone than ever. She shook her head to clear her fears and told herself to stay focused on the story. Ride the tiger. That’s how it felt. Like clinging to the back of a dangerous beast that could swallow her in a second. But the beast could also take her places and show her things that she could only imagine.

  She set her wine on a glass-topped table, put her sunglasses beside it, then draped her towel over the back of a chair. She dipped a toe in the pool. A bit cool, but okay. She dove in, the sudden chill rippling through her as she came up, exhaled, and drew a breath. She swam easily to the far end of the pool, executed a racing turn, and pushed from the wall, gliding for a short distance before breaking the surface and stroking. Swimming was one of the few exercises she’d loved as a child, and one she’d continued.

  Fifteen laps later, she climbed out of the pool at the shallow end and collapsed in one of the lounge chairs, struggling to regain her breath. She’d forgotten that she was at seven thousand feet in altitude, nearly double that of El Paso. She rubbed her hair dry with a towel, and as her breathing slowed, she took a sip of wine. The exercise had eased her jangled nerves. She felt more relaxed about her decision to accompany Carlos.

  It had been Dawson’s fault. It was his suggestion that she should interview Don Diego Borrego if she wanted a national, if not international scoop. With Don Diego dead, that story idea had morphed into an interview with Carlos. When she had proposed it, Carlos had immediately said yes, but he would only do it at the family’s mountain hacienda. Without thinking, she had agreed.