Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  She lay back, closed her eyes, and let the sun warm her as her heartbeat slowed. The sound of a single-engine plane taking off was barely audible as she dozed.

  * * *

  Anita sat to Carlos’s right at one end of the large rectangular dining room table, still apprehensive about the next couple of days. He’d disappeared into the hacienda’s office since they’d arrived and reappeared moody, distracted. It worried her. Have I gotten in too deep? She wrestled with her doubts and tried to relax. She was committed. Her life was now in his hands. There was no way out now. Trust him. You have no choice.

  The swish of the overhead ceiling fans was unnerving. Anita took a slow, deep breath and tried to enjoy the golden light that filled the room, glinting off the fluted champagne glasses. Two Indian women served them dinner. A young woman carried a soup tureen while an older one ladled the contents into their bowls.

  Carlos lifted his glass and nodded. “A toast to my special guest this evening.” He smiled at Anita, then shifted his gaze out the dining room window, as if he were addressing invisible people. She followed his gaze. Seeing nothing, her heart sank. She lifted her glass, mumbled a “Thank you” as his eyes returned to her, and drank deeply.

  The clink of spoons against the ceramic bowls echoed. Anita folded a warm tortilla and dipped it in the steaming soup. “What’s bothering you?” she asked, unable to tolerate his moody silence.

  “I feel the presence of my father. He is everywhere I look. He used to sit in this same chair. But now he’s gone. And…” He cleared his throat.

  Anita felt sorry for him, even as the night in the Juárez restaurant exploded in her memory—the noise, the acrid scent of gunfire. She touched Carlos’s forearm, then brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. Carlos kissed her hand and held it against his cheek.

  Once empty, the bowls were removed and their wine glasses filled. The stillness was broken as the doors to the kitchen opened and the two women placed sizzling steaks before them. Carlos cut into his eagerly, his knife clanking against the plate in the strained silence. She listened with annoyance, her stomach unready for a heavy meal. She cut a small piece of the steak, but it was all she could do to chew and swallow.

  “You’re not hungry?”

  She shook her head. “It’s the travel. A strange place.”

  “It is sometimes difficult for me as well.” He glanced around the room, then back at her.

  “Tell me about your father,” she said after a long moment.

  Carlos’s eyes flashed. “We came here often.” His face softened and he looked around the room dreamily, his eyes settling again on her. “I was his favorite. But he always treated me like a child. I resented that. He relied on Vincente, not me. I was never very close to Vincente. Now they’re both gone.” Carlos’s eyes glistened.

  “I was there when your father died.”

  Carlos nodded. “It was fated. I wish I could have been with him in his final moments.” He took her hand again.

  “Who killed him?”

  Carlos paused. “Fonseca. I’m sure of it. I pressured our government to get him from the Americans and put him on trial.”

  “Why would he want to kill your father?”

  Carlos scowled. “My father had powerful enemies. Many people were jealous of his wealth and power.”

  “Like Ernesto Fonseca? He was nothing.”

  Carlos smiled and shook his head. “Fonseca was a pawn.”

  “For whom?”

  “There are powerful people behind Fonseca.”

  Anita considered his answer for a moment. “Where is Fonseca now?”

  Carlos shrugged. “He’s dead, I’m told.”

  Her chest tightened. Hell. That’s a story. “Who would kill him?”

  “I have a good idea.”

  “Who?”

  Carlos drank deeply from his wine, then stared at her.

  “That’s an important story. I’d like to know.”

  The ceiling fans turned. “You ask many questions. You’re a good reporter.”

  Anita wanted to press him, but hesitated to ignite his fury. How far can I go with him? She decided to move slowly. He knew a lot, and she wondered how much he’d really share. There was only one way to find out, despite the risk. “Fonseca was taken out of prison. Why?”

  Carlos laughed. “The agents in the DEA thought they could infiltrate our business with him. It was so foolish—and so transparent. We knew what they were doing. My father let them get away with it.”

  “He did? Why?”

  “So he could keep track of them. If he had killed Fonseca, then they would have found some other more devious way to do their work.” Carlos smiled. “It is like when a cat plays with a mouse.”

  “But Fonseca murdered him.”

  Carlos nodded. “My father should have killed him when he had the chance. He would still be alive.” Carlos paused as he grabbed the wine bottle and refilled his glass.

  He had told her he planned to leave the drug business and make the cartel a legitimate enterprise. She wanted to get him to say that on camera. That’s why she leapt at the chance for this interview. But inwardly, she doubted that. She needed to know the truth if that was the story she was going to report. “Revenge will only continue the cycle of violence, Carlos. Is that what you want?”

  Carlos’s eyes flared. “With all that’s happened, I have very few options. ” His gaze softened and he searched her eyes for sympathy and understanding.

  She decided to press him. “You have high-speed cargo airplanes out there being loaded with drugs. A couple flew from here this afternoon.”

  His face clouded with disgust. He took another drink of wine. “I know what you’re thinking, so let me explain. My father built an empire trafficking narcotics. Your father was part of it. Never forget that. Nearly everyone in northern Mexico is involved, one way or another. My father made certain commitments. I just can’t end everything with a snap of my fingers.” He paused and stared at her. “I am trying to close this chapter of the family’s history as quickly as I can. I told you, I want to transfer the family business into legitimate enterprises.”

  “I believe you. I really do. But drug money keeps everything going. How can you give that up?”

  “Many of our outside enterprises are highly profitable already. Thousands of my countrymen are employed. It’s already working.”

  It was plausible, yet she was skeptical. “I like what you’re saying. But it’s so lucrative.”

  Carlos shook his head. “It’s an ugly business. Too many people have died. It is time for the insanity to end.” He smiled, pleased at his own little speech.

  She took a short breath and sighed with disbelief. Carlos was putting on a white hat, playing the good guy.

  Carlos’s eyes narrowed. “I can understand your doubts. Time will prove me right. You can hold me accountable.”

  “Sounds wonderful, Carlos,” she said, trying to appear enthusiastic.

  He smiled. “For the time being, things that I do will not look different to those on the outside. I’m sorry if I still must do some things. This is a dangerous business. If I show any sign of weakness, I’ll be dead. Everything will fall apart. I need to be careful.”

  Carlos’s cell phone rang melodiously. “Excuse me,” he said, standing and walking outside to the pool, talking quietly but intently.

  Chapter 42

  Rancho Seco, Juárez, Mexico

  The sun was low in the western sky later that day when Dawson returned to the gate at Rancho Seco, where the Mexican police continued to uncover the mass graves. He’d filed his story an hour earlier and hoped to catch the update that the Mexican police had promised at six o’clock. But the news media vehicles were gone, leaving him with a sinking feeling that he’d missed something big—so big that everyone else was already back in their newsrooms preparing their stories. “Damn,” he muttered, climbing out of his truck and slipping his notebook in his back pocket.

  He recognized a y
oung reporter from earlier in the day, now slumped low in the front seat of a car, the only other one parked near the gate. The man was engrossed in his smartphone, earphones stuck in his ears. Dawson tapped his shoulder. He jerked up, squinting.

  “Frank Gonzales, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, man. Kyle Dawson. Good to see you. What are you doing back in El Paso?”

  “A little work.”

  “It’s Saturday night, man. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  “Apparently not. What happened to the scheduled briefing?”

  “Canceled. They’re still digging up bodies. I shouldn’t share this, but what the hell.” Gonzales showed Dawson a folded sheet of paper.

  “What is this?”

  “They’re beginning to identify the dead.”

  “Already?”

  Gonzales nodded. “Some still had their clothes on, apparently. IDs in their pockets.”

  “Jesus,” Dawson said tugging the sheet.

  Gonzales pinched one corner between his fingers. “Make me a promise, first.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Write me a recommendation so I can get the hell out of this town.”

  Dawson sighed, then pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to Gonzales. “No problem, Frank. Just e-mail me.” Gonzales released the paper. Dawson scanned the names. “Anyone we know?”

  “Maybe. Alfonso Alvarez.”

  “Anita Alvarez’s father?”

  “I believe so.”

  “El Guapo’s lawyer? You’d think they’d destroy all the evidence.”

  “They found him still wearing a shirt with monogrammed cuffs and cufflinks.”

  Aw, hell. It meant that Don Diego had lied to Anita and her mother. He had killed Anita’s father. But why? He knew everything about El Guapo and was undoubtedly his closest confidant. Had he turned on his boss? “Does Anita know?”

  “I have no idea. No one’s seen her today.”

  Dawson looked at the list and thought about it for a moment. Anita deserved to know the truth, even if it hurt. He didn’t want to be the one to deliver the bad news, given the way they’d parted company. But she also didn’t need to learn about her father’s fate by reading a Juárez newspaper. He took out his phone and waited as Anita’s telephone rang until it finally switched over to her voice mail. He knew she could see on her phone that it was him calling, but she didn’t pick up. Why? Her cameraman, Austin, had told him she was out of town on an assignment. He considered calling the station’s news desk, but he knew they wouldn’t divulge her location.

  Where the hell is she? He had one more option, but was reluctant to make the call. He took a breath and tapped in the number for Anita’s mother.

  “Diga me,” she said. Speak to me.

  “Margarita, this is Kyle Dawson.”

  “What do you want?” She didn’t sound sober, slurring her words.

  “I’m trying to find Anita.”

  “She’s not here. She’s gone.”

  “Margarita, there’s something you ought to know.”

  “What in God’s name do I need to know from you?”

  “They’ve begun to identify some of the bodies they found in the mass grave Rancho Seco. They’ve found something.”

  “What are you talking about? Why are you calling me?”

  “Margarita, please listen. It’s very important.”

  “What is it? I don’t have all day.”

  “It’s best if we talk face to face.”

  “Holy mother of God.” Margarita sighed heavily into her phone. “If you insist.”

  “I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”

  * * *

  Dawson sat on the couch while Margarita woozily poured Mexican brandy into two glasses at the built-in bar. She wore a designer exercise outfit that hung loosely around her aging figure. Her hair was disheveled, her lipstick smeared. “I know you like tequila,” she said slowly, “but the maid is off this evening. This is what’s open. I don’t mind sharing.” She handed him a glass and sat heavily into the couch across from him.

  “Thank you. Um, are you feeling okay?”

  “Of course,” she said, sipping from her drink. ”I’m fine. I just hope this doesn’t take long.”

  Dawson cleared his throat. “Anita told me your late husband died in a car accident in the mountains.”

  “Yes. That was three years ago. But it seems like yesterday. Anita and I have tried to put that behind us.”

  “Where was he buried?”

  “Don Diego said the car burned and there was nothing left to bury. We had a memorial service. The entire Borrego family attended.”

  Dawson paused, reluctant to proceed, unsure how Margarita would take the news. “The reason I came here is to tell you that the police have already identified some of the remains they’ve found at Rancho Seco.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Dawson’s stomach tightened as he sought an easy way to tell her. He took a breath. “The police believe they’ve found the remains of your late husband.”

  Margarita froze, her glass to her lips. Her back stiffened, her eyes stared straight ahead, distant and distracted, as if she’d see a ghost. “It’s not possible,” she said softly. She stared at Dawson, holding her breath as if about to explode. She slowly exhaled and leaned back into the couch. “That means…” She closed her eyes for a moment, then put her drink on the coffee table with a loud clink and slumped forward, burying her face in her hands, and began to cry.

  Dawson sat in silence, guilt gripping his chest as he watched Margarita sob. He now regretted this impulsive meeting. Did I really come to help her? Or was it revenge? A chance to get back at her for the way she treated me over my breakup with Anita?

  “Anita should be told,” he said softly.

  Margarita lifted her face, her cheeks streaked with tears, and shook her head. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone where?” he asked, waiting as Margarita used a bar napkin to wipe her eyes.

  Margarita sighed and rolled her eyes. “What difference does it make to you?”

  “I just thought she should know.”

  “She left this morning with Carlos Borrego.”

  He caught his breath. “Where did they go? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “To the Borrego hacienda. In the mountains.”

  “In the mountains?”

  “Anita has an exclusive interview with Carlos. It’s for the network. It’s going to be her big break.”

  “Crap,” he muttered, then, looking at Margarita, caught himself. “I’m happy for her. She deserves a break.”

  “We were very close to the Borrego family,” Margarita said with a quivering smile, as if bragging. “Did you know that Carlos and Anita grew up together?”

  “Anita told me your late husband was Borrego’s lawyer.”

  Margarita gulped her drink, stood unsteadily, and shuffled to the bar where she poured herself another. She stared at the couch, as if having a hard time focusing, then took a couple more steps, then reached down to touch it before settling onto a cushion. “There’s something I must tell you about Anita and her father.”

  “What is that?”

  “My late husband was not Anita’s biological father. Her true father was Don Diego Borrego.”

  Dawson sat back, stunned. “Then Anita and Carlos are...half brother and sister?”

  Margarita took another swallow. “I’ve kept it a secret for so long.”

  “Does Anita know?”

  “I can’t bring myself to tell her.” Margarita began to cry again.

  “But now she’s with Carlos in the mountains.”

  Margarita cleared her throat and sat upright, her eyes unfocused. “We tried to keep them apart as they grew older. Now Don Diego is dead.”

  “Does Carlos know?”

  “Probably not. But, I’m not sure.”

  Dawson thought a moment, hoping that his suspicions were not true. “Did Alfons
o’s death have anything to do with this…secret?”

  “When I told Alfonso the truth about Anita, he was furious. He flew into a rage. He said that he had been betrayed. By me and by Don Diego, who he considered his closest friend. He was devastated. He swore he’d get revenge.” Margarita polished off her drink and stared at the empty glass. “I knew Don Diego lied to me about Alfonso. Don Diego killed him. I could feel it in my bones. But I never said anything about that to Anita. That story about the mountains. It was all a lie.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Margarita’s eyes again filled with tears. She reached for the bottle, but knocked it over, spilling it. “I don’t feel well,” she mumbled. She held her head, staring vacantly. “Please…”

  Dawson put his drink down and leapt, reaching out just as Margarita’s legs buckled. She collapsed into his arms. He carried Margarita’s limp body to the couch, where he propped her head up on pillows, then paused before pulling off her shoes and lifting her feet to the couch. He took a blanket from the end of the couch and spread it over her.

  Dawson sat back in his chair and watched Margarita, her mouth open, her heavy breathing occasionally broken by a snore. Now he knew why Anita had been so shaken by that chance meeting with Don Diego. He was more than an uncle, though she never knew it. And of course her reaction to his death, the way she went to him, the way Don Diego slowly lifted his hand to her face, his whispering to her with his dying breath. What did he say? Did he tell her he was her father? He doubted it. A revelation like that? Anita would have said something.

  Alfonso had been El Guapo’s lawyer right up until he was killed. Reyes had mentioned files—files that could prove everything about Operation La Peña. If they’re anywhere, they’d be here. Dawson stood and crept down the hallway, pausing to push open several doors until he found the study. He stepped in, leaving the door open.