He took a seat in the swivel chair behind the large desk and turned on the desk lamp. A wide filing cabinet sat beside the desk. He tugged on the cabinet drawer. Locked. Damn. He pulled open the wide, shallow drawer below the desktop, fished around, and found a couple of keys at the back. He froze as he thought he heard Margarita say something. He listened. Just a soft snort. He inserted a key into the file cabinet lock. It clicked open. He was about to rifle the files when Margarita moaned. The sound jolted him upright. He froze again and listened, holding his breath. Nothing. He exhaled slowly and dropped his gaze to the files.
He fingered through a few and pulled out a handful of sheets, scanning the pages. He smiled, then pulled out more, scanning each quickly. The more papers he found, the harder his heart pounded. The Holy Grail. Documents, letters, contracts, and more importantly e-mails, neatly copied and organized by date. Alfonso was a thorough man.
Thirty minutes later, with Margarita’s heavy breathing coming from the living room, he quietly closed the file cabinet drawer and locked it. He put the key back in its place, closed the drawer, and turned off the light. He stood and tucked the sheaf of papers under his arm.
In the living room, he paused. Margarita’s head was tilted back, her mouth still partly open, snoring softly. He closed the front door carefully behind him and hurried down the steps. In the faded light of evening, he climbed into his truck, started the engine, and drove away.
Chapter 43
Barrancas del Cobre, Mexico
Anita and Carlos stood on the steps overlooking the pool, each holding a glass of wine. The blue lights that outlined the nearby runway glowed in the darkness. They watched the blinking wing lights of another single-engine Cessna. The Cessna revved its engine on the landing strip, then rolled to the end of the runway, stopped, and turned around. The engine revved high and the plane jerked, the pilot holding the brake tight and preparing for a short takeoff. The plane lurched, sped down the strip, and lifted into the darkness.
As the plane disappeared, she turned, doubting more than ever Carlos’s claims that he would take the cartel legitimate. Her wineglass in hand, she followed him down to the poolside. “Carlos, tomorrow we need to begin the interview. I’m thinking of filming you out there by the corrals riding your horses. The light will be good. And it will be quiet. Then we can do the rest by the pool or inside.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Carlos dipped his fingers into his shirt pocket and produced a silver metal vaporizer. He put the cigarette sized device between his lips, inhaled deeply, and handed it to her. “Have you tried these?” he asked, exhaling the vaporized hash oil. “It’s really quite good.”
“Ah, I’d rather not.”
Disappointment clouded his face, then he smiled seductively. “Are you sure?”
Anita thought for a moment, then took it from his fingers. Holding it to her lips, she puffed deeply. She expected to cough, but didn’t as the cool smoke sank easily into her lungs. It had been years since she’d gotten high. Not that she was against it, but more that it didn’t align with her health and fitness regime. She exhaled, nodded and smiled.
Carlos grinned and took it back. “See?”
Anita sipped her wine, then took the vape from Carlos and inhaled deeply again. She exhaled a cloud of smoke that disappeared into the cool night air.
The night quickly took on a hazy glow and the blue runway lights seemed to intensify, a mini light show in the mountains. Carlos took her hand as they meandered slowly around the pool. The worries that had ravaged Anita’s mind throughout the day faded to nothing. She became lost in the sounds of the night, the feel of the cool mountain air on her skin, the scent of the pines. A fresh wine bottle and glasses had been placed on a table. Carlos splashed more wine in her glass and filled his as well.
Kicking a shoe from her foot, she dipped her toes in the pool. “Hmm. It’s warm,” she cooed. Carlos shrugged, still smiling, and looked at her with glowing eyes.
Anita drank deeply from the wine glass, then placed it clumsily back on the table. Standing at the edge of the pool and in the soft glow of the underwater lights, she felt higher than she’d ever remembered. It was the wine, she thought, and highly concentrated oil. A couple of hits was all she needed. She felt a wave of warmth fill her body and it was immediately followed by brush of cool air caressing her skin. She shuddered, goose bumps rising. She dove, letting the warmth wash over her.
* * *
Carlos watched, enthralled by what he saw, his breath suddenly short, his desire aching in his loins. This was the woman he had hoped to discover beneath the cool exterior Anita used to shut herself off from the world. This was the woman with whom he had been enthralled since he was a young boy, the woman he’d always admired from afar. She was as beautiful as ever. The slight lines around her eyes only gave her beauty the depth it deserved.
The party girls he could have anytime. There were too many to remember. Anita was special, different, and she was finally here. After all of this time, after all that happened. Yes, he had married. But now, with her lithe naked body splashing in the pool, none of that mattered. She would be his tonight.
Carlos fished the vial of coke from his pants pocket, twisted the top, and sniffed deeply, first one nostril and then the other. He screwed the vial shut, then swallowed the rest of his wine. He stripped off his clothes and dove into the pool.
***
There was a moment of welcomed warmth when Anita realized Carlos had her in his arms. She clung to him as he backed against the pool wall, and drew her face to his, kissing her deeply. She lacked the will to resist. She lifted her hands to push away, but his arms did not relent. “Carlos, please,” she said, not wanting to look up. “This isn’t right. I can’t…”
“Can’t what?” he said, with a feigned ignorance.
Anita worked her hands to his chest, then stopped. Carlos relaxed his grip and she was about to float free. She looked into his eyes, struggling to stay focused. But her eyes closed, and she relented to her desires. Then the night went black.
Chapter 44
Juárez, Mexico
“Suray’s been hurt,” Mercedes had said. She rarely called Dawson, but the fact that she had, worried him. It was as if she didn’t trust the telephone because the gravity of what she had to say could only be delivered face-to-face. Her tactics were irritating, but they worked. She knew him well, and knew that if she called for help, he’d come.
That Suray was injured didn’t surprise him. Mercedes would help, no matter what, saying that Jesus taught generosity and she would expect him to help as well.
When Dawson turned onto his mother’s street, Suray’s Suburban was parked on the street with two wheels on the sidewalk, barely visible in the dim light. Dawson parked behind it, locked his truck, then knocked on the front door. He paused, then turned the handle, and went in.
Suray and his wife sat on the couch in the living room, watching television. The curtains were drawn, and the room was again ablaze with candles, filling the room with stifling heat and the scent of burning wax. Suray was shirtless, his arm in a sling, with wide gauze and heavy white tape encircling his chest and shoulder. They looked at Dawson expectantly as he took a seat in an overstuffed chair covered with a brightly colored blanket.
“Que pasó?” Dawson asked. What happened?
Suray looked smaller and weaker than the last time he’d seen him. His angular face was shadowy and his dark eyes glistened in the candlelight, fluctuating from fierceness to fear. “I had some trouble,” Suray said slowly.
“You saw a doctor?”
Suray nodded, pointing to his left shoulder.
“What kind of trouble?”
Suray made the shape of a gun and imitated a shooting motion.
Dawson nodded. “Cuando?” When?
“Hace tres días,” Suray said. Three days ago.
“Donde?” Where?
“Aya,” he said, motioning to the distance. Suray’s wife sat quie
tly. They turned as a car pulled into the drive and stopped. A car door slammed and moments later Mercedes appeared in the living room. She glanced at Suray then bent to kiss Dawson’s forehead.
“I knew you would help,” she said.
“What are you talking about? I can’t help him.”
“Come to the kitchen,” she said.
Dawson took a seat at the small kitchen table and watched his mother remove a flat casserole dish from the refrigerator.
“Mama, you shouldn’t let people like Suray stay at your house anymore,” he said in English. “It’s dangerous.”
“He is family. He is not dangerous.”
“Why was he shot, then?”
“He was shot, but it was not his fault.”
“Mama! You don’t know that.”
“He’s a driver in a dangerous business,” she says quietly.
“Is that why his truck smells like marijuana?”
“It is the trouble that is all over the mountains.” She shook her head sadly.
“How did Suray get shot?”
Suray stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his face etched by pain, but Dawson was angry—angry that Suray had brought the drug war in to his mother’s house. Dawson waved a finger and said, “Don’t bring your guns and drugs to my mother’s house.”
Suray shook his head. “Usted no comprende,” he said. You don’t understand.
“It’s not his fault,” Mercedes said quickly. “He was forced to become a driver. If he had not, he would be dead. And maybe his wife and Rosita. Those men do awful things to our people.”
Our people? Dawson shook his head in disgust.
“They are family,” Mercedes said softly. “They have nowhere else to go. They are your family as well.”
They sat in silence. His mother opened the oven door and folded back the tin foil on a steaming enchilada casserole, then hastily set the table. Rosa and Rosita came to Suray’s side and helped him ease into a kitchen chair. Mercedes put out large plastic glasses on the table, along with a pitcher of iced tea, which Dawson poured. His mother served large portions from the casserole dish, then closed her eyes and mumbled a prayer. When she finished, Dawson instinctively crossed himself, as did the others. Suray stared at his plate, hardly eating.
“Suray’s brother has been killed in the mountains,” Mercedes said, breaking the silence. “Suray needs to get his brother’s family out of there.”
“Let me guess,” Dawson said. “And bring them here?”
Mercedes nodded pensively. “It is necessary. Otherwise they will be killed. But Suray can’t drive. You can see that.”
“He looks pretty tough to me.”
“You need to drive him.”
“What?” Dawson winced at the suggestion. He shook his head. “No, Mama, I have work to do. It’s impossible.” He poked at his food, his mind racing. It was absurd. His mother didn’t know what she was asking. It was like jumping off a cliff and hoping the ancient gods of the Aztecs would suddenly appear and hold him aloft.
But Anita was in the mountains already, filming her exclusive interview with Carlos. It would be a stunning story, the break she’d craved. Now what am I going to do? He weighed the options. Go with what he had, the trove of e-mails and documents that revealed the web of lies and linked Operation la Peña with God-knows-who and God-knows-what? He needed time to sift through it all and begin to tug on each and every thread.
But if he went into the mountains, then what? There was another story in the mountains, one that Anita would and could never get. The flip side of her interview with Carlos, who would soft-sell the horror and brutality of the drug trade. Suray could give him entree to the dark reality of that world—access others could only dream about. His heart pounded at the thought. Best of all, it was a story that Anita would never have and would blunt the impact of her story.
“Suray is a good man,” Mercedes said. “He knows the back roads. He can take care of you.”
Dawson looked at Suray, then at his mother. “He can take care of me?” Dawson chuckled to himself. “He can hardly take care of himself. Ask him how he got his wound.”
Mercedes spoke to Suray in Raramuri. His eyes widened as he responded, speaking for a long while, then paused to cough, which sent him into a spasm of pain.
“He says the bandit narcotráficos tried to stop him and steal a shipment of marijuana,” Mercedes said. “They do that all the time. There was some shooting. If they had taken it, he surely would have been killed.”
“My God. He had a gun battle with drug bandits?”
She spoke with Suray again.
“If he did not deliver the shipment, they would accuse him of stealing and they would kill him. He had to fight to protect the shipment, but also his own life.”
“What about his brother?”
She spoke again to Suray, who responded at length. “His brother was killed by the narcotráficos because they said he had stolen his shipment of marijuana. But it had been taken from his brother by the bandits. They didn’t believe him, so they killed him. His brother was an example to all the other Raramuri.”
* * *
Dawson packed a small bag, then called Frankel to explain that he was going into the mountains.
“What about the mass graves?” Frankel barked.
“It’s nothing but a body count now. And who knows when the Mexicans might file charges. The news agencies will be on top of it.”
Frankel sighed into the phone. “So tell me what you’re doing now?”
“I’m going into the mountains with one of the Raramuris.”
“One of the who?”
“The Raramuri. The native people of the Sierra Madre mountains.”
“Why in the hell are you doing that?”
“They’re the ones who do the labor of cultivating the marijuana and poppies in Copper Canyon.”
“Okay, I remember. Mexico’s equivalent of the Grand Canyon.”
“Yep. My guy’s from one of the villages up there. The cartels force the Raramuri to grow the stuff then drive it to distribution points. It’s a nasty business, Ed. It’s an angle no one else has. The drug business from the ground up.”
“What does this have to do with either your father’s death or Madsen and the election?”
“It’s the front end of the pipeline. The marijuana is grown in the mountains. It’s brought down to the places like Colonia Juárez and Nuevo Casas Grandes, where it’s loaded into trucks with produce. It crosses the border at Rancho la Peña, sits in warehouses, and then is shipped throughout the U.S. It’s why my father was killed. Madsen’s involved. I’ve got what I need to prove it. This is the last piece of the puzzle, Ed. I need to go there.”
“Who’s this Indian friend of yours?”
“He’s a relative of mine, a cousin, according to my mother.”
Frankel groaned. “A relative? So you’re part Indian?”
“Yeah. A quarter.”
“Jesus, everyone’s an Indian these days.”
Dawson cleared his throat and listened to silence on the other end of the line. “This may take a few days.”
Frankel was silent. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
“I’ll take a cell phone, but I’m not sure if there’s much coverage up there.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“I try to stay away from them.”
“Take one.”
Chapter 45
Chihuahua State, Mexico
Dawson struggled to keep Suray’s battered old Suburban on the road. The clunky vehicle pulled to the left and into oncoming traffic due to odd-sized bald tires on the front. And the front end was bent to hell from bashing over the mountains roads that were more rut than road.
Faded fringe dangled from across the top of the windshield, and grit coated the scratched and dulled dashboard presided over by a plastic figurine of Our Lady of Guadalupe glued above the ashtray. He wondered if the plastic figurine would protect him. Maybe there
was no big father in the sky, Dawson mused. Maybe we have protective saints because we like to believe in miracles. The idea that there was something better out there made this life a bit more tolerable, he thought. It was nice to think that something or someone was up there who cared.
Suray slouched against the passenger door, his head cushioned by a blanket, eyes closed, his mouth open as he slept. He looked dead. Suray must feel safe, he thought, otherwise he wouldn’t have fallen asleep. Suray had little reason to feel safe because I am a danger to him, he thought. Suray probably already knew that.
Dawson had no idea how he was going to explain why he was driving an old and battered vehicle with a Raramuri Indian in the passenger seat who had a bullet hole in his shoulder. Dawson shifted uneasily on the bench-style seat and adjusted the blanket that held back the seat spring from poking up through the padding.
The bare dirt farms and green haze of the distant fields felt oddly familiar as they come up fast on three bony cows at the side of the road grazing on sparse tufts of grass where the pavement crumbled into the dirt.
As they approached Chihuahua, a white police car with blue lights was parked beside the road. Dawson eased back on the speed because the policeman had a radar unit mounted to the window and had it pointed down the road. But as they passed, the policeman was sleeping. Dawson sighed in relief.
The slowing of the vehicle made Suray blink awake and sit up. He looked around, then rustled the bag of food on the seat between them and extracted a couple of foil-wrapped tortillas. He handed one to Dawson, who rolled it and took a bite. Mercedes had packed tamales and enchiladas in plastic bags—enough for a couple of days.
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