Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  The light outside was the color honey as Dawson, Padre Antonio, and Suray walked across the tufts of grass to an unfenced graveyard. Handmade wooden crosses stood in no particular order, casting angular shadows, some tilted, some fallen. Some were thick and squat, some tall and proud. A few slabs of polished marble and a couple of iron crosses were decorated with plastic flowers. Beyond the graveyard, a rock outcroppings and tall pines covered the hillside.

  At a freshly made cross with wilted flowers, Suray sank to his knees, then removed his straw cowboy hat, and stared, mumbling a prayer and crossing himself.

  Padre Antonio pulled a vial of holy water from his robe and flung the water on the grave while mouthing a silent prayer. The sunlight sparkled on the sprays of water. When the prayer ended, the wind stirred the leaves of the nearby bushes.

  The priest motioned to Dawson for them to leave Suray alone.

  “More tesguino? The priest asked once inside his house. “The people here keep me well supplied.” Six two-liter plastic bottles sat below the freestanding sink. The priest put one of the bottles beside two cups on the table. It hissed and foamed as he twisted off the top. The priest poured, then lifted a cup in toast, nodding and gulping.

  Dawson inhaled the beery odors as he sipped the warm, sweet brew. “Not bad.”

  “The Raramuri drink this all the time and are often quite drunk. The whole family drinks, you know, including the children. They call it a ‘beautiful intoxication.’ A good description, don’t you think?”

  “They have reason to drink.”

  The priest nodded agreeably. “Beer is important to the Raramuri. The antidote to their harsh life. Did you know that the Raramuri say that a person’s spirit travels when the body sleeps. The night is the day of the soul.”

  “I didn’t know that. Native dream theory.”

  “Not a theory. It’s true. They say the soul visits other people and other realms, particularly the dead. They believe the dead are very much with us, but more present at night than in the day.”

  “Considering how many are killed up here, I suppose it helps keep the family together, whether they’re alive or dead.”

  The priest nodded. “Perhaps. I don’t get a chance to discuss such things with an outsider very often.”

  Dawson shrugged as the priest refilled his cup.

  “They are very concerned that the souls of the dead must be handled properly. It is a good thing, what you are doing for Suray.”

  “I’m here to write a story.”

  “Did you know that they believe men have three souls and women have four?”

  Dawson sipped. “No, I didn’t. A cat has nine, they say.”

  The priest squinted, shook his head, and stared at the table, cupping his hands around his drink. “Life has never been easy for these people.”

  “It seems to be getting worse.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “It doesn’t seem so mysterious to me.”

  Padre Antonio raised his eyebrows. “And how does it seem to you?”

  Dawson took another drink from his cup, unsure how much he wanted to discuss these things with the priest, who was clearly starved for conversation. “It seems the narcotráficos run wild in the mountains. They have the guns. The Raramuri don’t.”

  The priest nodded slowly and pondered Dawson with his good eye. “Many people profit from the misery of the poor. But it has always been like that throughout time.”

  “These people don’t deserve this form of misery.”

  The priest shook his head sadly, drained his cup, and refilled it. “The rich feed on the flesh of the poor. It is as true as the sun rises and the sun sets.”

  “If the Raramuri don’t do what the narcotráficos want, they’re killed. That fits no one’s definition of justice.”

  “The poor always serve the rich,” he said.

  Dawson watched the priest take a drink. “That does not make it right.”

  “You’re an American. So, tell me who is responsible for the misery here? Is it the people who grow the drugs or the people who buy them? If no one would buy the drugs, then no one would produce them. It’s as simple as that. The Americans do not want the drugs grown in their country, so they’re grown in Mexico.”

  Dawson took a deep breath. He didn’t feel like arguing.

  “Tell me,” the priest asked, “why do you come?”

  “I’m researching the drug trade,” Dawson said. “I know that Suray is a driver. So was his brother. He works for the Borrego family. He may have been an employee of El Guapo himself.”

  The priest smiled. “El Guapo! Such is what becomes of the rich and powerful! They die with as little dignity as the poor Indians whose bodies fill the ground beneath our feet. But don’t you see that these people live with greater dignity than the rich and the powerful? You need not worry so much about the fate of the poor.”

  “You knew El Guapo?”

  “Of course. Everyone up here knew El Guapo. And his family. We are not far from El Guapo’s great hacienda.”

  “Really?”

  “An hour or two. By four-wheel-drive.”

  The door swung open and Suray stood stepped stiffly inside. The priest motioned for him to join them at the table. The priest filled a third cup with beer and put it on the table. Suray stood at the table, drank it down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Gracias,” he said, then turned to Dawson. “We must go to the house of my brother.”

  “You’re both welcome to stay here,” the priest said. “There are a couple of beds in that room. Please feel welcome.”

  Suray shook his head, no.

  Padre Antonio shrugged as if it was a matter of fate.

  * * *

  Dawson had a sinking feel as he drove in the darkness down a narrow dirt road lighted only by the truck’s solitary headlight. He felt once again in a place where there was no law, no law as most Americans knew it, where one took care of one’s self, trusting only family, friends, and clan. Like in Afghanistan, a place where might made right.

  This was a place where three men could sit in a small room in a store and get drunk and mean as hell and do whatever came into their heads and give no thought to the rightness or wrongness of it, only that they can do whatever they wanted and get away with it. This was a place where people like Suray carried a sawed-off shotgun because if he didn’t, then he’d be at the mercy of people who didn’t give a damn about them or anyone else.

  The headlights swept across the grass as Suray motioned for him to stop as they nosed onto another set of ruts that led up a dark hill. “La casa de mi hermano,” Suray said. The house of my brother.

  A look of horror spread over Suray’s face, barely visible in the dashboard dials. Then Dawson knew why. Lighted by a half moon hanging low in the night sky, he could see that a pickup truck was parked near a rough-hewn log cabin. The truck of the mescal drinkers. They’d come straight to this cabin. Dawson’s heart leapt to his throat as he turned off the engine. It rattled dead. Dawson dowsed the lights.

  Suray lifted his hand, signaling for Dawson to wait. Suray opened his door slowly and stepped out. He reached under the seat with his right hand, and pulled out his shotgun.

  Dawson stepped out as well. A penetrating shriek came from inside the cabin, followed by the shouts of the men and the thump of something falling. It was eerily quiet except for a moaning cry. Suray crept up the dirt track to the cabin, holding the sawed-off shotgun at the ready. He moved quickly, then paused at the door. Dawson followed, giving Suray room. Suray turned and waved Dawson away, his eyes ablaze.

  Dawson flattened himself against the side of the cabin, watching the door. Suray sucked in a deep breath, the shotgun held in his right hand and braced with his left. He lifted his leg, kicked open the door, and sprang inside. The shotgun exploded. A moment later, it exploded again. Then silence.

  Dawson took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway. He peering inside, his heart pounding. In the d
im light of a hanging kerosene lantern, two of the Mexicans were bloodied and motionless on the floor. The third was on the bunk, frantically tugging at his jeans as he pointed a revolver at Suray.

  The Mexican fired as Suray’s shotgun erupted again. Suray fell backward against the wall where he slumped to the floor. The Mexican was thrown back onto the jumble of blankets on the low bed, his chest splayed open, exposing blood and bone. A pistol still in his hand, the Mexican looked at Dawson and mumbled, “Gringo.” His eyes went dark, the life wheezing out of him. Dawson’s ears rang in the silence, his body trembled. He sank to his knees.

  A woman rose from the floor and grabbed a young girl from the bed where she emerged naked and bloody from beside the dead Mexican. The girl shrieked as her mother clutched her and cried, wrapping her in a blanket.

  Dawson drew a deep breath, trying to gather himself, and dropped to his knees beside Suray, whose chest was wet with dark red blood, his eyes unfocused and distant. “Esta bien,” he groaned, then wheezed. His eyes went blank.

  A young boy hovered at the door, his eyes filled with terror as the young girl, wrapped in a blanket, blubbered with fingers in her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  The woman wailed and shouted in Spanish at Dawson. “They will kill us all now! You must go away! Leave this place. Leave!”

  Dawson looked at the mayhem. He did not want to leave. He’d come to help get these people, and now they were in a deeper one. His mind screamed. He needed to stay and do something.

  “Come with me. I will take you where you want to go.”

  The woman shook her head, eyes filled with tears. She looked at Dawson like it was his fault, as if he’d brought bad luck. Maybe she’s right. Now it’s going to get worse. Reluctantly, Dawson stood, turned, and went back to the SUV. He paused, then climbed in and drove away.

  Dawson felt sick and lost as he wheeled the Suburban around to the far side of the church, away from public view. He killed the engine and headlights. He waited for a moment then checked his watch: 11:20 p.m. How he’d found his way back was a minor miracle. A dog barked in the distance. He knocked on Padre Antonio’s door. A light came on inside and the door opened.

  “Something is wrong,” the priest said.

  “Yes, something bad happened.”

  Padre Antonio poured Dawson a cup of beer in the flickering light of a candle as he recounted the killings. As he finished, the priest crossed himself and mumbled a prayer. “There is nothing to be done at this hour,” he said.

  “What about the woman and her children? I came up here to help Suray, and now he’s dead.”

  “It is none of your doing.”

  An hour later, light-headed from the beer, Dawson lay on a thin mattress on a wooden bunk in a sparse cell of a room. The bloody shooting replayed in his mind, looping endlessly, consuming his thoughts. His heart pounded and his breath was short. The priest had placed a flickering candle on the small wood table in the corner by his bed. Dawson’s eyes fell on a simple carved wooden crucifix, the only adornment on an otherwise blank wall. For a moment, he felt like praying, not only for Suray, but for himself.

  Chapter 48

  Barrancas del Cobre, Mexico

  Dawson awoke with a start, opening his eyes to the dim light of dawn seeping in through a solitary high window. For a moment he had no idea where he was. He looked at the crucifix on the wall—Jesus nailed to the cross, head fallen forward, wreathed with thorns. His gaze dropped to his backpack as the events of the night erupted in his mind—the gunshots exploding and ringing in his ears. His head thumped, and he again wondered what he was doing and why. The old phrase crossed his mind: No good deed goes unpunished. Whoever came up with that one was right, he thought. Maybe he’d become an editor or something.

  Dawson heard the priest shuffling in the kitchen, the tin pan clanking with silverware. Then a knock on his door. “Señor Americano. Hay gente aquí,” Padre Antonio said. There are people here.

  Oh, Jesus. Now what? Dawson moaned and sat up. His neck was stiff. “Okay. Just a moment.” He rubbed his face awake, pulled on his shirt, jeans, and boots, and stepped into the priest’s kitchen. Two uniformed federal policemen stood and held semiautomatic rifles. A third, wearing a dark blue sweater with epaulettes and a black beret with a gold patch, sat at the table, eyeing Dawson darkly.

  “Come, my friend,” the priest said, motioning him to join them at the table. “These men say you witnessed a killing last night.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “I told them you spent the night here. Do you want coffee?”

  “Yes, of course,” Dawson said warily. He hesitantly sat down and stared at the man across from him with the beret.

  “This is Captain Romero of the federal police,” the priest said, as he poured dark, steaming coffee into a cup Dawson and for Romero, then put a bowl of sugar on the table. The officer watched as Dawson emptied a spoonful of sugar into the cup and stirred.

  Romero produced a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and offered it to Dawson, who waved it off. Romero shrugged, and then took it for himself, placing it between thick lips below his bushy mustache. He cupped his hands to light it with a wooden match, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and waved the match out.

  “Three men are missing,” Romero said slowly, eyeing Dawson. “They were last seen at this village. Some Indians from a nearby village have disappeared as well.”

  “Why do you think I know anything?” Dawson sipped the coffee.

  “I told them you were a researcher,” the priest said. “I believe that is what you told me.”

  Dawson nodded. “Close enough.”

  Romero gazed skeptically, then glanced at the priest, then at Dawson. “What do you study in these mountains?” he asked.

  Dawson shrugged. “The Indians.”

  Romero showed no reaction, looking at Dawson as if he was part of some strange world that he did not understand where people concerned themselves with inconsequential things.

  “From where do you come?” he asked.

  “From El Paso.”

  Silence hung in the air.

  “Yesterday some men I know were alive and went to talk to the Indians. Now they are gone. You were seen with an Indian man named Suray. You are driving his vehicle. Where is he?”

  “He’s my guide. When we went to the house of his brother, three men were there. They were drunk, acting like animals.”

  Romero dragged deeply on the cigarette and let the smoke dribble out of his nose. He tapped ashes to the floor. “For an educated man, you have trouble seeing the difference between what is important and what is not. Indians are only good for certain things. Otherwise they are useless.” He dragged deeply again and exhaled another cloud of smoke.

  Dawson’s stomach knotted.

  “This man Suray. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Dawson said.

  “The man Suray has forgotten that he is an Indian,” Romero said. “He and his brother made a lot of problems.”

  Dawson shrugged.

  Romero sat motionless. “Padre, the American will come with us.”

  “Where are we going?” Dawson asked.

  Romero looked at Dawson and motioned him outside.

  Chapter 49

  Barrancas del Cobre, Mexico

  Anita awoke, her head thumping as sunlight flooded the bedroom. It was not her room or her bed. Carlos. What little she remembered made her bury her head under a pillow, not wanting to face the day. She choked out a sob. The night remained a blur—everything after the pool. Remnants of a dream. She huddled under the sheets, drawing her knees to her chest.

  Tears filled her eyes. She rolled over and touched her face. It hurt. Her lips were puffy, her eyes felt swollen. She felt the soreness between her legs creeping to her stomach. She remembered the thrusting, the grunting.

  She rose and pulled a bathrobe from a hanger before making her way to the spacious tiled bathroom. She fearfully looked at her face in t
he mirror. Her face looked a bit puffy, but her dark eyes were clear. She looked again closely. What have I done? She sucked in a deep breath and, leaning on the counter, hung her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

  She showered, letting the warm water wash away the night. She tried to ignore the voice telling her she was going to die. No, I’m not! she told herself. She’d walked into this mess with her eyes wide open and she was going to walk out of it. But could she?

  She was angry—angry at herself for not being more cautious. She’d been naïve to think she would waltz into Carlos’s life, get a dramatic interview, and walk out. Just like that. She was paying the price. It had been her dignity and pride, she realized, but what galled her the most was that she had been unable to resist him. Now there was nothing she could do about it.

  After her shower, she wrapped herself in a thick, white cotton robe and walked barefoot onto the wooden deck outside the bedroom and settled into a chair. Maybe the sunshine would help melt away the fear.

  The deck held a commanding view of the hacienda grounds, the Quonset huts, and a scattering of buildings set in an oval-shaped bowl surrounded by forested mountains. His men were scattered about the compound, not obviously standing guard, but doing so while busying themselves. There was no clear route of escape. Carlos was in control.

  Always.

  Her thoughts began to crystalize. She was being used in every possible way—mentally, physically, professionally.

  Anita returned to her room, got dressed in jeans, boots, and her blouse, then picked up her laptop and returned to the deck. She signed on to the high-speed Wi-Fi that permeated the grounds. She would send a note to her bosses, telling them she was okay. But even if she wasn’t, what could they do? Send in the fucking army? Carlos had an army of his own and an arsenal to back it up. Her eyes watered and she again fought back tears.