Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  She brushed the moisture away and scrolled through the news websites, stopping at the stories of the mass graves at Rancho Seco. Her stomach tightened as she read, barely noticing one of the young Raramuri girls who brought a carafe of coffee.

  Anita nodded a thank you as the girl filled her cup, then sipped as she read. She’d missed out on a national story! “Damn,” she muttered as her mind drifted from her predicament. Why didn’t Carlos tell me? But then, why would he?

  Anita clenched her jaw. Her earlier complaints to Dawson about America’s willful ignorance of the borderlands were now confirmed. The story was national only due to the number of bodies that had been found. Still, she thought, no one cared about dead Mexicans. Murder was rampant just across the border, but Americans acted like it was someone else’s problem, certainly not theirs.

  With the night’s bitter events still in her mind, she was more firmly committed than ever to her plan for the story. She was going to present him as, “Meet Carlos Borrego, Mexico’s newest and most powerful drug lord. Coming to a neighborhood near you.” That would draw attention to her and the issue. It was not an exaggeration. But it would certainly infuriate Carlos. He wanted her to tell a different story, one calculated to divert attention from the deadly realities of the Mexican drug cartels.

  Carlos had said that if he didn’t supply the drugs Americans wanted—and demanded—then someone else would. Carlos used this logic to justify the enormous empire that his father had built. She didn’t believe for a minute that Carlos would walk away from it all. That’s not a story I can tell, because no one will believe it. He’ll come after me if I tell the truth. It was a risk she’d take. Even if it meant her death.

  * * *

  As the bright morning sun burned away the last of her dull headache, Anita leaned over the camera and filmed Carlos riding one of his prized horses. He easily guided his mount in tight turns around posts and over low jumping rails. She could see that the horses were well trained, or at least had been, but needed to be worked and ridden more often. Another excess of drug cartel wealth.

  Her stomach burned from the coffee, the only thing she could swallow that morning. The thought of eggs nauseated her. But hunger was not what bothered her. Her encounter with the young Raramuri girl who had brought the coffee had gone wildly wrong.

  After reading the mass graves story, she’d closed her laptop. If things got bad with Carlos, she needed to get out of the hacienda and into the mountains. To do that, she’d need help. The servant girls were the local natives. They came and went. They knew the territory, the narrow paths in and out of the mountains.

  She’d waited patiently for the young girl to return, and had taken her by the hand. The girl had been surprised, frightened at Anita’s touch, but had not withdrawn her hand. “I need your help,” Anita said.

  The girl looked at her confused, wondering how she could help this woman.

  “I need to leave this place. Escape.”

  The young girl frowned and shook her head slowly.

  “Please,” Anita insisted quietly. “I am in danger. That man, Carlos. El jefe. He’s no good.”

  The young girl stared, her frown deepening. She looked into the surrounding forests.

  “You know the ways,” Anita pleaded. “If I need to leave, can you help me?” She knew the girl had no idea of the danger of her request, her appeal. Running into the forests was probably stupid, she realized, but it was the only thing she would think of at the moment.

  The girl drew deep breath. Her eyes began to water as she appeared to struggle for words. Then the girl pivoted, her eyes wide with fright. They stared at Carlos.

  “You’re up,” Carlos said calmly.

  The girl hurried off the deck and disappeared into shadows of the bedroom.

  “What was that all about?” Carlos asked.

  Anita had shaken her head, smiled, and turned away, her throat thick with fear.

  ***

  Anita held her eyes against the viewfinder, her hand on the grip as the camera followed Carlos’s ride. She lifted her head, waved, and shouted that she was finished. She had captured the young drug lord at play. She waved at one of Carlos’s men, ever present, and after turning off the camera and folding the tripod, sent the man and her camera to her room.

  Ten minutes later Anita was riding her own horse around the corral and over the low jumps, just as Carlos had done, adding a few sharp turns around posts and barrels, a skill she’d learned as a young girl. The horse was exceptionally responsive and anxious to please, undoubtedly happy to be free from the boredom of the stables. She thought of galloping the horse into the woods, but knew she’d not get far.

  * * *

  Wearing large sunglasses and a cowboy hat, Anita trailed Carlos, both atop their horses walking through the forest. The sun was high, casting mottled shadows through the pines. She booted her horse alongside Carlos, who smiled, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, as if nothing had happened.

  She hesitated, then took a deep breath and dived in. “The government is digging up mass graves at Rancho Seco. Did you know about that?”

  Carlos turned to her with a thin smile. “What are you asking?”

  “You know what I’m asking.”

  Carlos shrugged. “Rancho Seco is one of the many places my father did business. About the bodies, I know nothing.”

  Really? Anita lowered her eyes and listened to the rhythmic clop-clop of the horses. “How is that possible? They say there are hundreds, Carlos. Hundreds of bodies.”

  “I never spent time there. It was just one of the places we owned.”

  Yeah, right. They rode silently as she searched for a way to get him to come clean without setting him off. “What’s done is done, I suppose. It’s good that the ugliness of the past is being uncovered. But just because you didn’t go there, doesn’t mean you didn’t know.”

  Carlos pulled off his sunglasses, his eyes flashing. “The left hand never knows what the right hand is doing. It’s better that way. Safer. No one, not even the ones we can trust, know the full extent of what is happening on any given day.”

  She nodded. “I understand. But still.”

  Carlos shook his head. “You know that thousands of people have been killed in Juárez. Over a period of five, six, or seven years, what’s a couple of hundred bodies? Nothing. How in the hell would I know what happened or who killed them?” Carlos put his sunglasses back on and fell silent for a moment. “Ask my father, if you can get him to talk from the grave.”

  She glanced at Carlos. Liar. He thinks I’m going to tell the world he’s going legit. Let him live with that fantasy. She returned her gaze to the ground.

  “Your friend called me,” Carlos said. “What is his name? Dawson.”

  “Kyle Dawson?” She felt a jolt of anger.

  “How did he get my number?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know.” Then it came to her. That night! The phone was in the bathroom! Damn. She drew a breath. “He may have seen it on my phone.” She shook her head, angry with herself that she’d let that happen. Okay. Dawson can have the dead bodies. This story is better. Much better. But she’d been sloppy. She knew it and so did Carlos.

  Carlos lowered his voice. “You need to be more careful.”

  His tone was threatening and it scared her. “I’m sorry. I will be.” She wanted to change the subject back to the mass graves. “Isn’t it curious that the police would find them now? After all this time?”

  Carlos looked into the distance. “I told you that I was going to clean up all of my family’s old business.”

  Anita stared, thinking about his response. “You tipped them off?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Carlos said with a smile.

  She fell silent again. Yes, he’s good. He’d brought the conversation back around to him going legit. Maybe there was more to his claim than she wanted to admit. Or maybe the discovery of the mass graves was a diversion. But from what?

  They came to the edge
of the forest where they reined the horses to a stop. “I want you to look at something,” Carlos said, standing in the stirrups to his full height, grasping the saddle horn with one hand and pointing with the other. Below were irrigated fields flanked by the pine-covered mountain slopes. In the distance rose large sheds of corrugated metal, and beyond that, houses and barns.

  Indians worked among the tall rows of leafy marijuana, hoeing the ground. In another field the taller, mature plants were being harvested by men wielding machetes. They tossed the plants onto a wagon pulled by a tractor. At the perimeter, heavily armed guards watched over the fields, some patrolling with automatic rifles slung over their shoulders.

  One of the guards stopped and lifted his cowboy hat, rubbing his scalp as he scanned the surrounding forest. Two guards moved to the shade of a nearby tree and sat down. One unscrewed a canteen, drank deeply, then handed it to the other.

  “Harvest is beginning,” Carlos said, easing back into the saddle. “The drying sheds are over there,” he said, pointing. “We dry, cut, and bundle it here. This is just one of many plantations and processing plants.”

  “I wish I had my camera.”

  “I could never allow you photograph it.”

  “One plantation out of how many?”

  “We have poppy fields in Guerrero and Durango.”

  “Black tar heroin.”

  “It’s the fastest growing part of the business. Meth is nearly as big. That’s why we keep the house and office in Acapulco.”

  “I remember. I was there. Years ago.”

  “You should see it now,” Carlos said with a smile.

  Anita looked at the harvested plants. The marijuana market was being crowded out as U.S. states like Colorado and others legalized it. Many had approved medical marijuana. There’d been a surge in heroin overdoses. It was reaching epidemic proportions. Now she knew why. Carlos was supplying that demand. He insisted he was going legit? “You’re going to give this all up?”

  Carlos yanked off his glasses again and glared. “That’s what you’re going to tell the world.”

  “I’m not your mouthpiece, Carlos,” she said sharply. “You said this interview—”

  Carlos lifted his hand to cut her off. “Bastante! Enough!” It was not a request. It was a command. “Let’s go.” Carlos jerked his horse around.

  She scowled. She’d pushed him as far as she could. He was a drug lord now. She clenched her teeth, knowing that she had no choice but to swallow her anger.

  Chapter 50

  Barrancas del Cobre, Mexico

  Captain Romero rode in the front seat, turning occasionally to Dawson, who sat in the back seat of the black, late model Chevy Suburban with the words Policía Federal in big block letters across the sides. Dawson’s hands were cuffed in front of him with plastic ties.

  Dawson gazed distractedly at the passing countryside as they bumped and jolted over the dirt road. A dark blue king-cab pickup truck with thick roll bars trailed them, filled with federal policemen dressed in heavy gear and helmets, each armed with an assault rifle.

  The rumble of the SUV filled the vehicle, the recent events tumbling in his mind. Maybe these people are better off dead, Dawson thought dejectedly. The day before, the priest had said, the complexities of the universe were far beyond human understanding. He’d told Dawson to have faith that God worked for the best. Without faith, there was nothing, all is lost. Faith? Yeah, that’s what I need. Faith left me long ago. Dawson gritted his teeth at the priest’s words and rode in silence. “Where are we going?” he asked Romero.

  “We are going to see the new, young El Guapo.”

  “So these police officers work for Carlos?”

  Romero turned and glared. “We are police, but we…how shall I say, cooperate with the Borregos. Or at least we did. How we will work with the new el jefe, we must see.”

  The vehicle rumbled up a long slope that snaked over a low saddle in the hills. The vehicle paused, allowing Dawson to take in a view of a complex of buildings that comprised the Borrego hacienda. A paved airstrip edged with reddish dirt had been cut out of the forest, and parked beside it were several single-engine aircraft. At the side of the strip were the Quonset huts.

  “The hacienda,” Romero said with a wave.

  It was late afternoon when the two police vehicles angled down the hill, following the road, and parked beside a forest green Range Rover at a high white plastered wall with double wood doors. Romero motioned Dawson to step outside, and they watched the federales jump from their truck. Romero disappeared into the hacienda, leaving an eerie quiet in his wake. The air stirred, warm and dry.

  Twenty agonizing minutes passed as Dawson stood outside, leaning against the vehicle while the federales fingered their weapons and smoked cigarettes. Finally the heavy wood door opened, revealing a man whom Dawson recognized from the day of his father’s funeral as Carlos Borrego. He strode up to Dawson, scowling.

  “Buenos días,” Carlos said. “I am told three of my men have been killed and you were witness to it.” He looked at Dawson suspiciously, as if he recognized him, but didn’t know why.

  Dawson shrugged.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a researcher.”

  Carlos narrowed his eyes. “A researcher of what?”

  Dawson paused. “I’m studying the Raramuri.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Carlos said, and turned to Romero. “Give me your weapon.”

  Romero looked surprised, but slowly took his pistol from his belt and handed it over. Carlos pressed the barrel against at Dawson’s forehead.

  “What do you know of the murder of my men?” Carlos barked.

  Dawson said nothing.

  Carlos glared, his eyes drilling Dawson.

  “He was with the driver named Suray,” Romero said. “Now the Indian is gone, along with the men.”

  “We will find him,” Carlos said. “No matter where he ran.”

  “Don’t bother,” Dawson said. “He’s dead.”

  Carlos grimaced. Dawson caught only the flash of Carlos’s fist as his face exploded in pain. Dawson was knocked backwards against the police vehicle and fell to the ground. Stunned, he tried to roll away. Then pain surged through his ribs from a vicious kick by Carlos. Dawson gasped for breath and gagged, nausea gripping his stomach.

  Somewhere close by, Dawson heard a woman’s scream. “Carlos! Stop! He’s my friend.” Anita fell to her knees beside Dawson, waving off another kick.

  Dawson rolled to his side, then got to knees and squinted up at Carlos. She wiped dirt from Dawson’s face. He sucked in short, shallow breaths, hoping the sharp pain in his side would fade.

  “What are you doing here?” Anita cried, her eyes angry and confused.

  It was not the reaction Dawson had expected.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m not following you. I came into these mountains to write about the Raramuri and the drug trade. There’s been some killing … I met the padre… It’s a long story.”

  Carlos yanked Anita to her feet, then turned and glowered at Dawson. “Now I remember. You’re Kyle Dawson.”

  Dawson nodded. “Washington Herald. My father was Sam Dawson.”

  Carlos continued to glower. “Why were you not honest with me?”

  Dawson groaned and wheezed, then said, “Because people like you don’t welcome reporters.”

  Carlos laughed. “But who is this?” he said, motioning to Anita. “A reporter, right?”

  Dawson nodded. “That’s different.”

  Carlos nodded and smiled again. “Yes, she’s different. She’s special.” He took Anita’s hand. “Did you know that we have known each other since we were children?”

  “Vaguely,” Dawson said, remembering Margarita’s revelation. He suspected neither Anita nor Carlos knew that the truth about their relationship.

  “You’re lucky that Anita was here, otherwise I would have had to… Well, it would not have gone well for you.”
Anita smiled weakly at Carlos. He put his hand on Dawson’s shoulder. “Since you are Anita’s friend, you may stay. You will join us for dinner.”

  Carlos motioned to Romero. “Cut his hands free.”

  One of Romero’s men stepped forward and produced a heavy bladed knife. The plastic cuffs snapped and fell to the ground.

  “What do you want us to do with him?” Romero asked Carlos.

  Carlos shook his head slowly. “Nothing. I will take the Americano from here. Continue with your search for the man they call Suray. When you find him, kill him.”

  Anita helped Dawson to his feet. He drew a breath and again felt the sharp pain in his side. Damn.

  “Come,” she said. “I’ll take you inside.” She led him through the pool area and up the steps into the hacienda’s living room, then down the hall to an empty bedroom. Dawson gingerly sat on the edge of the bed. Anita crossed her arms. “Are you okay?”

  “Been better.”

  “I’m actually happy as hell to see you. But what are you doing here?”

  “I told you. I was trying to help some Raramuri. My mother’s relatives.”

  “So, you’re part Indian?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “You could have been killed.”

  “Carlos is a real sweet guy.”

  Anita shook her head in disgust. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “You’re interviewing him for the national network?”