Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  The lights brightened as Madsen strode into the hall from a rear door. A cheer erupted in the crowded room, quickly becoming a chant of “USA! ... USA! ... USA!” Madsen forced a tentative smile as he shook dozens of hands on his way through the crowd. He took the stage, flanked by his wife, his son, and his daughter, and waved at his supporters, who continued to applaud as a show of their enduring support despite his miserable defeat. At the lectern, he motioned for quiet. The large room fell eerily silent. His face became deadly serious. “I have just gotten off the phone with President Harris. I congratulated him on his victory.”

  The crowd booed loudly.

  “Up until just recently, it looked like we were going to win.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “However, the Washington Herald chose to publish a story that amounts to little more than a smear campaign. It is one of the cheapest, lowest tactics I could ever imagine. That a once prestigious publication would stoop so low shows to what depth the news media will sink to perpetuate the liberal agenda.”

  After a moment, angry shouts erupted.

  Madsen waved for his supporters to be calm. “We may have lost the battle, but the war is far from over. As long as I draw a breath, I vow that I will not stop fighting for the America we all love and cherish. We must never forget that ours is a special nation. Our government is one that is of the people, by the people, and for the people. Ours is a nation that shall not perish from this earth. God bless you all, and God bless America.”

  The crowd erupted into wild cheers.

  Dawson looked at Frankel, Butler, and the other reporters, then shook his head. Madsen’s concession speech had been predictable. He had not addressed the issue that led to his defeat. Dawson felt sick as he strode back to his desk. He realized that Madsen probably believed he had done nothing wrong.

  ***

  Several weeks after the election, Dawson joined a cluster of reporters outside Madsen’s stately red-brick house in suburban Washington, D.C. The front door of the house opened and Madsen, head down and shoulders slumped, was led down the steps, surrounded by FBI agents.

  Reporters shouted out questions and thrust microphones toward him. Dawson hung near the edge of the crowd, watching as Madsen scowled, a defeated man. Pausing at the door of the FBI’s black SUV, he caught a glimpse of Dawson and locked eyes with him. Dawson’s stomach tightened as he saw and felt Madsen’s white-hot hatred before the senator was shoved into the back seat by an FBI agent. The door slammed shut. Dawson watched the convoy disappear down the long driveway and around the block.

  As much as he had wanted revenge for the murder of his father, he felt little joy in Madsen’s destruction. There were no winners here. He had lost his father and also the love of his life. The entire country had been damaged by Madsen’s fall. He and his circle had committed crimes that had to be punished. Dawson plunged his hands into his coat pockets and ambled down the block, glum as the overcast skies that drizzled a cold rain. At the corner, he flagged down a taxi and climbed in.

  Chapter 59

  Rancho la Peña, New Mexico

  Dawson paused, having spent the past hour explaining to Garcia how Madsen had fallen. He looked up from the letter that lay on the desk in front of him. It was on the Washington Herald stationery and read:

  The editorial board of The Washington Herald is proud of the excellent work you have accomplished and the journalistic integrity you have displayed in your tenure with our newspaper. Because of this, we are offering you the position of political columnist. You will have complete freedom to write, research, and comment on any topic of your choosing. Terms will be negotiated. We look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.

  Dawson pushed the letter across the desk to Garcia, who picked it up and quickly scanned it. He looked at Dawson. “Well? What are you going to do?”

  Dawson reached for the bottle of tequila that sat between them on the desk. He pulled off the stopper and gurgled tequila into the glass. He jammed the stopper back in the bottle, then lifted the glass and sipped. “I don’t know,” he said, setting the glass down. “Being a columnist is the pinnacle of the profession. “You write about what matters to you, not the editors or PR flacks.”

  “So take it.”

  Dawson took another sip. “I don’t know, Raoul. It just doesn’t seem right.”

  Garcia shook his head in disbelief. “What’s not right about it? You’d have your own office and you don’t need to report to anyone. What do you want?”

  “Yeah.” Dawson looked out the glass doors to the putting green, now empty. It was evening and the sun was about to set. “But I got into this business because it was exciting and interesting. I could go places and do things.”

  “And you did, Dawson. Maybe it’s time to slow down.”

  He glanced at Garcia and curled his lips into a half smile. “I’m not ready to hang up my spurs,” he growled in a forced drawl.

  Garcia narrowed his eyes. “You have spurs?”

  Dawson leaned back and pointed to the wall, where a pair of handmade silver spurs hung on a nail.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “What’s going on at your shop?” Dawson asked, changing the subject.

  Garcia reached for the bottle and poured himself a refill. “Carter’s gone, of course. He and Madsen are probably going to be bunkmates.”

  “A marriage made in heaven.”

  Garcia took a deep breath. “For the time being, I’m fine. But no one is talking to me now. They think I’m dangerous. They think I ratted out Carter and gave you the stuff.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I know that. But they don’t.”

  “So?”

  “So, there’s always the private sector.”

  “Those guys make serious money.”

  “Yeah, they do.”

  Dawson’s phone vibrated on the desk. He picked it up. “Dawson here.” He listened. “Okay, see you then.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Anita’s mother.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She called me back. I told her I wanted to see her.”

  “Why, in God’s name?”

  “There’s something unfinished between us.”

  “You’re not one of her favorite people.”

  “I know. But I want to settle things. If I can. Then it’s goodbye.”

  Garcia shook his head in disbelief.

  Chapter 60

  Juárez, Mexico

  Dawson pulled to a stop in front of Margarita Alvarez’s house, glanced at his watch, and then at the house. He went to the gate and rang the door buzzer. Of course he had his doubts. But for his own conscience, he wanted to give back the sheaf of documents he’d lifted from her late husband’s office. And Margarita was his last link to Anita, who was gone forever.

  After her death, Anita’s body had been returned to her mother in Juárez. By then Dawson had flown to Washington and was unable to attend her funeral. But he couldn’t just walk away and abandon all that had happened over the years. He had convinced himself that this was the right thing to do.

  The gate clicked and Dawson pushed it open. Skirting the gurgling, blue-tiled fountain, he stepped up to the front door. The maid opened it a crack, and nodding, stepped back, motioning for Dawson to enter. She quickly closed the door and turned a pair of dead bolts, then secured a chain lock.

  Margarita stood unsteadily at bottom of the curving stone stairs, a drink in her hand, her eyes cold and dark, her face unsmiling. Dawson looked at her warily, wondering now why he had thought this was a good idea. Margarita motioned for them to sit in the living room.

  It seemed like another lifetime when he’d left her passed out on the same couch where she was now sitting. She’d shared her deepest, darkest secret with him, a secret that had shaken him. Anita had deserved to know. But that was not to be.

  For the moment, it didn’t matter. He faced Margarita, whose eyes were bloodshot from drinking, but
she seemed more composed than the last time. It was still early in the day. The maid lowered a silver tray with two drinks. Margarita put her empty on the tray, took the full one, and waited while Dawson took his. Dawson lifted his glass slightly. “To Anita’s memory?”

  “Is that why you wanted to see me? To drink a toast to my dead daughter?” Margarita’s dark eyes flared with anger.

  Dawson had not rehearsed a speech, and she wasn’t making this easy. “I…uh…wanted to tell you how sorry I am for all that has happened.”

  Margarita narrowed her eyes.

  “I hope we can be friends,” he added.

  “Friends?” Margarita scowled. “You are unbelievable.”

  It was the reaction he’d expected. “Margarita, please, let me finish.”

  Margarita dismissed his comment with a brisk wave of her hand. Her body began to shake with rage. “Because of you, Anita could never have children. And then you left her.” She glared at Dawson, letting her words linger. “She always envied what you achieved. That is why she went to the mountains to interview Carlos.”

  “She was a good reporter,” Dawson said. “She was able to do things that few others, if any, could have done.”

  “Do you think any of that matters to me? You journalists think the world revolves around you. You think that the rest of us are hanging on your every word.”

  Dawson looked at her meekly and shifted uncomfortably as Margarita stood and leaned over him. “My husband is dead,” she shouted, waving her finger in the air. “And because of you, I have no grandchildren and no daughter.”

  “What happened to Anita was an accident,” he said, raising his voice defensively. “I’m sorry. I’ve said that many times before.”

  Margarita rolled her eyes, then sat down hard into the couch, as if exhausted from her tirade. She continued to glare.

  “I need to tell you something,” Dawson said trying to maintain his calm. “That night when I left you here, when you told me who Anita’s true father was, I took documents from Alfonso’s office. I used them for my story. I’m returning them to you.” He took the files from his briefcase and put them in a pile on the coffee table.

  “You are even more disgusting than I thought. Not only did you destroy my family, you have destroyed the Borregos, the only family I have left here. You don’t realize that Alfonso and I were from El Salvador. We have banking and other business interests in Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua. It was our families who backed Madsen. Now, because of you, our bank accounts have been closed due to the investigation into Madsen’s affairs. We’re ruined. Do you understand me? Ruined!” She stood again and pointed a trembling finger at him. “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of my house!”

  Dawson sat motionless, stunned. In his rush to get the story into print, he had not bothered to looked beyond the Operation la Peña. But Madsen’s connections extended deep into Central and South America. He should have known. The enormity of it sickened him. What he had written about Madsen was just the tip of the iceberg. Dawson’s mind raced. But of course! José Reyes had told him as much when they sat on the back porch in Juárez. He said Fonseca and his men had done the DEA’s dirty work in each of those countries. What exactly was that dirty work? His hand trembled with anger and excitement as he put what was left of his drink on the coffee table. He pressed his hands to his thighs as he stood and looked at Margarita.

  “I came here because I thought we could settle things. I was wrong.” He went to the door and waited as the maid unbolted the locks and opened it. He turned and shook his head.

  Margarita emitted a guttural groan. She hurled her glass and screamed, “Get out!”

  Dawson ducked as the glass smashed against the door, shattered, and fell to the tiled floor.

  Outside, he closed the gate behind him with a click, paused on the street, and turned for a moment to look back at the house. Why had he been so naïve as to think that everything could be forgiven and forgotten? He had tried, only to be hit with a blast of anger. His defeat and frustration began to evaporate at the thought of what Margarita had told him. There was more to the Madsen story. Much more.

  As Dawson reached for his truck door, two black Cadillac Escalades swerved around the corner and screeched to a stop, blocking the road. Guns were pointed at him from the windows. He crouched and turned, looking left and right as men dressed in black commando gear and black ski masks leapt out and blocked his way. They grabbed him before he could run, throwing a bag over his head and pushing him into the back compartment.

  Chapter 61

  Juárez, Mexico

  Dawson hung from his arms, his wrists in handcuffs looped in a steel hook at the end of a heavy chain that dangled from overhead. His toes barely touched the concrete floor. A sharp pain seared from his stretched rib cage. As he’d been strung up, he’d taken body blows and kicks, one of which crunched a couple of ribs in an explosion of white pain. Vicious blows from a metal rod delivered to his legs left them throbbing.

  The bag was yanked off his head and he blinked to get his bearings. He was in a warehouse and saw half a dozen men wearing camo pants, sweat-stained T-shirts, and black masks. Dawson’s shoulders seared as the muscles strained to keep his arms from being wrenched off. His head hung forward.

  One of the masked men approached and an explosion hit the left side of his face, leaving it burning. Dawson groaned as warm blood filled his mouth, choking him. He coughed and spit blood to the concrete floor. He tried to focus on his assailant through swollen eyes. He was a burly man who removed his black knit head mask to reveal a thick head of hair, broad forehead, bushy eyebrows and vicious eyes.

  Another blow slammed against the right side of his head, like lightning had struck, igniting his skull. He groaned again, squeezing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to endure the agonizing pain. He opened his eyes and glimpsed the motion of the fists as they struck his head again in rapid succession. His mind mercifully went blank.

  Sharp jolts of pain jabbed though his skull and pulsed up and down his body, bringing him back to consciousness. Each gasping breath wracked his chest as the broken ribs dug into his soft flesh. Warm blood trickled into his eyes and down the sides of his face. His swollen nose pulsed. He gagged and struggled through his swollen eyes to see Carlos Borrego in front of him.

  I should have known. His face in a sneer, Carlos flicked a telescoping metal baton out to its full length, then wiggled it in front of Dawson’s face. “You disappointed me, Dawson.”

  “Whaaat?” Dawson mumbled.

  “Come now, Dawson. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Dawson shook his head, trying to clear it. He groaned, unable to speak with his swollen tongue. “Nothing…I …could…do.”

  “They’ve seized our company and our family assets. They’ve frozen my accounts in the U.S. Do you know what that means?”

  Dawson struggled as pain rippled through his body. One thing was clear. Carlos was the sadistic bastard that he had always suspected. “Killing…me…won’t…change…anything. You… can’t… stop…them.”

  Carlos raised the steel baton high and brought it down on Dawson’s left knee. Dawson screamed as his knee and leg felt like they were on fire.

  Carlos stepped back, then motioned for one of his men to hit Dawson. The man’s fist snapped Dawson’s head back as if on a swivel. Dawson’s head flopped forward, his face and swollen nose dripping blood, everything going black. Dawson felt a bucket of water splash into his face. He coughed himself into consciousness.

  “You are a weasel, just like your father. When he went to the authorities, he paid the price. Just like you will pay.”

  Carlos motioned again to his men. They noisily dragged an empty steel drum over to Dawson, lifted his legs and put them in it.

  “Dawson, we have delicacy here in Juárez. I think you know about it. It is called guiso. You know what guiso is?”

  “No,” Dawson moaned. “Carlos... No... Don’t… do…this.”

  “
You do know! It’s stew. Cooked meat.”

  Carlos’s men emptied a large canister of gasoline into the drum, filling it up to Dawson’s calves. He gagged and coughed as the fumes roiled upward, clogging and fouling the air.

  “We’re going to do something special with you. We’re going to make you into a human torch. A sacrifice to our beloved goddess, Santa Muerta.”

  Dawson croaked, unable to speak, and shook his head no.

  “No? You don’t like that idea?” Carlos waved again to his men. Another canister of gasoline was poured over Dawson’s head, dousing him as it splashed downward, soaking his clothes and draining into the tub. Dawson gasped and choked. “Carlos… don’t…,” he slurred.

  Carlos grinned, his eyes flashing as he took a lighter from his pocket, stood back, and spun the flint with his thumb. A yellow flame flickered. Carlos held the lighter at arm’s length, waving it back and forth slowly. “Because of you, I am ruined. It will be a pleasure to see you die.”

  Carlos motioned to the man who’d been pounding Dawson’s face. He closed the lighter and tossed it to him. “You can do the honors while I make a video of this. You see, Dawson, you’re going to be star. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

  Carlos’s man flicked the lighter. The yellow flame burned again. Dawson struggled to focus on the flame. So this was how it would end? A scorching roar of flame. He prepared himself for unspeakable pain and closed his eyes in defeat.