Jack noted the progress of the grass that was filling in the landscape with emerald color. More than half done. The men were working hard, taking direction well, and beginning to relax and joke around a little. When the job was finished, they’d all be taken to a holding house that would make the Starlight Inn look like the Waldorf-Astoria. It was virtual slavery, and he deeply regretted his part in it. He briefly closed his eyes.
Lord, forgive me.
He realized Meg was leaning around the trunk of the tree, her nose crinkled.
“Torres, I think a couple of these guys worked for us before.”
He tensed. “Probably. They move around all the time.”
“No, I mean—I think they were on a crew that the INS busted back in April.” She whispered, “The ones that never came back.”
She was naive, but she wasn’t stupid. And she had a conscientious streak a mile wide.
“St. John, we’ve been over this. They have documents. Now leave it alone.”
She studied him, lips pursed. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
He wiped the sweat out of his eyes with his fingers. “Let’s just get this finished so we can go home.”
She backed away from him, shaking her head.
Jack sighed. It was getting harder and harder to keep straight who he was and who he wanted to be.
Meg staggered away from the trailer with three blocks of grass clutched against her stomach, and headed for the area of new lawn along the porch shrub bed.
She’d spent her first summer internship slinging sod, and she was a pro at lining up the cut edges so that they seamlessly matched. It was a point of pride to teach this new crew to follow her example.
Still, she planned to call the INS Monday morning and tell them she suspected her company had been fudging on documentation papers.
On the other hand, these poor men weren’t hurting a soul. If Warner found out she was the one who reported Sunset’s violations, she’d lose her job. And nobody else in the industry would trust her again.
Jack had asked her point-blank not to tell. If she did, he’d never trust her again, either. That was a sobering thought because, for whatever reason, she valued his trust.
Obedience or compassion? Lord, what should I do?
It was a measure of her preoccupation that a trail of fire ants had marched out of the sod, around her waist, and into the opening of her overalls as inexorably as the Israelites conquering Jericho before she felt the first bite. Meg let out a scream that undoubtedly startled the steers in the Stockyards twenty-five miles away. Sod flew in all directions.
The new crew dropped what they were doing and came running, forming a circle of sympathy and curiosity around the crazy Anglo lady, muttering to one another in anxious Spanish.
“¡Mueva al revés!” Meg panted, hopping up and down. “¡Por favor!” She couldn’t reach in and grab bugs with all those male eyes on her.
The men exchanged looks and took a couple of steps backward.
Meg groaned, forgetting most of her Spanish. “No!” She twirled one finger in a circle. “Mueva—turn-o around-o, comprende?” The men looked puzzled and mildly fascinated. She bowed to the inevitable. “Jack!” Her scream spanned two octaves. “Get over here! ¡Caramba! ¡No me gusta!”
Jack appeared from behind the other men. “Hey, St. John, did you see a roach?”
He grinned, and she was so glad to see him that she decided to let him live. For the moment. “Tell these men to turn around!”
“I’d get my money back on Spanish for Gringos, if I were you. You told ’em to move backwards.”
“Please, hurry! I’ve got fire ants in my pants, but they’re looking and I can’t—”
“¡Hombres, dense vuelta ahora!” he ordered in rapid Spanish. “¡Salgan de aquí!”
The men scattered in the direction of the truck and trailer, while Jack stood there frowning at Meg in concern.
“You, too!” Meg shivered and hopped in agony.
“Oh, yeah.” Jack did an about-face.
Because there was nowhere else to go, Meg stayed put and yanked off the straps of her overalls, then began to frantically scoop and fling ants to the four corners. By the time she got rid of them all, she was sobbing in humiliation and pain.
“Meg,” Jack said cautiously, “can I turn around yet?”
“No!” she wailed. She examined the fiery welts around her midsection. She was going to need some medicine fast. Gingerly tugging her top back down and holding her pants at her waist, she stumbled toward the truck and the first-aid kit.
She found the crew clustered around the water cooler. An older man in a Blue Bell Ice Cream T-shirt handed her a cup of water. He respectfully avoided her eyes, for which Meg was grateful. She’d never been so embarrassed in her life.
“Gracias,” she said with a grimace of a smile. After gulping down the water, she yanked open the passenger door of the truck and leaned in to root through the glove compartment.
“It’s under the seat,” Jack said from close behind her.
Meg sent a glare over her shoulder. “You looked!”
“I swear I didn’t.” He stepped back, hands in the air. “Come on, let me help.”
She shook her head and sat down in the open doorway of the truck, the white metal box open on her knees. “You think this is funny.”
“Fire ants are no joke.” He leaned in with an elbow on the door. “Are you allergic?”
She found the antihistamine lotion and peeled her shirt up a modest couple of inches to dab it on the bites. “Since I’m not having a seizure, I guess not.” She looked up. Jack had propped his sunglasses on top of his head, and his dark eyes were fixed on her stomach, which promptly did a somersault. “I wish you’d go away.”
“I’m sure.” There was humor and concern and amazing tenderness in his expression for just a second, then he took the tube of ointment. “Turn around. I’ll get your back.”
Meg swallowed her objections and obeyed.
“You need to have your dad look at these bites. He might want to give you an antibiotic.” Jolted by the gentle touch of Jack’s rough fingers on her skin, Meg found herself incapable of anything but a weak little grunt. He smeared on more lotion. “Did you know that caramba means ‘wow’? Interesting segue into ‘I don’t like it.’”
She gave a weak chuckle. “I did—ooh—the best I could under duress.” The sting of her bites was beginning to ease. “Thank you. That’s better.” She turned around, surprising a peculiar expression in Jack’s eyes. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” He capped the ointment and tossed it into the box. “Sit here and rest while we finish up. Fifteen minutes ought to do it. Can you stand it that long?”
He stood close to her, one long arm draped across the open door of the truck, the other propped on top of the cab. She felt protected and cherished by a man who threatened her in many ways.
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
But as he walked away with that swinging swagger of his, she knew she wasn’t anywhere close to fine.
Jack wouldn’t have remembered it was Father’s Day if Meg hadn’t mentioned that she was going to church with her parents on Sunday. She’d reminded the crew that worship at the Spanish church started at nine o’clock, and Pastor Ramón would love to see them there.
Jack considered going, but decided he’d better follow up on the document he’d pulled off Warner’s computer yesterday morning. It was a list of company CEOs open to hiring large shipments of workers. Amazing that it had turned up in Warner’s computer so quickly.
Last night he’d reported in to Carmichael, who told him that the rising number of illegal crossings at the border over the last two weeks made the timing of Jack’s investigation critical. Escalating activity meant big money changing hands. Money that funded drug traffic as well as illegal immigration. A Senate oversight committee was foaming at the mouth to know who was at the root of this cartel. Bottom line, it had to be stopped.
Jack made his phone calls and Internet searches. Restless, he picked up the guitar he’d bought in a pawnshop the other day. The instrument had a mellow resonance that pleased his ear and mitigated the loneliness that had hounded him since he’d crossed paths with Meg.
He remembered most of the chords Rico had taught him. Jack could carry a tune, but it wasn’t pretty; Rico had been the singer. He found himself playing “Amazing Grace,” finger-picking a soft pattern that came back to him with increasing fluidity. It was Rico’s wife Isabel’s favorite. Three-year-old Danilo had always wanted to sing “I’m in the Lord’s Army,” marching and shouting out “Yes, sir!” at the top of his lungs at the end of every line.
Jack switched to the children’s march, smiling in spite of the ache. He wished he could pull Danilo onto his lap and hold him for Rico. A little boy needed a daddy, especially on Father’s Day.
He hadn’t talked to Isabel in several months. It was too awkward to get past the cavity of Rico’s absence. But if somebody had made an effort to fill in the father gaps when Jack was small, maybe he wouldn’t have wasted so much time proving he didn’t need a dad. That he could get along just fine on his own.
Jack began to pray that somebody would do that for Danilo.
Father’s Day. He lay back on the bed, cradling the guitar. He hoped Meg was enjoying the time with her family.
Meg was considering putting herself up for adoption. She picked up a junior-size bowling ball, sticking her fingers into its chipped holes. It barely weighed enough to roll to the end of the lane and knock over a pin, no matter how hard you threw it. But at least she could control it.
Which was more than she could say for about ninety-five percent of her life. In honor of Father’s Day, she’d given her dad carte blanche on the afternoon’s entertainment. Bad mistake.
That’s what I get for finding Enya, Meg thought as she watched her ball slide into the gutter without so much as breathing on a pin. Control. Yeah, right.
“Remember it’s like a waltz, Meg,” said Benny, getting up to squeeze a resin bag against her palms. “One, two, three! And roll the ball while you’re on your left foot.”
Meg put her hands on her hips. “I know what to do, I just can’t do it.” Rubbing her temple, she plopped down beside Elliot Fairchild, who’d been invited by her matchmaking parents. The noise of the alley, combined with worry about Jack and those Mexican men she’d worked with yesterday, had given her a throbbing headache. Or maybe it was the ant bites. She gave Elliot a beseeching look. “Have you got an aspirin?”
“You need something to eat.” Elliot gently pulled her eyelid up with his thumb and peered into her eye. “ A low insulin level will give you a headache.”
“I’m not hungry,” Meg grumbled, resting her head against the hard plastic seat back. She crossed her outstretched legs at the ankle, bumping the maroon-and-green rubber-soled shoes together. There was a certain perverse satisfaction in wearing something that ugly.
While Benny took her turn, Elliot leaned close to Meg’s ear. “Hey, do you think she would go out with me if I asked her?” When she raised her brows, he gave her an astute half smile. “You aren’t going to give me the time of day, and we both know it. But Benny’s really sweet.”
“And I’m not?” She grinned when Elliot rolled his eyes. “Go for it, I say. What have you got to lose?”
“Maybe the remnants of my pride,” he murmured, watching Benny’s balletlike glide and release of the ball. Nine pins fell down, and she turned around with a disappointed huff.
Meg hid a smile. “Elliot,” she said, “if you suspected something that could get a bunch of innocent people in trouble, would you tell?”
He gave her a cautious look. “I ratted on some people who stole an anatomy test in medical school. Fair is fair, right is right, wrong is wrong.”
“Okay, but did you know for sure they did it, or were you just guessing?”
Elliot looked alarmed. “This sounds like something you should ask your dad.”
“I know what he’d say.” Meg bent forward and retied one of her shoelaces. “I’m taking a poll here.”
“Well, let’s see.” Elliot licked a finger and stuck it in the air as if testing the wind. “Definitely you should tell.”
Meg scowled at him. “Some help you are. This is serious.”
“Then do what your dad would say.” Elliot poked his glasses up on his nose. “He’s the wisest man I know.”
Leaning her elbows on her knees, Meg looked up at Elliot with dawning respect. “And I think you make a great partner.” She watched Benny pick up her spare with deadly accuracy.
Right was right, wrong was wrong, huh? Was her dilemma really that simple?
Chapter Eight
Meg shut the door of Silver Hill’s newly renovated powder room, checked to make sure she was alone, then perched on the end of a burgundy velvet chaise longue. The interior designer had done a good job of blending the paint, wallpaper and fixtures with the age of the house. This was one advantage of being the lone female on the crew. The rest of the guys still had to use that stinking portable facility out by the street.
Taking her cell phone off her belt clip, she thumbed in the number of the Dallas Immigration and Naturalization office and waited, foot tapping, for the automated system to transfer her to the correct department.
You’re doing the right thing, Meg. Dad thought so. Benny thought so. Even Elliot thought so.
Another recorded voice answered.
“Oh, good grief.” She’d hoped to talk to a real person. How was she going to explain her vague suspicions to a machine? She was going to sound like a paranoid nut. Flustered, she hung up.
Gathering her thoughts, jiggling the phone, she rehearsed her speech.
“Good morning, I’m yada-yada and I work for one of the most influential landscaping companies in the Metroplex. I’ve noticed lately that every time a green truck drives by, half my crew heads for the hills—” Bad, bad. I’m not a speaker, I’m a landscaper.
Before she could change her mind, she hit Redial and listened again to that maddening chain of recordings, pausing to punch in whatever number they told her to. Finally she got the last one.
And somebody pounded on the door. She jumped, and the phone clattered to the floor.
“Meg! You okay in there?”
It was Jack. Fumbling to recover the phone, she looked at her watch. Yikes, break time had been over for fifteen minutes. “I’m fine, I just—”
“Please leave your message at the sound of the tone,” said Rachel Record-o-Voice.
“I’ll be right there!” she shouted at the door, louder than she meant to.
“Manny got back from the nursery and wants to know where you want this stuff,” Jack said.
“Okay, okay, I just—” Beep! she heard in her ear. She turned her back to the door and muffled her voice with her hand. Maybe it would be best to remain anonymous. “Um, I want to report that there may be…uh, illegal aliens working for Sunset Landscaping in Fort Worth. I’m not sure, but you can kind of tell, you know?”
“Meg? Did you run into man-eating ants again?” Jack sounded concerned.
“No!” She lowered her voice and said into the phone, “I mean, okay, that’s all, but if you need me you can—” Don’t give them your number, dummy! “Anyway, I hope you can take care of the problem,” she finished. Rats, she sounded like she was reporting roaches in her kitchen. “Goodbye.” She pressed the “end” button, stuffed the phone into her pocket and yanked open the door. “Can’t a person have any privacy around here?”
When the Wolf called, Warner was surfing the Internet looking for gym equipment. His wife, Jeri, had been bugging him for a month about wanting to lose weight. Anything to keep her happy.
His study was located above the garage of his split-level brick home in one of the new subdivisions south of Fort Worth. Jeri left him pretty much alone when he was up here, and he’d trained the kids to ring the buzzer outside
the door at the foot of the stairs. This gave him time to shut down any inappropriate sites before they came up.
Warner had his values straight.
It was a good thing Sean and Brittany couldn’t hear his language when the slow, gruff voice on the other end of the line told him somebody in his company was ratting to the authorities about undocumented workers.
“Who was it?” Warner demanded.
“Whoever called didn’t leave a name,” answered the Wolf. “The incident report office allows anonymous calls and takes them seriously. They passed it to me because you’re in my region.” The Wolf paused. “It was a woman.”
Warner muttered a curse. “There are only three women in the whole company.”
Angel Jimenez was a nineteen-year-old college student who worked part-time as a receptionist. Even supposing she was aware of the documentation discrepancies, her Hispanic ethnicity made it unlikely she would have called in such a report.
Sharon Inge was Ted Crowley’s personal assistant. Nominally married, Sharon had been known to go for a drink after work with the men in the office, but never seemed to pay the least attention to the green shirts.
Which left Meg St. John. It would be just like the brownnosing little prude to get back at Warner for making a pass at her. She could file such a report and never have to go through the hassle and humiliation of a sexual harassment suit.
“I know who it was,” Warner said. “I’ll fire her tomorrow.”
“Well, that’ll certainly lower her suspicions,” said the Wolf sarcastically. “Look, check your office phone records and do some fishing around before you do anything stupid. Make sure you’ve got the right person.”
Warner hated to be wrong. “Guess you’ve got a point,” he said grudgingly. “All right. I’ll call all three of the women in, do a little spiel on company loyalty. Let me know if you hear anything else.”
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