Torched: A Thriller

by Daniel Powell

  She had pulled up a stool a few seats down from his at the bar. He was sipping a Modelo Especial; she ordered a glass of white wine.

  He smiled at her. She looked away.

  He still smelled of the fryer—still wore his spotted chef’s smock—but it didn’t matter to her. She hadn’t come to socialize.

  “Chilean,” he had said, nodding at the glass the bartender put in front of the woman. “One of the first things I did when I took the job in the kitchen was switch the order from that California swill we were serving to the good stuff. Go ahead—tell me what you think.”

  She flashed a strained smile before taking a sip. “It’s good,” she flatly agreed.

  His grin widened. “You don’t have much of an accent.”

  She didn’t react to that, keeping her eyes trained forward. “How about me?” he pushed. “Where do you suppose I’m from?”

  “New York City,” she replied, “although it’s pretty faint. You’ve been here long?”

  “Almost four years. How about you? Where are you from?”

  Vivian had turned away completely then, feigning interest in a Mexican game show playing on the little television in the corner of the bar. Contestants jumped up and down while bright Spanish words flashed on the screen.

  “Sorry,” Miguel said, laughing. “Look, I won’t push it. We all come down here for our own reasons, and I don’t mean to pry.”

  She smiled her thanks and removed her sunglasses. “You—you work here?”

  “I cook. Are you hungry?”

  El Principe was almost empty. It was late and, aside from a young couple in the corner booth and a few regulars nursing drafts at the other end of the bar, they had the place to themselves.

  Vivian nodded.

  Miguel slapped the bar. He stood and drained his beer, put the bottle in the return and walked around the bar to the kitchen. “Give me ten minutes.”

  He disappeared and the bartender—his name was Felipe—sauntered over. “Nice guy for a gringo,” he said. His English was good.

  Vivian nodded, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that had followed her into town.

  Cerritos made her nervous. She had walked into town, feeling for the first time since leaving Cancun that she was utterly on her own. Finding a place to stay in this new place was different than accepting a bed from the families she had encountered on the road. It was strange, but true. She just didn’t feel safe in Cerritos.

  She sipped her drink and, just after Felipe had refilled her glass, Miguel brought a tray with three steaming plates from the kitchen. “Join us, hermano?” he said.

  “Sí.”

  Miguel placed a plate in front of Vivian, set the bartender up on her right, and he slid onto the stool to her left. “Just leftovers, but it’s nice and hot.”

  Her mouth watered. It had been most of a day since she’d had anything to eat. “It smells wonderful.”

  The tacos were filled with a mixture of chorizo, peppers, onions and mushrooms; Miguel had drizzled crema fresca over them. The beans and rice were covered with crumbled white cheese, coarse ground pepper and chopped cilantro. Felipe pulled three pints of Victoria and they sat at the bar and ate mostly in silence, drenching the tacos with fresh lime juice. Vivian finished first, draining her glass of beer with a dainty burp.

  “That was amazing,” she said. “My God, it’s been a long time since I had a meal like that.”

  Miguel winked at her. “Not bad for a New Yaaawka, eh?”

  She laughed, and Felipe refilled Miguel’s glass before disappearing into the kitchen with their empty dishes.

  “You got a place to stay?” he asked her, after they had made small talk for a few minutes.

  Vivian frowned. She shook her head. “Can you recommend a place? Somewhere safe?”

  “You can stay with me,” he had replied.

  Vivian grinned as she stabbed at the earth with her shovel, remembering his sheepish expression. “Look, I’m not a weirdo,” he insisted. “I don’t want to creep you out, or anything. I’m just…just trying to help out another American is all.

  “The couch is comfortable, and I promise that I’ll be a gentleman. Cerritos is a pretty nice place, but you might want to break into town slowly.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Especially if you have resources. Mexico can be dangerous for people with means, and probably more so for women.”

  She nodded. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t accept it. Thank you for the food, Mr. …?”

  He offered her his hand. “Miguel. And you are?”

  Vivian grinned. “That’s it? Just ‘Miguel’?”

  “For now. C’mon, it’s your turn.”

  “Vivian,” she replied. Why she told him the truth that night was beyond her, but she’d trusted him almost from the start. It wasn’t until they were sleeping together, about two weeks later, that she’d furnished her surname as well.

  He could have learned everything about her in a ten-second search if he’d gone to one of the internet cafes.

  But he hadn’t. At least as far as she could tell, he hadn’t looked into her past.

  He was waiting for her to tell him herself, to volunteer the information, and she respected him for letting her cling to her privacy.

  It was sweet, just like the man himself.

  Vivian worked hard all morning, expanding the plot of soil they hoped would support a little citrus grove until she was covered with a sheen of sweat. Miguel had already gone into Cerritos to prep for dinner and, when she paused for a lunch of cold iced tea and a salad of strawberries, mangoes, blood oranges and kiwi fruit, she ate at the window of the little home they now shared.

  She stared out at the jungle. Birds flitted from bough to bough; iguanas scampered nimbly among the branches.

  She touched the tea to her forehead, ice cubes clicking together in the still, hot day, and sighed with happiness.

  This was it.

  This was it—of that she felt sure—and after all of the sadness and sorrow and the terrible thing that had happened to Katie, she felt something like contentment for the first time since her daughter’s accident.

  “Smooth sailing from here, Vivian,” she whispered to herself. “Nothing but smooth sailing from here on out.”

  She went back outside and worked in the field until her muscles ached and her fingers tingled inside the leather gloves. The sun was far out over the Pacific when she knocked off for the day, and she grabbed a cold shower and biked the six miles into Cerritos to have dinner at El Principe.

  She felt good—clean and refreshed after her shower—and she smiled in the cooling evening air as she thought about the man that waited for her in town.

  “Smooth sailing,” she whispered.

  FIVE

  Terri rose with the sun, feeling refreshed after her night beneath the stars. The morning was cool, her sleeping back damp with dew.

  She cleaned up in the restroom before driving into Abilene for gas and breakfast. She stopped momentarily to plug a few quarters into a pay telephone behind a Shell station.

  “This is Terri James. Benny said that I should call you when I was getting closer.”

  “Hi, Terri,” the woman replied. She had an easy Texas drawl. “Ben mentioned that you’d already left Colorado. Whereabouts are you?”

  “Abilene. Is it much farther?”

  “Seven hours, if you put your foot down a little. Probably more like eight, though. Call me back when you get into Brownsville. Same routine.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks.”

  She hung up and nosed the Subaru onto U.S. 83 and settled in for another tedious day behind the wheel.

  ***

  The Pinkertons had a beautiful home. It looked like something out of a postcard—a sprawling Texas ranch with creamy sandstone walls and a gorgeous pine porch.

  Terri had followed Penny Pinkerton from the parking lot of the H.E.B. Grocery until they cleared the city boundary and found themselves jouncing down a gravel road cut throug
h the Texas countryside. They passed over a series of muddy canals until rattling across a cattle guard and down a long driveway.

  Terri had noticed the border fence just a few miles outside of town. It was unlike anything she’d seen before. The brown, twenty-foot steel bars sprang from the dusty ground like the spine of some enormous fossil. As she passed it, she imagined the shadowy forms of men, women and children attempting to scale the imposing structure. The indignity of it made her sad, and she muttered a brief prayer of thanks for her good fortune to have been born in America.

  The fence cut abruptly to the south long before they reached the Pinkertons’ ranch, though, and she put it out of her mind as they reached the driveway.

  She pulled the Outback adjacent to a series of huge cattle trucks and stepped out into a world made beautiful by a south Texas sunset.

  “This way,” Penny said. “I’ll send our boy out after your bag.”

  A rail-thin man with a gray buzz cut and a bushy moustache sipped a beer in a rocking chair on the porch. A tall man in his early twenties sat with him, idly plucking a six-string acoustic. An elderly chocolate Labrador slept at the young man’s feet, his tail swishing occasionally as he stalked jackrabbits through canine dreams.

  It was idyllic.

  The young man removed his baseball cap and grinned at her, standing and offering his hand. “Bo Pinkerton,” he said. “Bags in the trunk?”

  “I’m Terri. They are,” she said, taking his hand. She handed him the keys to the Outback. “Thank you, Bo. Nice meeting you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” His boots crunched across the gravel, and then the older man stood and shook her hand.

  “Welcome, Ms. James. I’m Blaine Pinkerton. You’ve come a long way.”

  She smiled, nodding. “Got a long way yet to go, Mr. Pinkerton. Please, just call me Terri.”

  “Then I’m Blaine. Cold ‘un?” He jerked his head at a tin bucket filled with bottled beer on ice.

  “Please. I can’t say a beer’s ever sounded so good, to be honest. Been a long couple of days cooped up in that car.”

  His grin widened and he pulled two bottles of Coors from the pail and twisted the caps off. He handed a bottle to Terri and took the other to his wife. He kissed her and gave her the beer and she thanked him.

  Terri was flummoxed. These were Benny’s contacts?

  He’d mentioned something about Blaine once working for the government, but she had a hard time reconciling that with these jovial ranchers. She sipped her beer and silently chastised herself for conjuring such stereotypes. She’d pictured G-men in pinstripes, not this kind little family of Texas ranchers.

  If Vivian Bowles had taught her anything, it was that appearances couldn’t be trusted.

  She sat in the chair next to Penny, a pretty, fit woman with lively blue eyes and long white hair that she wore in a braid down her back, and for about the hundredth time she cautioned herself to stay sharp.

  Bo brought her duffle inside and rejoined them a moment later. The porch faced the southwest, and they were content to sip their drinks and watch the setting sun stretch the shadows of saguaro cacti and prairie juniper.

  “Leaving in the morning then, are you?” Blaine finally said.

  “Yes…I mean, if that works for you,” Terri replied. “Sooner begun, sooner done.” It had been one of Sheldon’s favorite sayings, and it still found its way into her speech from time to time.

  Blaine nodded. “Benny mentioned that you were a serious woman. ‘Dedicated,’ I think is the exact word he used. Said this was a business trip. Of course, anyone taking the ol’ Whisper Trail into Mexico isn’t exactly on the hunt for margaritas and mariachis.”

  “Whisper Trail?” Terri said.

  “That’s just Blaine’s name for it,” Penny said, eyes twinkling. “This old coot’s a romantic. He’s got a name for every cactus between here and Valle Hermoso, don’t you honey?” She squeezed his hand.

  “It’s a plenty fine name for it,” Blaine said, grinning at his wife’s teasing. “Bo here can ride out with you before sunrise. You’ll be in Mexico quieter than a church mouse, Terri. We can get you across the river no problem. But then…”

  “Then what?” Terri said.

  “Why, then you’re on your own, darling. Mexico’s a big damned place, and we don’t want to know where you’re headed. In fact, that Subaru is going to disappear, so to speak, while you’re asleep tonight. If you don’t make it back here in due time, that wagon’s going to disappear for good.”

  Terri nodded. “I understand, and I can assure you that I have every intention of making it home to my children. I just need to have a word with someone.”

  Blaine offered a sage little nod. “God speed, darling. God speed. We…well, Benny told us about what happened. We’ll get you in, but you stay true to your word and get back to those kids. Children need their mother.” He reached out and squeezed Penny’s hand.

  They endured an awkward moment; Penny tried to cut the tension with a forced smile.

  “May I?” Terri finally said, pointing at the bucket of beer and wiggling her empty bottle. There was an edge to her tone, and Blaine understood that they were finished discussing her trip to Mexico.

  “Sure thing,” he said. “Our place is your place, Terri.”

  They drank beer until dark and then retreated inside for grilled steaks, baked potatoes and salad. Terri thanked them graciously and turned in almost immediately after the table had been cleared. She went through her duffle, double checking the inventory before climbing into bed.

  Fully committed to her course of action, she fell asleep quickly, not worried in the least about the dangerous road ahead or the unpleasant things she still had to do.

  SIX

  El Principe had been packed all night. A band played Tejano music on a little stage in the corner of the bar, reminding Vivian of just how close she remained to the United States.

  Miguel and Florentino, his sous chef, pushed out over a hundred plates of food and, when the rush finally dwindled and the crowd was content to sip their drinks and sway to the music, he emerged from the kitchen looking tired and happy.

  Felipe gave him a bottle of cold Modelo Especial and he went to Vivian’s table in the corner and kissed her full on the mouth.

  “Whew! Busy night,” he said, collapsing into his chair. “I wasn’t quite sure we were going to get that service worked out, but we always seem to make it happen. I swear, Tino must have another set of arms somewhere. That boy can really cook.”

  Vivian grinned at him. “Speaking of cooking, mister, you want to help me burn up that dance floor?”

  “Oy, Vi! These dogs are barking,” he said with a wink. He swigged down half his beer and helped her stand, his hands sliding easily to her hips as they merged onto the congested dance floor. “You know, I haven’t had much energy since you blew into my life, girl. What are you, some kind of succubus?”

  She laughed and they launched into a western swing before the band backed the tempo down for a ballad. Miguel grasped her waist and pulled her close, his forehead against hers as they moved to the music.

  She wore a thin linen skirt, and beneath it he could feel the heat of her skin in the tips of his fingers.

  “Damn, this is nice,” he said. He kissed her and cocked his head, looking into her eyes. “I’m very happy right now, Vivian. This feels…it feels really good to be here with you.”

  Her smile was weak. “I know,” she replied. “It’s scary—I feel the same way, and it’s just been a few weeks.”

  “Don’t be scared. I’m not…at least not anymore. We’re here, Vivian, and we’re together. If people come for us, then they come for us. Like I said, I stopped looking over my shoulder a long time ago. You’ll get used to it.”

  “I hope so. Mike?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we go home?”

  His grin widened. “What’s up?”

  “I just…I just thought it might be nice to have someone look
ing over my shoulder. Just for a little while, of course.” She winked at him and he couldn’t keep from barking a laugh.

  “Wow! That’s pretty corny, Vi. That’s your line? But hey, you’ll get no complaints from me. Meet you out front?”

  She nodded and returned to the table to collect her handbag before heading for the door. He finished his beer, made a few farewells and disappeared into the kitchen. Vivian went outside to the palm tree she’d propped her bike against, the music faint on the still Mexican air. After a few minutes, Miguel met her there and they pushed their bikes out into the street.

  It was a clear night. The air had cooled considerably, but the humidity and the dancing had made them both hot. They pushed their bikes until they were on the outskirts of Cerritos, and then they rode for a few miles before Miguel whistled for her to stop. They pulled off to the side of the moonlit road, stowing the bikes in the tall grass, and she took his hand as he guided her into the brush.

  She’d ridden past the place at least a dozen times without noticing it but, sure enough, there was a path carved into the tangle of scrub, complete with a boardwalk that creaked and groaned beneath their feet. They had to stoop beneath the encroaching canopy of mangrove and saw palmetto, but the boardwalk was in good shape. A channel of brackish water meandered occasionally beneath it, and she could hear frogs splashing about in the darkness.

  After about a quarter of a mile, the canopy lifted and they were able to stand. A couple more turns and the boardwalk terminated in a tidy little clearing. There was an old stone well in the center and, high above their heads, a thousand stars shone like diamonds in the inky cosmos. The moon was close to full, and it turned the waxy leaves of the nearby banana trees silver.

  “Oh, my,” Vivian said. “It’s…wow, it’s so beautiful, Mike!”

  He pulled her close and kissed her hard in the moonlight, tasting the sweetness of her breath. His hands slid underneath her blouse and up her ribs. He cupped her breasts, felt her heart racing in her chest.

  In a flurry of flashing hands, she stripped him out of his tee-shirt. He reached out for her, but she pushed him away.