The Lawless Kind

by Hilton, Matt

  Sometimes Rink can read my mind. Or perhaps I wasn’t complaining as silently as I thought.

  ‘First things first, we need to get hold of a coat for you. C’mon over here.’ He led the way towards a homestead on the outskirts of town. The house was in darkness, and whoever lived there had exercised caution and locked the place down tight. It was a low, single-storey dwelling with a flat roof from which old TV antennae protruded. Also on the roof were lines holding various items of laundry. The family probably thought that it would take a desperate thief to climb to the roof and steal their meagre clothing: they weren’t wrong.

  Rink unslung the M-4, placing it on the ground next to the house wall. I boosted Rink with my cupped palms, and he went over the parapet and on to the rooftop with the agility of a cat. He was only up there a moment before a couple of shirts rained down, followed by a heavy woollen sweater. There was no coat, but beggars can’t be choosers. I stripped out of my sweatshirt and rolled it up, then thankfully pulled on one of the shirts. It was thick, a heavy denim. It was also too small for me, so I left the top three buttons undone, as well as those at the cuffs. The sweater was a tad looser and didn’t constrict as much. I felt much better, though I did feel guilt over the theft.

  Rink came down from the roof in a fluid motion that hardly made any noise. ‘Nice to see you in some colours for a change,’ he whispered. My appropriated sweater was red and green, with small animal motifs that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Christmas. For one who usually dressed as though he’d raided Johnny Cash’s wardrobe, the bright colours were anathema, but the immediate warmth consoled me. Rink pulled on the spare shirt, allowing it to hang loose so he could still get at his weapon, but the extra layer offered some warmth. He then hitched the M-4 over his shoulder.

  Rink began to move away, seeking the next item on our list, but I paused. Pulling out my wallet, I took out most of the bills and laid them on top of my discarded sweatshirt on the front doorstep. I sat a rock from the garden on top of the stack of dollars. I didn’t leave a note: the money would explain my guilt at stealing the clothing. Mexico wasn’t full of the lawless kind, the likes of Jorge Molina and his footsoldiers; it was full of decent, hard-working people who couldn’t afford to have their belongings stolen from them.

  Rink shook his head in bemusement. ‘I’ve known you all these years, and still you surprise me.’

  That was Joe Hunter through and through, a conundrum: a violent man who didn’t flinch at killing, yet one who found the act of petty theft abhorrent. The way I squared away my odd sense of morals was that the victims of my violence generally deserved it, those of my thievery didn’t. Simple.

  Imuris was quiet. It was late – approaching midnight by my reckoning – and most people would be in their beds. There was no sign of nightlife, no bars, no clubs, no parties, but then we were still on the outskirts so that wasn’t unusual. There were cars and trucks. Dozens of them. Yet most were either too new or too old to steal. New models meant security was an issue; older vehicles might not be roadworthy for the trip over the mountains.

  I followed Rink as he assessed and rejected each vehicle. Then he found a Subaru station wagon parked in the lea of a home that doubled as a general store. The Subaru was wedged between rows of crates and baskets; some of them holding husks of sun-dried fruit and wadded paper. He moved for the car, pulling out his KA-BAR knife in anticipation. I shadowed him, but paused to lift aside a couple of teetering crates that might fall and alert the neighbourhood when we moved the car. Placing the crates out of harm’s way, I turned to watch Rink check the door and find it locked. It didn’t slow him. He wedged the tip of his KA-BAR between the door window and frame and worked it in so that most of the blade was inside. Then he levered down and the window dropped an inch or so. Rink gripped the blade of his knife between his teeth as he inserted both hands in the gap, rose up on his toes and bore down with all his weight. The window was shoved off the winding mechanism and dropped into the well inside the door. Rink pulled up the manual lock, opened the door, and passed the machine-gun over into the back seat. In the next instant he was inside and had released the brake, while I went to the back and began to push, taking the car silently from under the lean-to and on to the road. I continued to push until we were a hundred or so yards clear, then went round to the passenger side and climbed in. Rink was busy under the dash, having already broken open the ignition barrel, and was paring and rejoining wires. The engine barked to life. We were moving.

  Trusting to his natural sense of direction, Rink headed out of town, steering well clear of the railway station, and got us on to a road that headed deeper into the mountains. We’d left the rain behind some miles to the south-west and here the sky was cloudless and the stars brilliant in the gaps between the high mountain peaks. Ours was the only vehicle on the road. It was peaceful for the first time in many hours, and I silently warned myself to remain alert. If I allowed the tranquillity to lull me, the next thing I’d know was waking up, sleep-muddled and at low ebb. Though the temptation was great, I couldn’t allow even a nap. Not while danger still threatened at any second.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a strong coffee right about now,’ I said.

  Rink made smacking noises with his lips. He was as thirsty as I was. Neither of us had drunk or eaten anything since before we left to grab Benjamin. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I’d gone many hours longer than this before, but it didn’t help. I began to root through the glove box, hoping to find some water, but there was nothing of the sort. On the back seat was an old blanket that smelled of dogs, the M-4 machine-gun, and that was all. But there were boxes in the cargo compartment in the back. I clambered over and fished through the contents, hoping for succulent fruit, but again was disappointed. It seemed that the packages held only cleaning supplies, and I wasn’t ready to drink bleach just yet.

  Returning to my place up front, I didn’t have to tell Rink the bad news. He didn’t comment. What was the use of complaining?

  He kept the car moving. A few hours and we’d be at Agua Prieta, then across the border to Douglas where we could drink our fill.

  At least that was my hope.

  Chapter 33

  Harvey Lucas called a halt, for which Kirstie was grateful. Benjamin had woken up, mewled at his mother, said he needed pee-pees, and then hugged her tightly, sobbing. His weeping was from confusion and fear, a need for consolation and comfort. Kirstie was elated that the boy had chosen to come to her for both.

  While McTeer and Velasquez stretched their legs, talking quietly, Harvey stood sentry as Kirstie coaxed Benjamin to urinate at the side of the mountain road. Since the friendly tip-off from the federal policeman, they’d been using tracks and lesser roads that meandered through the hills and Kirstie had no idea where they were now in relation to the border crossing. She decided to ask Harvey, once her boy’s needs were seen to. The little lad was having trouble – through embarrassment at being surrounded by unfamiliar people – and Kirstie encouraged him. She glanced once at Harvey’s tall frame, but the man had his back to them out of decency, standing stock-still as he surveyed the valley below for lights.

  Finally Benjamin managed to get a stream going, and it lasted an inordinately long time. He kept his head averted, his shoulders slumped as Kirstie crouched behind him, holding him by the waist. When he was done he snapped up the waistband of his pyjamas, and Kirstie offered to straighten his clothes but he wriggled out of her grasp, running off the road towards a cluster of rocks. Kirstie stood dumbfounded for a second, before she gave chase. She must have cried out, because suddenly Harvey was racing past her, his long limbs eating up the ground between her and the fleeing boy.

  Benjamin fled to the boulders, but there was no way he could climb over them, so he bolted to the left, surprisingly fleet for his age. However, he lost a slipper, and his next few steps were completed with a limp. Harvey scooped the boy up, and held him, while the boy howled like a coyote seeking the full moon. Kirstie recalled
that horrible dream where she’d been chasing the boy as she clattered up to Harvey and reached out for her son, feeding his slipper back on.

  ‘Let me go,’ Benjamin bleated, and tried to strike at Harvey with his balled fists.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ Kirstie said.

  ‘I want to go home,’ Benjamin continued, his fists drumming on Harvey’s chest with as little force as hummingbird wings.

  ‘I’m taking you home, Benjamin. Mommy’s taking you home.’ Kirstie’s voice broke on the final syllable.

  ‘Maybe you should let him settle first,’ Harvey said.

  ‘He’s my son. I’ll take him.’

  ‘I want my daddy,’ Benjamin sobbed.

  ‘Benjamin . . . don’t you know me? It’s me, your momma.’

  ‘I’m Benny. I’m Benny. I’m Benny.’ The little boy kicked and squirmed. Kirstie moved in close, and Harvey allowed her to take the boy; she swung him round so that they were chest to chest and she held his head to her shoulder. She smoothed down his hair, petted his shoulders. McTeer and Velasquez came up, the loose dirt crunching underfoot.

  ‘Everything OK?’McTeer asked.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine now,’ Kirstie said, though it didn’t feel that way to her. She hugged Benjamin tightly, smoothing his hair under her palm again, feeling his tears hot against her neck. ‘Let’s just get back to the car and get going. The sooner we’re out of this godforsaken country the better.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree with you more,’ Harvey said.

  It was as if Benjamin had used up all his energy because he was floppy in her arms as Kirstie carried him towards the car. But he wasn’t finished yet. ‘Why are you doing this to me? Why have you took me from my daddy? You’re bad. You’re all bad people. I hate you!’

  The nightmare came back to Kirstie once more, and if ever Benjamin could spear her on a blade, his accusation had just done so. A sob broke from her, one that carried echoes as she slid into the back seat and held tightly to her son. She had never hated her ex-husband as much as she did now.

  Harvey slid in beside her while the others switched driving duties, Velasquez now at the wheel. Kirstie could feel Harvey’s gaze as the car began a crawl along the mountainside. She looked up. The dome lights had gone out, but she could make out Harvey’s angular features, the glint of his eyes. Harvey placed a consoling palm on her forearm.

  ‘He needs time to adjust. Believe me, once we’re back home, he’ll familiarise himself with you and your surroundings and it’ll be like he was never gone.’

  Benjamin had succumbed to exhausted sleep, his mouth hanging open, a bubble of saliva softly cracking with each exhalation.

  ‘Did you hear what he said back there?’

  ‘He doesn’t hate you, Kirstie. He’s a small child. He’s confused and doesn’t have the necessary words to explain his feelings. He’s frightened, mixed up, doesn’t know how to describe those emotions except in basic terms. He doesn’t hate you, he hates what’s happening to him. But once things calm down, then he’ll show his feelings towards you in other ways. Give him a few days and he’ll be saying he loves you.’

  She knew that Harvey was speaking the truth, of course. But he hadn’t taken her original question the way she’d intended.

  ‘I meant the bit about us being bad people.’

  ‘It’s a fine line when you work in this business,’ Harvey said.

  She felt him shift alongside her. He didn’t seem at ease with whatever conclusion he had come to. ‘It’s no easy thing, killing,’ he went on, ‘but sometimes you have to satisfy yourself that you do so for the greater good.’

  ‘You don’t strike me as a killer,’ Kirstie said. Fleetingly she thought of Joe, and how she’d seen in him a man who did have the necessary cold edge to kill a man in combat.

  ‘I’ve had to be,’ Harvey confessed. ‘Both as a soldier and since. It’s not something I’ve ever got used to, but it’s something I’ve come to accept.’

  ‘Rink strikes me as being of a similar mind,’ Kirstie said.

  ‘Yup. In an ideal world, Rink would have no need for violence. He loves life, sees it as a gift to be cherished. Despite all those goofy one-liners of his, he’s a real poet at heart.’

  ‘What about Joe?’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘You sound convinced of that.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Yet he is violent, and has no qualms about killing?’

  ‘Only for the greater good,’ Harvey said, labouring the point.

  Kirstie considered his words. She was attracted to Joe Hunter, as she’d been to Jorge. Was that a fault in her psyche, that she was drawn to dangerous men? Like Hunter, Jorge Molina was violent and – as she’d come to learn –?also had no qualms about killing. Where was the difference? There was only one answer: Jorge’s ‘greater good’ was directed to his own benefit, Hunter’s to everyone else’s. They were opposite sides of the same coin, she decided. After everything had gone so disastrously wrong with her previous relationship was it any surprise that she’d be attracted to a man that was the exact opposite of her ex-husband?

  Harvey’s breathing had changed, and it took Kirstie a moment to realise that he was laughing.

  ‘You like him, huh?’

  Kirstie blushed and smiled, breaking the crust of drying tears on her cheeks. It felt good to push back some of the sadness Benjamin’s unsettling words had created.

  ‘Do you think he . . . uh . . . likes me?’ she ventured.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Harvey asked. ‘I mean, yeah, he’d go out on a limb to save any woman’s child, but I’ve never seen him this determined before.’ Harvey laid a hand on Kirstie’s forearm a second time, squeezing it gently. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Can I ask you something first?’

  ‘I thought you already were asking me stuff.’

  ‘It’s not about Joe. The man who sent you here to help get Benjamin back . . .’

  ‘Walter?’

  ‘Yes. Walter Conrad. Is he my grandfather?’

  Harvey didn’t reply. The only light inside the car was the occasional backwash from their headlights as they passed large roadside boulders, so she couldn’t make out his face for a clue. Finally he exhaled. ‘No one has said as much to me,’ Harvey said, ‘but I’m not an idiot. I only have to look at you to tell that you’re Walter’s kin.’ Harvey gently touched Benjamin’s sleeping head. ‘And the little one.’

  Kirstie exhaled, a weary sigh of resignation. ‘If I were to ask you if Walter Conrad is a good man, what would you say?’

  ‘I’d ask you if you really wanted to hear the answer,’ Harvey said.

  Kirstie chose not to ask.

  Chapter 34

  Like many people, I’d formed misconceptions about Mexico. It wasn’t a country I’d visited during my military career, and my wanderings since hadn’t brought me this side of the border. My idea of Mexico was that it was an arid land, dominated by sand and grit and cacti, where poor people lived in adobe huts and made their way around by donkey or mule: shame on me for my ignorance.

  We were in the high Sonoran mountain range, and here the land was verdant, with tilled terraces bursting with crops. River courses were few, but they had to be there, perhaps hidden by the greenery. The homes that we passed were a mixture of humble dwellings, productive hill farms, and exclusive millionaires’ pads. I didn’t see a single donkey or mule, but plenty of horsepower in expensive SUVs and saloon cars. The highway was well maintained, and the tyres of our borrowed Subaru station wagon ate up the miles. The rain was now many miles behind us, and the sky was a star-studded fresco. On our left I caught fleeting glimpses of the constellation Ursa Major – the ‘Big Dipper’, or ‘Plough’, depending where you came from – standing almost end on end in the northern heavens. To my right was Orion, the stars that formed the belt some of the brightest objects in the sky. Forgetting for a moment that we were only minutes ahead of men intent on killing us, it was easy to soak up the grandeur and beau
ty of the scene.

  Ahead of us twinkled lights of a town. I couldn’t recall the name of it from Harvey’s map.

  ‘More trouble?’ I ventured.

  ‘Best we prepare for anything, brother.’ Rink eased up a tad on the throttle as he surveyed the town. It didn’t look very large and was set to the right of the highway in the natural wedge of a valley between two hills.

  ‘I’m not sure the road even enters the town,’ I said. ‘We could keep on going.’

  ‘We need food and water,’ Rink reminded me.

  ‘I’m good for a while yet,’ I said. Pursuit would be fast and determined, I assumed, and we’d no time for tending to our basic needs.

  ‘Thought you’d be dying for a coffee by now,’ Rink said. ‘What with your caffeine habit and all.’

  To be honest, my head was thumping with withdrawal symptoms, my vision tunnelled, my fingers shaking. But those symptoms could equally have been down to adrenalin dump after our many hours of running and fighting.

  ‘I’ve got my name on a gallon of espresso when we arrive in Douglas. Keep going, Rink. Unless you need something . . .’

  ‘I’m good,’ he said, but he couldn’t disguise the rasp of a dry throat.

  We bypassed the unknown town, both of us glancing longingly at the lights and the promise of sustenance, and discovered that the road began to climb higher, going into the first of many curves that took us through the range. Within minutes we were at an elevation many hundreds of feet higher. I craned round, checking behind us, but the road was lost to sight by the bends and steep cliffs. A long way back in the valley headlights twinkled momentarily, but then the lie of the land hid them again. No way could I be sure it was the lights of our pursuers but the odds were high.