Bury Your Horses

by Dan Dowhal

  “Wow, that’s a lot of zeroes,” Shane comments, examining the denominations.

  Sanchez guffaws. “Welcome to Mexíco, amigo. We’re not that generous. You’ll have to learn to do the exchange rate in your head. Now that you’ve seen where you’re going to work, let me show you where you can bunk — at least for now.”

  Shane’s accommodations turn out to be a trainer’s room in the arena’s basement. Doc Sanchez apologizes for the small windowless space, but Shane proclaims that the snug apartment is to his liking, especially compared to the toolroom of Rancho Crótalo. It has the accoutrements of business — a desk, a blackboard, filing and equipment cabinets — but there is also a sitting area, a bed, and an ensuite bathroom that includes a shower stall.

  “Settle in. Next week we’ll find you a casa to rent. You’ll soon find that your money goes a lot further here in Palomas.”

  “No hurry. Somehow, being in an arena feels like home. But what about you, Doc? How come you haven’t bought yourself a nice crib here in town, instead of living in a converted van?”

  “I’m not licensed to practise medicine on this side of the border. I’m American, remember?”

  “I keep forgetting that. Sorry, no offence, I kind of think of you as Mexican.”

  “I’m only offended that you think I’d be offended. My family has lived in New Mexico for almost three hundred years. It’s only been part of the United States for one hundred and fifty of those years. But, as a matter of fact, I have been considering buying myself a spread on the other side of the Great Wall. In my youth I liked to think of myself as footloose and unfettered. Now the idea of putting down roots has its appeal, especially if I have someone to share my life with.”

  “You mean Yolanda?”

  Doc Sanchez’s shrug is non-committal, but the sheepish smile on his face betrays the truth.

  “So things are going okay with you two.”

  “Yes, in fact, we have our first official date tonight. Mind you, we have to meet in town, thanks to you. I’m persona non grata at the ranch now.”

  “Sorry, Doc. But why? You didn’t do anything. I was the one who messed things up.”

  “Guilt by association — and my gender. Apparently Tammy’s circled the wagons and returned to her old man-hating ways. From what I’m told, I’ll only be allowed on the ranch in case of extreme medical emergency.”

  “It’s Vern I worry about most, Doc. Poor kid will likely get picked on again, just ’cause he’s a guy. Well, I worry about Gracie, too. I know her mother loves her, but that’s one little girl who’s likely to grow up with big problems if she inherits her mom’s baggage. Maybe if I could have gotten her that horse she wanted —”

  “You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your relatives, Shane. Besides, who’s to say Gracie might not be better off treating all men with suspicion? Around here, the girls end up knocked up and dirt poor all too easily. We have a saying: cada cual hace con su vida un papalote y lo echa a volar. ‘We each make a kite of life and fly it, as well.’ It means that in the end, we control our own destiny. Tell me, did you do everything your father wanted you to?”

  “Sure … until I was twelve years old. Then all I did was fight with him about everything. For a while I even thought I hated him. I feel pretty bad about that now. The thing is, I wouldn’t have become a pro-hockey player without him.”

  Sanchez slaps Shane on the back. “This is way too philosophical a discussion to have without a bottle of mezcal. I expect you to stock up the liquor cabinet, seeing as I’m paying you so handsomely, and next time I’ll tell you about my dear ol’ dad. Get settled in, and tomorrow you can start working with the players. I’ll find you a translator in the meantime. Now, I’m off. Got to go get some signatures from Don Aléjandro.”

  “Say, Doc, is there somewhere safe I can park my bike overnight? I don’t like leaving it out in the parking lot.”

  “No local criminal would be stupid enough to steal from a property owned by Don Aléjandro, but if it makes you feel better, park it in the equipment garage. I’ll give you the access code for the automatic door.”

  After the doctor has excused himself, Shane strips and hops into the shower. As he is towelling off afterward, he hears a distant sound like someone shouting. It almost seems to be coming from within the walls themselves. He presses his ear up against the concrete and briefly hears the noise again, louder but still indistinct. Then the shouting ceases abruptly. A few minutes later it is replaced by distant scraping and a faint sporadic pounding.

  Dismissing the sounds as leftover construction work, Shane dresses and thinks about the rest of the day ahead of him. The emptiness of his new life in exile suddenly unfolds before him. He misses the calming domesticity and sense of purpose he found — and lost — at the ranch. For the first time in days, Shane’s head begins to throb. An all-too-familiar cloudiness shrouds his mind, and he feels the weight of his unhappiness pulling him downward. Tears well up, and he collapses onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow as he strives to fight off the bleakness suffocating him, but the pain seems more than he can endure. He looks up at the ceiling and, taking into account his height and some allowance for the length of a rope, he wonders whether the sprinkler head is high enough off the ground and whether it would support his weight.

  “No!” someone shouts, and Shane looks around, puzzled, finally realizing it was his own voice. “No,” he repeats at normal volume, but with no less conviction. He knows that he does not really want to die. He has faith in a better future ahead. It is a small faith — a journeyman’s faith, a fourth-liner’s faith — but he can feel its crystalline promise, provided he can gain control of it.

  Shane gets up and splashes water on his face. An inner compulsion urges him to counter the depression by getting high. There must be a place in a town where he can find something to get him stoned. Or he could just go out and get stinking drunk.

  He shakes off the impulse, realizing it would solve nothing and potentially send him onto a downward spiral again. Instead, he fishes out his cellphone and dials his father’s number. As the line rings, he takes some slow, deep breaths.

  Shane realizes he’s half hoping Oksana will answer. It is supremely comforting, nonetheless, to hear his father’s voice.

  “Hey, there, old man,” he says.

  “Everything okay, son? Have they arrested you?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Just phoned to hear your voice and see how you’re doing.”

  “Ha! I’m crippled, half blind, and my medicine cabinet’s got more pills in it than a pharmacy, but I’d have to say I’m doing a damned sight better than you.”

  Shane laughs. “You got me there, Dad. You got me there.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Despite Doc Sanchez’s contention that Shane’s Ducati will be safe on the arena grounds, Shane opts to park his motorcycle inside before the sun goes down. The underground maintenance compound is surprisingly crowded. In addition to a small flatbed truck, a panel van, and a team bus sporting the Lobos logo on its side, there is rolling boom lift and even a trio of golf carts, presumably for scooting around the arena corridors.

  At the far end, near a gate that leads to the ice rink, sits a Zamboni. Despite the thousands of times Shane has seen similar ice-cleaning machines in action, he cannot resist inspecting one up close. He walks around the vehicle, then climbs up into the driver’s seat. As he is studying the controls, there is a loud clank from the far end of the chamber, where gigantic fans provide ventilation for the icemaking plant next door. Two are whirring away, doing their job, but a third fan is motionless. To Shane’s astonishment, the entire fan housing swings open, like a giant door, and one of Enrique’s henchmen comes through the portal wheeling a crate on a dolly. Shane slips down from the Zamboni and slides out of sight.

  The narco loads his cargo in the rear of the parked van before opening the garage door and driving off. Through the entranceway, which has been left open, Shane can clearly make out two
voices, one low and guttural, cursing angrily in rapid-fire Spanish, while the other, younger and in English, is pleading to be left alone and released from something. Then there is an audible smack, a shout of pain, and both voices fall silent.

  Puzzled, Shane goes to the opening to investigate. He sees that the fan’s entire housing swings on mammoth hinges, designed for easy egress. Through the portal he can make out a tunnel that runs for a considerable distance. It is wide enough to easily accommodate small vehicles; not only is another golf cart parked there, but also, clearly visible even in the dim lighting, is what appears to be the same Indian motorcycle with sidecar that the youth who robbed Shane on the highway was driving. Beyond that are two shadowy figures, one sitting on the ground, bent over in apparent pain, and one standing over him in a threatening posture.

  Whatever is going on, Shane decides it is none of his business. He hastily exits the maintenance compound. In the corridor outside his new quarters, his cellphone rings. The call display indicates it is Doc Sanchez.

  “Shane, Shane, get the hell out of there!” the doctor shouts over the phone, without salutation or preamble. “Run, amigo, run! It’s a fucking catastrophe.”

  “What are you talking about, Doc? What’s going on?”

  “Don Aléjandro, he’s dead … murdered,” Sanchez blurts out. The anguish in his voice is evident. “Enrique claims it was a rival cartel, but I know it was him, the little monster … he resented his father for abandoning the drug business and now he’s taking over.”

  “Holy shit,” is all Shane can utter in response.

  “It’s over!” the doctor wails. “I’m on my way back to Columbus, and you should get out of there, too.” Then there is a loud crashing noise over the line followed by something uttered in Spanish before the call abruptly ends.

  Shane stands there stunned, knowing he has his own skin to consider now. He is all too cognizant of the death threats Enrique has voiced on multiple occasions, and without Don Aléjandro’s protection, there is no reason to believe his twisted son won’t follow through on them.

  A metallic clack echoes from behind Shane — the unmistakeable sound of a round being racked into a handgun’s chamber. His mouth goes dry and his knees begin to buckle. “Don’t shoot,” he yelps and raises his hands in the air. Turning slowly, he sees the henchman he spied in the tunnel earlier. The unfeeling eyes and menacing smile on the thug’s moustachioed face are as frightening as the gun in his hand. He says something Shane does not understand and waves the gun’s muzzle in the direction of the maintenance area. The meaning of the gesture is obvious enough. The narco comes around behind Shane and prods him forward with spine-rattling jabs of the pistol.

  They pass through the fan opening and down the tunnel, squeezing past the golf cart and the parked motorcycle and coming to a stop in front of the huddled figure Shane observed earlier. It takes him a moment to realize he has seen the odd clothes before, although they are now much worse for wear. And, indeed, when the face meekly lifts to see what fresh torture is coming, Shane recognizes the Indian-riding youth who robbed him seemingly an eternity ago. However, dark circles are etched under the teen’s eyes, his face is blemished with dirt, and there is a scraggly growth of blond beard. The old-fashioned clothes are now torn and stained with perspiration and, in several spots, blood. A rank odour, like a hockey bag that hasn’t been washed all season, wafts from him, hanging in the air like a cloud of spring blackflies. Shane realizes the kid has been kept prisoner here, evidently wearing the same clothes for weeks.

  The teen’s enslavement is confirmed when he stirs, causing chains to rattle. Shane cannot believe what he is seeing. There is a line of ankle shackles and chains — enough for another half-dozen prisoners, it seems — cemented into the wall of the tunnel. It is like something out of a Hollywood dungeon.

  A blow across the back of the head knocks Shane to his knees. A sharp pain shoots across the circumference of his skull, and stars swirl before his eyes. The henchman barks more unintelligible Spanish, and Shane gleans from mimed motions that he is expected to shackle himself. He gauges his chances at tackling the narco and wrestling the gun from his hand, but he is feeling dizzy and having difficulty focusing, so he sits and does as instructed.

  The shackles close with a snap, and Shane tries to concentrate on their locking mechanism, wondering whether they might be picked, and if so, what tool he might procure to do so. The attempt to focus through his mental haze causes a sudden sweep of nausea, and he throws up.

  Some of the vomit lands on one of the henchman’s shiny cowboy boots, and the man curses and jumps backward. Examining the splatter, he steps forward and wipes the boot on the captive teenager’s pants. Shane promptly pukes again, this time spewing on the narco’s pant leg, as well.

  The thug erupts in anger, cursing wildly, and begins to kick at Shane, who curls up into a ball and tries to protect his head and ribs.

  “Para, pendejo!” Enrique’s voice screams down the tunnel. The kicking ceases, and Shane opens one eye to see the young drug lord shambling toward them. A green canvas bag is slung over his shoulder, and he is brandishing a military-style assault rifle with not one, but two large drum cartridges which suggest its sole purpose is firepower. Then Shane sees that Enrique is tugging two men behind him: Doc Sanchez and one of Don Aléjandro’s bodyguards. Both men have their hands tied behind their backs, and a rope secured around their necks.

  Enrique tugs his two prisoners forward and forcefully yanks them down to the ground. He orders his henchman to shackle Doc Sanchez’s ankles, leaving the doctor’s hands tied, while the other prisoner is left bound and kneeling on the floor. Enrique begins to berate his henchman, emphasizing his points with occasional slaps to the head, then he abruptly swings his rifle down and to the side and pulls the trigger. A hail of bullets all but obliterates the head of the captive bodyguard, splattering blood and brain matter everywhere. Enrique keeps pumping bullets into the lifeless body until his rifle is empty.

  Shane’s stomach heaves again, but there is nothing left to bring up. The youth chained next to him rolls his eyes heavenward until the pupils disappear, and he passes out, slumping against Shane. Doc Sanchez is evidently made of sterner stuff. He wipes his face as best as he can on his own shoulder and glares at Enrique.

  Having made his point, the drug lord retrieves fresh drum cartridges from his shoulder bag and slams them onto the rifle. He then uses the weapon to prod his henchman back down the tunnel and out the fan housing, haranguing him the entire way.

  “Shane, thank God you’re okay,” Doc Sanchez whispers once they are alone.

  “Ditto, Doc, but who knows for how much longer. We’re royally screwed, if you ask me.”

  “Who’s your boyfriend?” the doctor asks, gesturing at the teen slumped against Shane. It is gratifying to see that Sanchez has retained his sense of humour.

  “Believe it or not, it’s the kid who robbed me out on the highway. I think they’ve been keeping him here as some kind of slave labour. Might be what they have in mind for us.”

  Sanchez jerks his head in the direction of the mutilated corpse. “Or else that. Who knew Enrique was this ambitious … a tunnel, slave workers. I had no idea, and I doubt his poor father did, either. Dios bendiga su alma.”

  “C’mon … you don’t think the Don was in on it? He was a smuggler his whole life, and he built an arena smack dab on the border. It would have taken some serious cash to dig a tunnel this size. He had to know about it.”

  “Absolutely not. Clearly Enrique diverted men and machines from the arena’s construction and hid the costs.” Sanchez pauses as something else comes to mind. “Madre mía,” he murmurs. “Those poor men.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There was a bizarre construction accident. Three workers died. One of them operated the drilling machine we used for the service tunnels. Afterward, we paid a huge bribe so the officials would whitewash the inquiry. Now I suspect Enrique must have had
those men killed to keep this a secret, like some deranged Egyptian pharaoh.”

  “Well, you can see why he’d want to keep it on the down low. This isn’t a tunnel — it’s a gold mine. You could drive a small truck through here. Imagine the drugs you could move.”

  “Not just drugs … people, too. Enrique wanted to get into human trafficking, but his father refused to exploit the poor and desperate. Plus there’s a tidy sum to be made the other way, bringing guns back into Mexíco … although I suspect he wants those for himself, judging by the hardware he was sporting. I think that lunatic actually plans to compete against the other cartels.” He shakes his head. “We should have suspected something when Enrique was so quick to accept the job of building the arena right after he’d argued for so long with Don Aléjandro about giving up the narcotics business.”

  The unconscious youth beside them groans. His eyes open, then dart around the tunnel as he assesses the situation. When he sees the defaced corpse on the ground, he whimpers.

  “Hello again,” Shane opens the conversation.

  The youth glances sideways. “I don’t know you, Mister.”

  “Sure you do, you little bugger. The injured guy out on the highway who you robbed and left to rot a few weeks back. Remember?”

  The teen looks Shane over. “You look different … you got teeth ’n’ stuff now.”

  “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

  “Look, Mister, I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Shane. My name’s Shane. This here’s Doc Sanchez.”

  “And for what it’s worth, I’m Abraham. But what I did to you out there … I was runnin’ for my life. You’ve seen these devils. They’ve had me prisoner here for weeks. I done got out of my chains and stole that there motor-sickle and tried to get away. That’s when I ran into you out on the highway. I … I didn’t want to do it … I done known it was a sin … but when you showed me the money, I saw it was my only chance. I mean, you was all busted up. You couldn’t help me, and if I stayed to help you, they was gonna catch me.” He starts to cry. “They got me anyway,” he blubbers. “Whupped me somethin’ fierce.”